A good con required a good foundation, didn’t it? Who knew that better than he did?
She had to be lying. Had to be, because if she wasn’t . . .
Pain and panic crashed in his gut. He bore down, stared at the data on-screen. She had to be lying, and that was that. He only had to find the first chink, and the rest of her fanciful story would crumble.
As the layers peeled away, he studied her medical records, her financials, and those of her family. With a deadly calm he stripped away her privacy, and that of everyone connected to her.
It took him a full hour and he found nothing that sent up a flag.
He got more coffee, settled himself again, then spoke the command he’d hoped to avoid.
“Run search on Siobhan Brody, born County Clare, Ireland, between 2003 and 2006.”
WORKING . . . THIRTY-THREE FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME.
“Subject is proported to be one of twins.”
WORKING . . . FOUR FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME WHO WERE ONE OF TWINS.
Now his palms were damp. He was stalling, and knew it. Taking too many steps to find a single answer. “Subject is one of twin girls, sibling Sinead.”
WORKING . . . MATCH FOUND, SEARCHING . . .
“Display most recent image of subject while searching. Wall Screen One.”
DISPLAYING. I.D. IMAGE SIOBHAN BRODY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2023.
She shimmered onto the screen, filled it with her young, pretty face, her shy smile. Her hair was bright, bold red, drawn smoothly back from her head, her eyes a soft, soft green, her skin all roses and milk.
Younger, Roarke thought as his gut twisted, a year or two younger than the picture he’d seen in Moira O’Bannion’s office. And without that deep sadness, without the wear and the bruises. But the same girl. The same.
BRODY, SIOBHAN, BORN TULLA, COUNTY CLARE, IRELAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 2005. PARENTS COLIN BRODY AND PATRICIA CARNEY BRODY, FARMERS. SIBLINGS EDWARD BRODY, FERGUS BRODY, SINEAD BRODY, TWIN. EDUCATED AT MOTHER OF MERCY THROUGH GRADE TWELVE. NO FURTHER EDUCATION. EMPLOYMENT, FAMILY BUSINESS. ADDITIONAL EMPLOYMENT CARNEY’S PUB, TULLA, 2022 THROUGH 2023. THE WHITE HORSE, DUBLIN, NOVEMBER 2023 THROUGH OCTOBER 2024.
He stared at the screen image. “Additional data requested. Marriage, children, current status.”
NO MARRIAGE ON RECORD, NO LEGAL COHABITATION ON RECORD, NO CHILD ON RECORD. CURRENT STATUS UNKNOWN. THERE IS NO DATA ON BRODY, SIOBHAN, AFTER OCTOBER 2024.
A line of icy sweat trailed down the center of his back. No record. Dropped off the face, he thought.
“Criminal investigations relating to, medical records, financials, known associates. Something for fuck’s sake.”
WORKING . . .
There was more, he told himself as he rose. And this time he went for whiskey. There was always more. He’d find it.
Eve walked in the door only two hours over shift. She told herself she was pleased Summerset wasn’t in the foyer waiting to hassle her, and the only reason she headed back to his quarters was for the chance to hassle him.
She found him in his living area, propped in his chair with some sort of long-hair piano music playing while he paged through a thick, leather-bound book she imagined came from Roarke’s personal library.
Galahad, perched on the arm of the chair, blinked at her.
“Where’s the warden?” Eve asked.
“Taking a brisk walk around the estate, while I enjoy some much-deserved solitude.” Though he pretended reluctance, he marked and closed the book, prepared to be entertained. “You’re quite late this evening.”
“I don’t live by the clock.”
“Despite my temporary difficulties, I still run this household, and require some notification of your schedule. You were expected more than an hour ago.”