“She said she was taking a walk.”
“Of course she was,” Riley said, sarcasm lacing her tone. “Just like you. What was she really doing there?”
“Looking for answers.”
“Why? What’s her interest?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I’m guessing it has something to do with a body showing up on her family’s land, and the fact that she’s a trained investigator.”
“Which means she probably senses something’s not right, just like us,” Riley mused. “This could be useful. What's she like?”
Patrick considered this, choosing his words carefully. “Controlled. Precise. Not particularly interested in making things easy.”
“For you specifically or in general?”
“Both.”
“Did you ask her about the case?”
“Didn’t really have the chance. She confirmed she was there, more or less, but not in an official capacity.” He paused. “I suggested we might compare notes at some point.”
“And?”
“She said she'd think about it.”
Riley blinked. “You asked Frank Sullivan's granddaughter—a professional death investigator—to collaborate with you on an unofficial investigation into a suspicious death on her family's property.”
“I left it open.”
“And she said she'd think about it.”
“Yes.”
Riley pushed her hair back from her face and paced a few steps in either direction, something she did when her brain was running ahead of her mouth. He waited patiently.
“How did you leave it?” she said finally.
“I told her that if she was interested, she could find me at the pub.”
Patrick waited a few more beats, knowing Riley was connecting dots he might have hinted at but not explicitly drawn.
“Had you seen her before you went to Frank Sullivan’s house?”
“Once or twice around town,” he admitted.
Riley narrowed her eyes, looking at him intently.
“She’s the woman from the café, isn’t she?” she said, her lips curling into a wry, knowing smile. “The one who’s got you checking the door every five minutes?”
Sometimes his cousin was a littletoogood at making connections.
Patrick hefted the keg and stepped toward the door. “No comment.”
11
NOT MY BUSINESS
MORGAN