Page 62 of Twisted Enemy
I’m not a feckin’ child!I want to scream.
Breagha pushes her frozen lemonade away. “I’m done,” she says. And then she raises her chin in uncharacteristic defiance. “Kate? Come with me to the restroom?”
I brace for Wolf’s order to stay seated. Instead, he gives an off-hand shrug before brushing his fingers against his breast pocket.
He thinks this is the right time to pass the drive to Tarasov, but he’s wrong. He needs me here. I need to fight. I need to cement the deal.
I try shaking my head without moving a muscle. Wolf’s jaw simply tightens. I flatten my hands on the table.
“Kate?” Breagha says, tugging at my sleeve.
Glaring at Wolf, I push back from my melted ice cream. Breagha gives me a tentative glance as we start down the footpath for the toilets. “What?” I snarl.
“N— Nothing.”
Raging at her is like plucking whiskers off baby kittens. I stop in the middle of the walk and close my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a count of five before I exhale slowly. When I open my eyes, Breagha is studying me with such obvious concern that I force myself to smile. “You said you had a lot to tell me. What’s the craic?”
She blushes and studies her clasped fingers. “It’s not important.”
I cajole her. “It’s important to me.”
Breagha’s laugh is like a wren’s song, sweet and high and quick. “I know Mommy and Daddy will be so angry when they find out. But…”
“Go on, then,” I urge her after she trails off.
“Last Monday,” she says. “I was filling bags at St. Abigail’s.”
I nod. The Canton Crew has supported the food pantry for donkey’s years.
“Nate was there,” Breagha says.
And that’s all I need to hear. My sister has given me three short words, a simple declarative sentence. But I hear volumes more than that. I hear bluebirds singing and tiny mice dancing and wild animals from the forest gathering close. Sunlight gleams in Breagha’s eyes, and she clasps her hands in front of her chest. If this were a movie, this is the moment she would burst into song.
But it isn’t a movie, so I ask, “Nate?”
“Nate Cohen. He’s a grad student at Johns Hopkins. Hewasliving in New York, going to school to be a rabbi, but he realized that’s not what he really wants to do. Now he’s studyingcognitive psychology in pre-industrial matriarchal societies in the global south.”
“That’s a mouthful,” I say wryly.
“He’s doing very important research on the Minangkabau people of Indonesia.” She says the name so easily I know she’s heard it plenty of times. “He’s been coming to St. Abigail’s since September, when he started grad school. He used to work on Wednesday nights, but he traded shifts to help a friend a couple of months ago. Now he always works on Mondays.” She gives me a shy smile. “Because that’s the night I’m there. When he started at St. Abigail’s, he was on the distribution desk, handing out bags to clients, but for the past six weeks…” Breagha trails off with a tiny, joyful sigh as she squeezes her hands together.
I know precisely three things about Nate Cohen. He’s Jewish. His employment prospects are limited to non-existent. And my Irish-Catholic, Baltimore-mob-princess sister is head-over-heels in love with him.
Oh—and one more thing. Breagha hasn’t breathed a word of this to Mam or Da. Because if she had, they would have her locked in the basement of the Canton house, the same room where they corralled me before my wedding to Wolf. They’d keep her there until they could shove her into Pyotr Tarasov’s hands in front of the closest altar.
“Breagha…” I sigh.
“You’re the only person I can tell.”
I glance over my shoulder. We’ve already been gone too long.
“Please,” Breagha pleads. “You have to help me.”
I shake my head. “You can’t?—”
“Don’t tell me I can’t.” Breagha’s voice is sharp.
“You’re a Lynch.”
