Another shrug. I said, “I think I’ve been more than patient. But this right here, what you’re looking at? This is the last of my patience, sweetheart. Take a good long look. It’s a whole lot prettier than what comes next.”

“So?”

“So I thought you’d been warned about me.”

I caught the flash of fear across her face. I said, “I know what they’re saying around here. Which one do you think I killed, Imelda? Rosie or Kevin? Or is it both?”

“I never said—”

“See, I’m betting on Kevin. Am I right? I thought he killed Rosie, so I booted him out that window. Is that what you’ve figured out?”

Imelda had better sense than to answer. My voice was rising fast, but I didn’t care if Deco and his drug buddies heard every word. I had been waiting all week for a chance to lose my temper like this. “Tell me this: how thick do you have to be, how incredibly stupid, to play games with someone who would do that to his own brother? I’m in no mood to be fucked with, Imelda, and you spent yesterday afternoon fucking with me. Do you think that was a good idea?”

“I just wanted—”

“And now here you are, doing it again. Are you deliberately trying to push me that extra inch? Do you want me to snap, is that it?”

“No—”

I was up out of the armchair, gripping the sofa back on either side of her head, shoving my face so close to hers I could smell cheese-and-onion crisps on her breath. “Let me explain something, Imelda. I’ll use small words, so it’ll get through your thick skull. Inside the next ten minutes, I swear to Christ, you’re going to answer my question. I know you’d rather stick to the story you told Kennedy, but you don’t have that option. Your only choice is whether you want to answer with a few slaps or without.”