“That’s enough,” Patrick said. “You’re not the victim here, Mick.”

The old drunkard wheeled toward Patrick, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s she doing here, anyway? Are you working for the enemy, boy-o?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Patrick answered. “I’ve had to hold my nose while working for you, and you ought to be grateful—”

“Shhh!” Hiram said. “Mrs. O’Neill needs her rest.”

It was as though a bucket of ice water was thrown over them. Patrick cast a worried glance at his mother’s closed bedroom door, but Gwen wanted to scream in frustration as her chance to get information out of Malone dwindled away.

The front door flung open. “Fried catfish and biscuits!” Lorenzo announced as he entered the apartment. The way he held the greasy paper sacks aloft made him look like a conquering hero returning from the wilds. The elation on his face faded as he scanned the grim crowd. “Is Mrs. O’Neill okay?”

“She’s all right, but I’d like to throw this one out the window,” Gwen said with a glare at Mick Malone.

“And I’d like to rub that snotty look off your face,” Mick taunted.

Once again, Patrick stepped between them. “Mick, I’m canceling our meeting today, and it would be best for you to leave now.” He grabbed the sack of fried catfish. “Mrs. Kellerman, I’m sorry this happened. You didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of that, but you’re welcome to join us for dinner.”

Patrick wouldn’t have been able to swallow even a bite of the greasy catfish, so he retreated to his mother’s bedroom while the others ate. Anything to escape the accusation on Gwen’s face. She deserved more than what he’d been able to do for her.

In hindsight, he wished he hadn’t interrupted when he overheard Mick boasting. If Gwen learned the truth about her brother’s kidnapping from Mick, it would save Patrick from the moral dilemma of betraying a client’s confidence.

After helping his mother drink some warmed milk, he headed out to the front room, where Gwen and the others sat at the table, the remainders of dinner scattered before them. They had the relaxed look of the well-fed, all except Gwen, whose face was as cold as sculpted marble.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked with caution.

To his relief, she gave a stiff nod and stood. The fire escape was the only place they could have privacy, and Gwen navigated through the window with more grace this time, hiking her skirt, lowering her head, and moving through the opening easily. He followed using the same ducking posture.

“You’re getting better at this,” he said, closing the window with a lighthearted smile.

She didn’t return it. He couldn’t expect her to, really.