"Where are the paintings?" my father shouts through the phone.
I lift my head and glance up at Layla’s window before answering him. "Safe." My one word has him growling through the phone.
"Jay, this is no time for your smartness. Where are they?"
I’m tempted to hang up, when I see movement close to the front door. I just rang Layla to tell her I’m outside.
I look at the phone. "Layla remembers who shot her, so we reported it to the Gardaí like good citizens. So the paintings are in their rightful place."
I had to call in another favor with Warren O’Reagan. He hasn’t told me what it will cost, but I’m sure it won’t be cheap. He had his men move the paintings into Chester’s home before I took Layla to the Gardaí station.