Her mind whirled with Blaine’s unwanted gift, grief for Riki, and worrying about Zoe. Where was her intern? The police seemed certain she was dead, but Louisa refused to believe it. But with Riki already murdered, how long could she hope that Zoe hadn’t been killed?

Pat’s red head drooped over his glass.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.” Conor grabbed his brother’s arm and hoisted it across his shoulders.

Pat stood and swayed. “Okeydokey.”

Conor staggered as Pat leaned on him. “Steady. If you fall down, that’s where you’ll stay for the night.” He steered Pat out the back door and toward the waiting car.

“Watch your head.” Conor opened the door and folded Pat into the passenger seat. He stuffed his brother’s long legs under the dash. Twenty-year-old Porsche 911s were not designed to transport men the size of Pat.

“We raised them right.” Pat’s voice was thick and slurred.

“We did, Pat. We did a damned good job.” Conor slid behind the wheel and took a couple of seconds to admire all the shiny new leather in the interior. His brother let out a massive burp, and Conor shot him a look. “Do not hurl in my car.”

Pat thumped his chest. “I’m insulted. I can hold my liquor with the best of them.”

Conor covered his snicker with a cough. Pat’s tolerance for liquor was ridiculously low for his size.

He started the car. The engine fired with a sweet roar. He should think about selling her and looking for another project. He took one whole day off a week. What would he do without a car to fix?

But damn, this one had turned out to be one fine ride.

“I can’t believe Jaynie’s having a baby.” Pat sniffed. “And she’s getting married at Christmastime.”

“Me either.” Conor drove onto Oregon Avenue. The two cops who’d been sitting in the bar all night got into their unmarked car and followed him. “Maybe they should move the wedding date up. Be nice if she were married before she starts to look pregnant.” He wasn’t sure why that popped into his head and out of his mouth. Conor wasn’t exactly fixated on propriety. But there’d been a time when appearances mattered, like when the social worker showed up for a home visit to make sure Pat and Conor had a good handle on their younger siblings. Most of the time they hadn’t, but they’d faked it pretty well. All four of the Sullivan siblings were decent liars, which probably shouldn’t be considered an attribute.

Pat waved off his comment. “Aw, she’s happy. Who the hell cares?”

“As usual, you’re right.” Conor laughed, but he didn’t feel the humor. An inexplicable sadness lodged in his bones tonight, a torrent of dissatisfaction that had been building to a crescendo inside him for months.