He stands and brushes at the wrinkles in his trousers. Pritchard flips his notepad closed. “If you see your daughter,” Coyne says, “do the smart thing, Mrs. Fennessy.” “And what would that be?” “Have her call us first thing.” She nods. “Is that a yes?” “It’s a nod.” “As in you’ll think about it?” “As in I heard the words that left your mouth.”
