Danny Matches would burn down the bike shop and arrange all the evidence artistically to point straight to Shay, if I asked him nicely. Alternatively, I knew several guys who made Danny look like a cream puff and who would do a beautiful job, complete with whatever level of pain I required, of making sure none of Shay’s component parts were ever seen again.

The problem was that I didn’t want Danny Matches, or the bolt-gun brigade, or anyone else. Scorcher was right off the menu: if he needed Kevin for his bad guy that much, he could have him—Olivia was right, nothing anyone said could hurt Kev now, and justice had slid way down my Christmas wish list. All I wanted in the world was Shay. Every time I looked out over the Liffey I saw him at his window, somewhere in that tangle of lights, smoking and staring back across the river and waiting for me to come find him. I had never wanted any girl, not even Rosie, as badly as I wanted him.

Friday afternoon I texted Stephen: Same time, same place. It was raining, thick sleety rain that soaked through everything you were wearing and chilled you down to the bone; Cosmo’s was packed with wet tired people counting shopping bags and hoping if they stayed put long enough they would get warm. This time I only ordered coffee. I already knew this wasn’t going to take long.

Stephen looked a little unsure about what we were doing there, but he was too polite to ask. Instead he said, “Kevin’s phone records haven’t come in yet.”

“I didn’t think they had. Do you know when the investigation’s winding up?”

“We’ve been told probably Tuesday. Detective Kennedy says . . . well. He figures we’ve got enough evidence to make a case. From now on, we’re just tidying up the paperwork.”

I said, “It sounds to me like you’ve heard about the lovely Imelda Tierney.”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Detective Kennedy thinks her story is the final piece of the puzzle, perfect fit, now he can wrap everything up in a pretty parcel and tie it with ribbons and present it to the DPP. Am I right?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“And what do you think?”

Stephen rubbed at his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts. “I think,” he said, “from what Detective Kennedy’s said—and tell me if this is wrong—I think Imelda Tierney’s well pissed off with you.”

“I’m not her favorite person right now, no.”

“You know her, even if it’s from ages ago. If she was pissed off enough, would she make up something like this?”

“I’d say she’d do it in a heartbeat. Call me biased.”