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Dover handed Ryske a bottle of wine over the bar and Ryske made short work of taking Harlow upstairs to pour her a generous glass.
Propping herself on a stool at the breakfast bar, she drank her wine and watched Ryske open a bottle of beer for himself. “Did you have a productive day?”
“Look, Trink,” he said, coming over to sit facing her on another stool. “I appreciate you chipping in. But it’s probably not safe for you to be working downstairs.”
Protection could only go so far. They couldn’t wrap her in cotton wool. Harlow still wanted to live and Floyd’s was safe for her, of that she was certain.
“I had fun,” she said, guessing that Ryske had avoided her question because he didn’t want to tell her what he’d been doing that day. The change of subject was an obvious deflection. “An
