She flinched at his furious tone. She hated conflict, and it was too farfetched to believe that Willy could still be alive. Yes, there was a resemblance between Liam and her father, but that couldn’t prove anything. And a sloppy drunk like Mick Malone couldn’t have kept a secret like this all these years.

“Get your Pinkerton agents on him,” Frederick ordered Oscar. “We need to learn everything possible about him.”

For once, all of them were in complete accord.

Elation still zinged through Patrick’s veins when he arrived home, eager to recount his victory in the courtroom for his mother. Birdie hadn’t felt well all week, prompting him to pick up some sandwiches from a vendor on the way home.

“Hey, Ma,” he said as he entered their apartment. “I brought pastrami sandwiches with extra—”

He froze, gaping at his mother sprawled on the floor.

He dropped the bag and rushed to her side. “Ma? What’s wrong?”

She lay at a weird angle, stretched out with her head and shoulders twisted unnaturally.

“I can’t get up,” she said through clenched teeth. “My back started hurting so bad. I fell and have been stuck here for hours.”

To his horror, she started crying.

“Not to worry, I’ll help you up.” He tried to lift her, but her back stayed frozen in that unnatural backward arc. Patrick quit trying to help her stand and scooped her up to carry her to the bed.

“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” she said in a choked tone.

“Nonsense, you weigh less than a child.”

The fall she’d taken at the bakery must have been worse than they thought. Even after he got her settled on her bed, she had that weird backward curve in her spine, like a bow pulled taut. It was abnormal.

“I’m going for a doctor,” he said, prepared to shoot down all her arguments against the expense. She’d always boasted that the last time she’d seen a doctor was on the day she delivered him into the world.

“Yes, I think so,” she said, which only made him worry more.

“I’ll get Mrs. O’Shea from next door to come sit with you while I’m gone,” he said, and once again she gave him no complaint.

Luckily, old Dr. Phalen lived only a block away in an apartment over the butcher’s shop. Even so, Patrick was out of breath as he ran up the stairs and pounded on the doctor’s door, begging him to come right away.

“Back pain?” Dr. Phalen said, pulling the wrinkles of his face into a frown. “Can it wait until morning? My wife just put a hot shepherd’s pie on the table. A dram of whiskey is probably the best thing for your ma anyway.”