I smiled, put my car into gear, and drove away, feeling better than I had in weeks.

       8

   Despite the fact that I’d almost been beaten to death by a giant, my night was not over yet. Far from it.

   Stuart Mosley had sent me several texts while I’d been dealing with Bart the Butcher, asking where I was and why I wasn’t at the bank helping him with those safety-deposit boxes yet. The tone of each text was sharper and more demanding than the last, indicating that if I didn’t get my ass over to the bank ASAP, I might as well not bother coming back ever again.

   I drove to the bank, parked my car, and knocked on the front doors. The giant standing guard inside eyed the blood and bruises on my face, but he didn’t ask me any questions as he opened the doors. No doubt, he thought I’d gotten a richly deserved beating for everything that had happened. He wasn’t wrong about that.

   But I couldn’t let Mosley see me looking like this, so I headed downstairs to my office to change out of my blood-, dirt-, and grass-covered clothes.

   My office door was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out into the basement hallway. I frowned, pushed the door open the rest of the way, and stepped inside. Weird. I didn’t remember leaving my office unlocked or the lights on when I’d left earlier today—

   My desk chair whirled around, and Stuart Mosley was sitting there.

   I yelped and staggered back against the door. “What are you doing in here? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

   The dwarf arched his bushy eyebrows at my harsh, accusing tone. “Well, it’s my bank, Finn, so I can go anywhere I want to, including your office.”

   I winced and ducked my head in a silent apology. All the while, though, I was eyeing the bathroom door on the other side of the office, wondering how I could politely dart in there without Mosley noticing my battered face or, worse, all the blood and dirt on my clothes.

   The dwarf crossed his arms over his own impeccable suit jacket. “It’s about time you showed up,” he growled. “I didn’t think it would take you so long to deal with that giant bookie. Don’t you usually eat guys like that for breakfast?”

   For a moment, his words didn’t register, but when they finally did sink into my brain, my head snapped up, and my mouth dropped open in surprise.

   “You knew about Bart the Butcher? That he was threatening Isabelle?”

   Mosley scoffed. “Of course I knew. I know everything that goes on around here, especially when it comes to my employees.”

   “But—but how?”

   “Peter came to me about a month ago, wanting to take out a second mortgage on his house. He told me about his brother’s gambling debts and how Bart Wilcox was pressuring him to pay up or else,” Mosley said. “Then, right after Peter’s death, Isabelle came to me, asking how fast she could get his life-insurance money. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

   Understanding flashed through me. “That’s why you wanted me to walk Isabelle outside this morning and go to her house after the funeral. You knew that Bart would be outside the bank waiting for her, and you knew that he would probably show up at her house too, trying to get his money.”

   Mosley gave me a noncommittal shrug.

   “But why?” I asked. “Why would you want me to know about Isabelle’s problems with Bart?”

   The dwarf leaned forward, propped his elbows on my desk, steepled his hands together, and gave me a steely look. “I wanted to see how much like your father you really were.”

   And just like that, everything made sense. I’d always known that Mosley and Dad had been friends. Dad was the one who’d helped me get my first internship with the bank way back when. But apparently, Mosley had also known about my dad’s penchant for helping people who couldn’t help themselves, both as the businessman Fletcher Lane and as the assassin the Tin Man.

   “You sly son of a bitch,” I muttered. “You set me up.”

   A faint smile creased Mosley’s face. “I prefer to think of it as creative problem solving.” He arched his eyebrows at me again. “I take it that the situation has been handled to Mrs. Vargas’s satisfaction?”

   “Well, I wouldn’t say that she was satisfied by my bloodying up her lawn, but those men certainly won’t bother her ever again,” I said in a wry tone.

   Mosley nodded, ignoring my sarcasm. “Good. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and tell her that the life insurance has been paid in full.”

   My eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. You’ve had the life-insurance money this whole time? Why didn’t you just go ahead and give it to her? Or at least offer to help her get out from under Bart’s thumb yourself?”

   He shrugged again. “Because I knew that Isabelle would be too proud to take any help that I might offer her, just like Peter was too proud to take it when I offered it to him. I wanted to make sure that Isabelle and her son would be taken care of for the rest of their lives. Not have to throw all that money away on a debt that wasn’t even theirs. Now, thanks to you, I’m assured of that. I’ve done right by Peter. We both have.”

   I stood there like a fool, my mouth still gaping, trying to understand everything. I’d always known that Mosley was clever, but I hadn’t imagined that he was this clever. He’d put events in motion, then had sat back and watched while everything had fallen into place exactly the way he’d wanted. I didn’t know whether to admire or be angry at his manipulations of me.

   But he was right about one thing: Isabelle and Leo were better off because of what I’d done tonight.

   Mosley got to his feet, buttoned his suit jacket, and came around my desk. He stopped right in front of me, examining the bruises on my face and the bloodstains on my clothes.

   “Go get cleaned up, Finn,” he said in a kinder voice. “Then meet me in the vault in twenty minutes. We still have work to do tonight.”