“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s a woman I care for, but she’s far above me.”

“The ground is always level at the foot of the cross,” Father Murry said, but Patrick merely grunted. He could accept that they were all equal in the eyes of God, but it was the eyes of the world that worried him.

“I owe her for an expensive medical procedure, and not being able to pay eats at me. A man should pay his debts.”

Father Murry gestured to the half-finished school outside the rectory. “I’m taking from you. You’ve been donating your labor to the school and haven’t asked for a dime in compensation.”

“That’s different.”

“Indeed it is. When you figure out the perfect way to balance the scale of debts and obligations, I hope you’ll let me know. And, Patrick, a word of friendly advice: don’t let your pride blind you to the blessings God has dropped in your path.”

Nine days after the assault, Patrick helped Liam walk out of the hospital and into a carriage to take him home. So far, he hadn’t told Gwen anything about the attack. He didn’t want to alarm her until he could be sure about Liam’s parentage, and that meant it was time to pin Janet down about the truth.

The journey exhausted Liam, who sat on the sofa in the home where he grew up. Pillows kept him propped in place, and Frank the dog lay sprawled on the floor, useless for anything but comfort. Liam was too weak to argue, so Patrick did the questioning.

“Who do you think has a motive to kill Liam?” he asked.

“It was probably some sort of labor dispute,” Janet said, her knitting needles flying like mad, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Patrick scoffed. “The ringleader came from New York, and whoever ordered the hit has deep pockets. The odds are good they will come after Liam again, and we need to know why.”

“I don’t know why!” Janet said, her needles clicking faster. Patrick had been questioning her for an hour, and she was getting more and more agitated.

“Please tell the truth, Ma,” Liam said. “I’ll love you no matter what.”

Janet’s face crumpled, her eyes squeezing shut and her lower lip wobbling, but her knitting didn’t slow. Janet Malone knew the truth. She either gave birth to Liam or took him in as a three-year-old, and Patrick sensed she wasn’t telling him the truth. He tried a different angle.

“How old was Liam when you first saw him?” he asked.

The needles finally stopped, and her hands dropped to her lap. Her head was low, and she didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He was sick. Dying.”

Liam stiffened, his expression tense and alert. His mother kept talking.