CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sharp rap on the door, dragged Divers O’Roarke, from nursing the final dregs of the warm amber liquid in the crystal goblet. His gaze shot to Gil, sitting in the battered leather armchair opposite, before he could stop it.
“Christ.” The word spilled from Gil’s mouth. “Not—”
Divers held up a warning finger, kept his voice to a low rumble. “It won’t be her but I swear to God if it is and you snitch a syllable of it to Lyon—”
“Me?”
“Like you did earlier--”
“Divers, I was just worried about you, man. Look … after Eirwin, do you blame me? I know her death cut you deep, I know you felt to blame, that you were involved because that’s what the job demands. You can say what you like about that. It’s obvious—”