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I’m reminded again that she isn’t a bad liar. She can get there, just not always. And I like that about her—my little contradiction.

It’s good enough for Neil, clearly, because he nods his acceptance. “That’s cool,” he says to his sister. Me, he still eyes with distrust. “What do you do?”

“I’m a consultant for the family business,” I say.

“That’s vague as fuck.”

“Neil,” Meera admonishes this time. I can feel that she’s stiffened beside me again. I don’t even need to look at her to know she’s likely squirming.

“Sounds fake, feels fake,” Neil doubles down.

I lean into it, because deflecting would make it worse. “It is vague,” I concede. It’s moot to pretend otherwise. “But that’s an occupational hazard of the job. We have our hands in many pots. And the people we do business with prefer discretion.”

Neil sourly condemns, “You’re loaded, I’m guessing.”

Meera practically yelps. “Neil.”

I reach over and cover her hand with my own. “It’s okay,” I soothe out-loud. “Yeah, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. But the job isn’t without risks and cashflow can’t be consistently forecasted. It’s a mixed bag.” Technically, none of the words that come out of my mouth are lies either. It’s all true, vague though the industry might be.

It’s Daniel who catches me most off-guard, however. He asks, “That sounds like a high-risk, high-reward life. But it also sounds very at odds with what Meera does.”

The observation, more than any of the snarky teenager’s jagged questions, paralyzes me.

It takes me several seconds to be able to say, “That’s probably what attracts me to Meera most. My world is heartless. Hers is the opposite.”

I’ve been brokering deals between men who kill like it’s nothing since I was a boy. Yet it stuns me when my answer buys me Meera’s stepfather’s smile, and her mother spooning a second helping of biryani into my plate without my asking. It fucks with me, the lump it lodges in my chest, ballooning to the point of claustrophobia.

My phone begins to loudly buzz in my pocket. If I were the type of man to put stop in signs from the universe—and I’m fucking not—I’d say this is one. Then again, that would still leave behind the question of, A sign to do what?

Covertly as I can, I fish it out of my pocket. With one good hand at my disposal right now, there isn’t much I can do in that regard. It’s no use, anyway—I rise to my feet when Miron’s name flashes on the phone screen. “Excuse me,” I say, with an apologetic dip of my head. “It’s my little brother.”

“Hey, look, your boyfriend answer’s his brother’s calls,” Neil teases, with no real bite to the sarcasm.

“Not everyone can be me, it’s true,” I drawl, shooting her a wink on my way out. Seeing her roll her eyes so emphatically, I’m still grinning when I answer the call.

I step out onto the back porch, where the garden Daniel had bragged about sits in painstaking, beloved rows. There are herbs and marigolds and even a tomato cage. I’m shamefully distracted as I put the phone to my ear. “Talk to me, bratik.”

“Preliminary financials on Ray Gallagher.” Miron doesn’t bother with a greeting either. “On paper, he’s clean as a whistle. With twenty-five-plus years on the force, a detective’s base salary, and pathological amounts of overtime, he clears one-seventy-five a year, give or take. Up front, there’s nothing that he couldn’t explain to Internal Affairs.”

“But?” I prompt. I can see it coming.

“But,” Miron agrees, “he lives like a billionaire’s first-born. Mortgage paid off early. Bought a boat two years ago. My guy nailed down a brokerage account that fattens up in deposits that don’t line up with any pay cycle—routed through an LLC registered to a cousin in Quincy. Whoever structured it knew enough to stay under reporting thresholds. Something’s fucked here, obviously. He’s dirty.”

The question is: How dirty?

Through the French doors, I can see Meera and her family around their table. Neil says something, his mouth twisting into a smirk. Meera throws her head back and laughs like a little kid. Gayatri shakes her head at their antics. Daniel looks content.

There’s no chance these people are connected to the mole. There’s no way Meera comes from—

No. I stop the thought in its tracks.

Doubting everyone isn’t a strategy that works. It’s the one we’ve been employing across the board for over a year—and all we’ve got to show for it is our own people sick of being questioned, hemorrhaging cashflow, and nothing but a maze full of dead ends.

Doubting everyone is how Meera wound up tied to a chair being cornered by my brothers, interrogated like a fucking criminal she just isn’t. She can’t be. I’d be able to tell.

“You still in contact with Sonya?” I ask.

“Sure,” Miron says. “I don’t fuck her as much anymore but she handles my investments. She’s a fucking doll. Why?”