“And who would you be?” he said in a heavy Irish brogue.

I extended my hand. “I am Miss Sweeney, Mr. . . . ?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “James Sullivan,” he growled. “What business have you?”

He didn’t move to invite me in, but I stepped into the hallway anyway. The sour Annie stood by with an angry look.

“I told her to leave, Mr. Sullivan,” she said, “but she refused to budge.”

Mr. Sullivan looked me up and down, then turned to Annie.

“Show her into the library, Annie, and bring us some whiskey.”

Annie looked daggers through me, then pointed her finger toward a door. “’Tis in there,” she said and disappeared.

James Sullivan was a massively big man. He would have made two of my da. His hands were huge, his fingers like stuffed sausages. His face was red and veined, which I recognized meant a fondness for the whiskey, and he had hard blue eyes, which I sensed never missed a trick.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to an armchair beside the fireplace.

It was more of a command than an invitation.

“Thank you,” I said and sat down, primly arranging my skirt. I smiled up at him. “It is so nice of you to see me at such short notice, Mr. Sullivan.”

He stared at me in the way that toothless old men back at the pub in Kilcross used to do, their rheumy eyes traveling over me, saliva wetting their lips. But this feller was different. He had none of the hopelessness of those oul’ men. Instead, power seemed to ooze out of him. This was a man who got what he wanted. It wouldn’t be easy to charm him into telling me what I wanted to know. Inside, I was sickened with fear of what he might do to me, but I was determined not to let it show.

The silence was broken by Annie banging through the door with a pair of glasses and a bottle of whiskey on a tray. She set down the tray on a table and filled each glass to the rim. She set his down quietly beside him but slammed mine down so hard, some of the whiskey splattered out onto the table. Taking the tray, she left, almost taking the door off its hinges as she shut it behind her.

James Sullivan chuckled. “You mustn’t mind Annie. She has the Irish temper. But she’s a good worker and keeps me company.”

He said this last bit with a sly smile. There was no mistaking what he meant. I pretended not to notice.

“Sláinte,” he said as he raised his glass. “You’re Irish too, aren’t you, just like Annie. I like Irish girls.”

I took a gulp of the whiskey, wondering how I was going to get through this without the oul’ bastard pawing me with his big hands.