The women followed Frank into the house and he locked the door. Starting on the top floor, they switched off lights, and locked windows and doors. In the kitchen, the last stop, he poured three generous glasses of whiskey. “Alright then, Miss?”
“Her name’s Meg.”
“Thanks, Mr—em?”
“If you’re Meg, I’m Frank.” He passed half-filled glasses. “Here, get this down your necks. I’ll put more turf in the grate, so pull your chairs up.”
Meg was never so happy to see a fire. She pulled her wet shoes off and warmed her frozen feet.
Mary laughed. “Your man in the trench coat, Meg.”
“Mother of God!” Frank shook his head, laughing as well.
“He’d nasty eyes though, hadn’t he? He frightened me, but I couldn’t stand his fingers digging into my arm another moment. I’d rather have been shot,” asserted M
