The phone is fumbled, then Teresa is back. “They did? Really? That offer still good?”

Who knows? I’m honestly just spitballing now, throwing stuff out there, hoping something will stick. “You tell me, Teresa—do you think the Patriots, noble citizens of New England that they are, would renege on an offer like that? About one of their own cheerleaders?”

Frankly, I don’t know what the Patriots would do, but it’s enough to convince Teresa.

CHAPTER
27

Boston, Massachusetts

Three hours later, with a name embedded in my brain, I pull up to the curb across from a bar in South Boston, a brick and stone pub called the Lord Mayor’s.

I have to admit, my neck hairs are prickling a bit. It’s an involuntary response. This used to be enemy territory for people with my skin color. They say things have changed. We’ll see.

I step forward and grab the big brass handle on the oak door. Deep breath. I swing the door open and step in.

I’m blasted by a rush of warm air and the sound of loud Irish music. It’s coming from a trio in the corner: a tall, skinny fiddler, a small guy with a drum in his lap, and a huge man playing a penny whistle. The six-holed woodwind looks like a toothpick in his large hands.

I scan the crowd as I make my way toward the bar. I’m not the only Black person in the place. We’re outnumbered, for sure, but everybody seems to be having a great time. When I sit down, I start to relax. A little.

Working the far end of the bar is a burly redheaded guy in a collared shirt and a green vest. The bartender nearest me is a tall woman wearing skintight jeans and a black tank top printed with the Lord Mayor’s logo. Her dark hair is cropped short and streaked with purple. She looks to be around forty but has the figure of a much younger woman.

“Lillian!” A waitress is calling to her from behind the service rail. “I need two Guinnesses!”

Lillian. The name Teresa gave me. This must be her. The former Amber Keenan.

The bartender draws two perfect pints from the tap and slides them down the bar. She sets a coaster in front of me, then leans forward to make herself heard over the music. “What can I get you?”

“Hennessy neat,” I call back. She grabs a tulip glass from the overhead rack with one hand and the Hennessy bottle with the other and pours my drink in record time. “Enjoy!”

I swirl my cognac in the glass, take a sip, and let the warmth wash through me. What I need is an opening. And a little quiet. But the Irish music is still pumping from the corner, and the buzz of the crowd is getting louder. I sip my drink and wait.