She reached for the wall to brace herself. He was almost as odd as she, saying such things. They were strangers having an intensely intimate conversation. No small talk. No niceties. Just murder and conspiracy, right out of the gates. She felt almost dizzy and suspected it was relief. How good it felt to speak of it!
“My aunts said my father was a rumrunner,” she said. “Involved with the Irish gang. That’s what the authorities told them. I think that might have been true. It makes sense. He was gone a lot and didn’t work regular hours. Mother was nervous. That’s why they fought, I think. But he would not have killed my mother. Himself? Maybe. But never her. He would not have done that to her. And he would not have done that to me.”
He didn’t argue.
“I was a child. I didn’t know anything . . . except, they were crazy about each other. I saw that. I remember that. It comforts me now, thinking about how they were. Most people don’t get that in a lifetime. Many of us get love. But not like that.” She swallowed, trying to rein in her words. She sounded impassioned and . . . silly. But Malone nodded slowly.
“Mr. O’Brien said much the same thing when I went to get Charlie.”
“Mr. O’Brien did?” Dani whispered. Bless him for that. “The police told my aunts that my father pulled up to the house in a hurry. They said he walked inside—ran inside—shouting her name. Angry. A few minutes later, gunshots. Is any of that true?”
“I think someone was already in the house when your father got there. Your father was a rumrunner, and he stepped on some toes. Tried to sway suppliers and buyers to give him their business. Maybe he crossed some of the big guys, the gangsters. Or maybe he thought he could be in business on his own, and they didn’t like the competition. I don’t know, honestly. But that was a hit. It wasn’t even a very clean hit. But everyone fell into line. Neighbors. Cops. Newspapers. They told the story they were supposed to tell. And nobody else got hurt.”
“Nobody else?”
“Nobody but you,” he said gently. “I left Chicago not long after you did. But when I got the chance, I tried to make it right. In a roundabout way, George Flanagan got his justice.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed like the story was too big to tell. Then he shook his head, refusing to answer.
For a moment there was silence between them, but Dani’s head was spinning.
“I haven’t ever been back,” she said. “I’ve never seen where they’re buried. Never visited their graves.”
“They share a stone. They’re buried not far from my—” Malone hesitated, like he’d said something he didn’t want to finish. But she knew. And she was too discombobulated not to follow where he’d led.
“From Irene?” she asked. She’d mentioned Irene yesterday in the shop. Maybe he hadn’t understood then. But he did now, and his face went blank.
“I held y-your overcoat,” she stammered. “You must have worn it to her service. It was her service . . . wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” He jerked his head once in assent. “It was Irene’s service. I buried her on New Year’s Day. But you might already know that.” His answer was clipped and cold, and Dani flinched.
Too much, Dani. Too much truth. You’re scaring him.
“No. I didn’t know that. I don’t see everything . . . and rarely do I understand the context of what I see. I also don’t usually make those kinds of mistakes.”
“What mistakes are those, Dani?”
“I shouldn’t have blurted it out. I always keep what I see to myself. But your sudden appearance yesterday after all these years was . . . unnerving. I didn’t handle it very well. I’m not handling it well now. Forgive me.”
He nodded once, but the bubble of candor and intimacy between them had burst. They were strangers again. His eyes were wary, her arms were folded, and they’d both had enough. She hurried to the door.
“Dani?”
“Yes?”
“Happy birthday,” he said softly.
She nodded, much the way he had done, and left him to his discomfort and his cold breakfast.
He had thought about denying it. It angered him that Dani would invade his privacy that way, and that she would admit it to him. The very least she could do was pretend. But he didn’t want to lie about Irene. She was gone, and Dani clearly knew it. Dani knew a lot of things.
She hadn’t outgrown her “stories.”