Broken Harbour

19

Fiona was in the corridor, hunched in one of the plastic chairs that were scattered along the wall, wrapping a ratty striped scarf around her wrists. Beyond her, the waxy green shine of the floor stretched on for what seemed like miles.

Her head snapped up when I clicked the door shut behind me. “How’s Jenny? Is she OK?”

“She’s asleep.” I pulled up another chair and sat down next to her. The red duffle coat smelled of cold air and smoke: she had been outside for a cigarette.

“I should go in. She gets freaked out if no one’s there when she wakes up.”

I said, “How long have you known?”

Instantly Fiona’s face went blank. “Known what?”

There were a thousand clever ways I could have done it. I had nothing left for any of them. “Your sister just confessed to the murders of her family. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a big surprise to you.”

The blank look didn’t budge. “She’s off her head on painkillers. She hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about.”

“Believe me, Ms. Rafferty, she knew exactly what she was saying. All the details of her story match the evidence.”

“You bullied her into it. The state she’s in, you could make her say anything. I could report you.”

She was as exhausted as I was; she couldn’t even manage to put a tough edge on it. “Ms. Rafferty,” I said. “Please, let’s not do this. Anything you say to me here is off-the-record; I can’t even prove we ever had this conversation. The same goes for your sister’s confession: legally, it doesn’t exist. I’m just trying to find a way to end this mess before any more damage gets done.”

Fiona scanned my face, tired red eyes trying to focus. The harsh lights turned her skin grayish and pitted; she looked older and sicker than Jenny. Down the corridor a child was crying, immense bereft sobs, like the world had shattered around him.

Something, I don’t know what, told Fiona I meant it. Unusual, I had thought when we interviewed her, perceptive; back then I hadn’t been pleased, but it worked for me in the end. The fight went out of her body, and her head fell back against the wall. She said, “Why did she…? She loved them so much. What the hell…? Why?”

“I can’t tell you that. When did you know?”

After a moment Fiona said, “When you told me Conor said he’d done it. I knew he hadn’t. No matter what had happened to him since I saw him, no matter if he had another fight with Pat and Jenny, even if he’d completely lost his mind: he wouldn’t do that.”

There was no doubt in her voice, not a thread. For a strange, exhausted moment I envied them both, her and Conor Brennan. Just about everything in this life is treacherous, ready to twist and shape-shift at any second; it seemed to me that the whole world would be a different place if you had someone you were certain of, certain to the bone, or if you could be that to someone else. I know husbands and wives who are that to each other. I know partners.

Fiona said, “At first I thought you were making it up, but I’m mostly pretty good at telling when people are lying. So I tried to think why Conor would say that. Probably he’d have done it to protect Pat, to keep him out of jail; but Pat was dead. That left Jenny.”

I heard the small, painful sound of her swallowing. “So,” she said, “I knew.”

“That’s why you didn’t tell Jenny that Conor had been arrested.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what she’d do-if she’d try to own up, if she’d freak out and have a relapse or something…”

I said, “You were sure she was guilty, straightaway. You were positive Conor would never do this, but you didn’t feel the same way about your own sister.”

“You think I should have.”

“I don’t know what you should have thought,” I said. Rule Number Something: suspects and witnesses need to believe you’re omniscient; you never let them see you being anything other than sure. I couldn’t remember, any more, why it mattered. “I’m just wondering what made the difference.”

She twisted the scarf around her hand, trying to find the words. After a moment she said, “Jenny does everything right, and everything goes right for her. That’s how her life’s always worked. When something finally went wrong, when Pat was out of work… She didn’t know how to handle it. That’s why I was scared that she was going crazy, back when she said that about someone breaking in. I’d been worried ever since Pat lost his job. And I was right: she was going to pieces. Is that…? Was that why she…?”

I didn’t answer. Fiona said, low and fierce, pulling the scarf tighter, “I should have known. She did a good job of hiding it, after that, but if I’d been paying more attention, if I’d been out there more…”

There was nothing she could have done. I didn’t tell her that; I needed her guilt. Instead I said, “Have you brought this up with Jenny?”

“No. Jesus, no. Either she’d tell me to fuck off and never come back, or she’d tell me…” A flinch. “You think I want to hear her talk about it?”

“How about with anyone else?”

“No. Like who? This isn’t exactly something you tell your flatmates. And I don’t want my mum to know. Ever.”

“Do you have any proof that you’re right? Anything Jenny’s said, anything you’ve seen? Or is it just instinct?”

“No. No proof. If I’m wrong, I’ll be-God, I’d be so happy.”

I said, “I don’t think you’re wrong. But here’s the problem: I don’t have proof either. Jenny’s confession to me can’t be used in court. The evidence we’ve got isn’t enough to arrest her, never mind convict her. Unless I can get something more, she’s going to walk out of here a free woman.”

“Good.” Fiona caught something in my face, or thought she did, and shrugged wearily. “What do you expect? I know probably she should go to prison, but I don’t care. She’s my sister; I love her. And if she got arrested, my mum would find out. I know I’m not supposed to hope someone gets away with this, but I do. There you go.”

“And what about Conor? You told me you still care about him. Are you seriously going to let him spend the rest of his life in prison? Not that it’ll be long. Do you know what other criminals think of child-killers? Do you want to know what they do to them?”

Her eyes had widened. “Hang on. You’re not going to send Conor to jail. You know he didn’t do this.”

“Not me, Ms. Rafferty. The system. I can’t just ignore the fact that I’ve got more than enough evidence to charge him; whether he’s convicted or not is up to the lawyers, the judge and the jury. I just work with what I’ve got. If I’ve got nothing on Jenny, then I’ll have to go with Conor.”

Fiona shook her head. “You won’t do it,” she said.

That certainty rang in her voice again, clear as struck bronze. It felt like a strange gift, warm as a tiny flame, in this cold place where I would never have expected to find it. This woman I shouldn’t even have been talking to, this woman I didn’t even like: for her, of all people, I was certainty.

“No,” I said. I couldn’t make myself lie to her. “I won’t.”

She nodded. “Good,” she said, on a small tired sigh.

I said, “Conor isn’t the one you should be worrying about. Your sister’s planning to kill herself, first chance she gets.”

I made it as brutal as I could. I expected shock maybe, panic, but Fiona didn’t even look around; she kept staring off down the corridor, at the dingy posters proclaiming the saving power of hand sanitizer. She said, “As long as she’s in the hospital, she won’t do anything.”

She already knew. It hit me that she could actually want it to happen-as a mercy, like Richie had, or as punishment, or out of some ferocious sister-tangle of emotions that not even she would ever understand. I said, “So what are you planning to do when they let her out?”

“Watch her.”

“Just you? Twenty-four-seven?”

“Me and my mum. She doesn’t know, but she figures after what happened, Jenny might…” Fiona’s head jerked, and she focused harder on the posters. She said again, “We’ll watch her.”

I said, “For how long? A year, two, ten? And what about when you need to go to work, and your mother needs to have a shower or get some sleep?”

“You can get nurses. Carers.”

“If you’ve won the Lotto, you can. Have you checked how much they cost?”

“We’ll find the money if we have to.”

“From Pat’s life insurance?” That silenced her. “And what happens when Jenny fires the nurse? She’s a free adult: if she doesn’t want someone looking after her, and we both know she won’t, there’s not a bloody thing you can do about it. Rock and a hard place, Ms. Rafferty: you can’t keep her safe unless you get her locked up.”

“Prison isn’t exactly safe. We’ll look after her.”

The sharp edge to her voice said I was getting to her. I said, “You probably will, for a while. You might manage weeks, or even months. But sooner or later, you’re going to take your eye off the ball. Maybe your boyfriend will ring you up wanting to chat, or your friends will be on at you to come out for a drink and a laugh, and you’ll think: Just this once. Just this once, life will let me off the hook; it won’t punish me for wanting to be a normal human being, just for an hour or two. I’ve earned it. Maybe you’ll only leave Jenny for a minute. A minute is all it takes to find the disinfectant or the razor blades. If someone’s serious enough about killing herself, she will find a way to do it. And if it happens on your watch, you’ll spend the rest of your life ripping yourself to shreds.”

Fiona shoved her hands deep into the opposite sleeves of her coat. She said, “What do you want?”

I said, “I need Conor Brennan to come clean about what happened that night. I want you to explain to him exactly what he’s doing. He’s not just perverting the course of justice, he’s kicking it in the teeth: he’s letting Pat and Emma and Jack go into the ground while the person who murdered them walks away scot-free. And he’s leaving Jenny to die.” It’s one thing to do what Conor had done in a nightmare moment of howling panic and horror, Jenny clutching him with her bloody hands and begging; it’s another to stand by, in the cold light of day, and let someone you love walk in front of a bus. “If it comes from me, he’ll think I’m just trying to mess with his head. From you, he’ll take it onboard.”

The corner of Fiona’s mouth twitched in what was almost a bitter little smile. She said, “You don’t really get Conor, do you?”

I could have laughed. “I’m pretty sure I don’t, no.”

“He doesn’t give a damn about the course of justice, or Jenny’s debt to society, or any of that stuff. He just cares about Jenny. He has to know what she wants to do. If he confessed to you guys, that’s why: so she can get the chance.” That twitch again. “Probably he’d think I’m being selfish, trying to save her just because I want her here. Maybe I am. I don’t care.”

Trying to save her. She was on my side, if I could just find a way to use that. “Then tell him Jenny’s already dead. He knows she’ll be out of hospital any day: tell him they let her out, and she took the first chance she got. If she’s not there to be protected any more, he might as well go ahead and save his own arse.”

Fiona was already shaking her head. “He’d know I was lying. He knows Jenny. There’s no way she’d… She wouldn’t go without leaving a note to get him out. No way.”

We had lowered our voices, like conspirators. I said, “Then do you think you could convince Jenny to make an official statement? Beg her, guilt-trip her, talk about the children, about Pat, about Conor; say whatever you need to say. I’ve had no luck, but coming from you-”

She was still shaking her head. “She’s not going to listen to me. Would you, if you were her?”

Both our eyes went to that closed door. “I don’t know,” I said. I would have been boiling over with frustration-for a second I thought of Dina, gnawing at her arm-if I had had anything left. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“I don’t want her to die.”

All of a sudden Fiona’s voice was thick and wobbling. She was about to cry. I said, “Then we need evidence.”

“You said you don’t have any.”

“I don’t. And at this point, we’re not going to get any.”

“Then what do we do?” She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, swiped away tears.

When I took a breath, it felt like it was made of something more volatile and violent than air, something that burned its way through membranes into my blood. I said, “There’s only one possible solution that I can think of.”

“Then do it. Please.”

“It’s not a good solution, Ms. Rafferty. But very occasionally, desperate times can call for desperate measures.”

“Like what?”

“Rarely, and I’m talking very rarely, a crucial piece of evidence shows up through the back door. Through channels that you could call less than one hundred percent legit.”

Fiona was staring at me. Her cheeks were still wet, but she had forgotten about crying. She said, “You mean you could-” She stopped, started again more carefully. “OK. What do you mean?”

It happens. Not often, nowhere near as often as you probably think, but it happens. It happens because a uniform lets some little smart-arse get under his skin; it happens because a lazy prick like Quigley gets jealous of the real detectives and our solve rates; it happens because a detective knows for a fact that this guy is about to put his wife in hospital or pimp a twelve-year-old. It happens because someone decides to trust his own mind over the rules we’ve sworn to follow.

I had never done it. I had always believed that if you can’t get your solve the straight way, you don’t deserve to get it at all. I had never even been the guy who looks the other way while the bloodstained tissue moves to the right place, or the wrap of coke gets dropped, or the witness gets coached. No one had ever asked me, probably in case I turned them in to Internal Affairs, and I had been grateful to them for not making me do it. But I knew.

I said, “If you were to bring me a piece of evidence that linked Jenny to the crime, soon-say, this afternoon-then I could place her under arrest before she’s released from the hospital. From that moment on, she’d be under suicide watch.” All that silent time watching Jenny sleep, I had been thinking about this.

I saw the fast blink as it went in. After a long moment Fiona said, “Me?”

“If I could come up with a way to do this without your help, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

Her face was tight, watchful. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?”

“What for? If I just wanted a solve and I was looking for someone to take the fall, I wouldn’t need you: I’ve got Conor Brennan, all packaged up and good to go.” A porter shoved a clanging trolley past the end of the corridor, and we both jumped. I said, even more quietly, “And I’m taking at least as much of a risk as you are. If you ever decide to tell anyone about this-tomorrow, or next month, or ten years down the line-then I’m facing an Internal Affairs investigation at the very least, and at the worst I’m looking at a review of every case I’ve ever touched and criminal charges of my own. I’m putting everything I’ve got in your hands, Ms. Rafferty.”

Fiona said, “Why?”

There were too many answers. Because of that moment, still flickering small and searingly bright inside me, when she had told me she was certain of me. Because of Richie. Because of Dina, her lips stained dark with red wine, telling me There isn’t any why. In the end I gave her the only one I could stand to share. “We had one piece of evidence that might have been enough, but it got destroyed. It was my fault.”

After a moment Fiona said, “What’ll they do to her? If she gets arrested. How long…?”

“She’ll be sent to a psychiatric hospital, at least at first. If she’s found fit to stand trial, her defense will plead either not guilty or insanity. If the jury finds she was insane, then she’ll go back to the hospital until the doctors decide she’s no longer a danger to herself or others. If she’s found guilty, then she’ll probably be in prison for ten or fifteen years.” Fiona winced. “I know it sounds like a long time, but we can make sure she gets the treatment she needs, and by the time she’s my age she’ll be out. She can start over, with you and Conor there to help her.”

The PA squealed into life, ordered Dr. Something to Accident and Emergency please; Fiona didn’t move. Finally she nodded. Every muscle in her was still stretched taut, but that wariness had gone out of her face. “OK,” she said. “I’m on.”

“I need you to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. The words felt heavy as stones, sinking me. “You’re going to mention to me that you’re heading out to Ocean View, to pick up supplies for your sister-her dressing gown, toiletries, her iPod, books, whatever you think she might need. I’m going to tell you that the house is still sealed and you can’t go in there. Instead, I’ll offer to drive out myself, go into the house and pick up whatever Jenny needs-I’ll bring you along, so that you can make sure I get the right things. You can make me a list on the way. Write it out, so I’ve got it to show anyone who asks.”

Fiona nodded. She was watching me like a floater at a briefing, alert and attentive, memorizing every word.

“Seeing the house again is going to jog your memory. All of a sudden you’ll remember that, on the morning when you and the uniformed officers found the bodies, when you followed the officers into the house, you picked up something that was lying at the bottom of the stairs. You did it automatically: the house was always so tidy that anything on the floor seemed out of place, so you tucked it in your coat pocket without even realizing what you were doing-your mind was on other things, after all. Does this all hang together for you?”

“The thing I picked up. What is it?”

“Jenny’s got a handful of bracelets in her jewelry box. Is there one she wears a lot? Not one of those solid things, what do you call them, bangles; we need a chain. A strong one.”

Fiona thought. “She’s got a charm bracelet. It’s a gold chain, a thick one; it looks pretty strong. Pat gave it to Jenny for her twenty-first, and after that he gave her charms when anything important happened-like a heart when they got married, and initials when the kids were born, and a little house when they bought the house. Jenny wears it a lot.”

“Perfect. That’s the other reason why you picked it up: you knew it meant a lot to Jenny, she wouldn’t want it lying around on the floor. When you saw what had happened, that blew the bracelet right out of your mind. Naturally enough, you haven’t thought of it since. But while you’re waiting for me to come out of the house, it’ll come back to you. You’ll go through your coat pockets and find it. When I get back to the car, you’ll hand it over to me, on the off chance that it might come in useful.”

Fiona said, “How’s that going to help?”

I said, “If everything had happened exactly the way I’m describing, then you wouldn’t have any way of knowing how the bracelet would fit into our investigation. So it’s better you don’t know it now. Less chance of you slipping up. You’re going to have to trust me.”

She said, “You’re sure, too, right? This will work. It’s not going to go all wrong. You’re sure.”

“It isn’t perfect. Some people, possibly including the prosecutor, are going to think that you knew all along and deliberately held back. And some people are going to wonder if the whole thing is just a little too convenient to be true-department politics; you don’t need to know the details. I can make sure you don’t get into any actual trouble-you won’t be arrested for concealing evidence or obstruction of justice, nothing like that-but I can’t make sure you won’t get a tough time from the prosecutor, or the defender if it gets that far. They may even try to imply that you should be a suspect, given that you’d have been the beneficiary if Jenny had died.”

Fiona’s eyes snapped wide. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I promise, there’s no way that could go anywhere. You’re not going to get in trouble. I’m just telling you in advance: this isn’t perfect. But it’s the best I can do.”

“OK,” Fiona said, on a deep breath. She pulled herself upright in the chair and pushed hair off her face with both hands, ready for action. “What comes now?”

“We need to do it, conversations and all. If we go through every step, then you’ll remember the details when you give your statement, or when you’re cross-examined. You’ll sound truthful, because you’ll be telling the truth.”

She nodded. “So,” I said. “Where are you off to, Ms. Rafferty?”

“If Jenny’s asleep, I should drive down to Brianstown. She needs some things from the house.”

Her voice was wooden and empty, nothing left in it but a sediment of sadness. I said, “I’m afraid you can’t go into the house. It’s still a crime scene. If it would help, I can take you down there and get out whatever you need.”

“That’d be good. Thanks.”

I said, “Let’s go.”

I stood up, bracing myself against the wall like an old man. Fiona buttoned her coat, wrapped the scarf around her neck and tugged it tight. The child had stopped crying. We stood there in the corridor for a moment, listening by Jenny’s door for a call, a movement, anything that would keep us there, but nothing came.

For the rest of my life I will remember that journey. It was the last moment when I could have turned back: picked up Jenny’s bits and pieces, told Fiona I had spotted a flaw in my grand plan, dropped her back at the hospital and said good-bye. On the way to Broken Harbor that day, I was what I had given all my adult life to becoming: a murder detective, the finest on the squad, the one who got the solves and got them on the straight and narrow. By the time I left, I was something else.

Fiona huddled against the passenger door, staring out the window. When we got onto the motorway I took one hand off the wheel, found my notebook and pen and passed them to her. She balanced the notebook on her knee and I kept my speed steady while she wrote. When she was done she passed them back to me. I took a quick glance at the page: her handwriting was clear and rounded, with fast little flourishes on the tails. Moisturizer (whatever’s on bedside table or in bathroom). Jeans. Top. Jumper. Bra. Socks. Shoes (runners). Coat. Scarf.

Fiona said, “She’ll need clothes to leave the hospital in. Wherever she’s going next.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

You’re doing the right thing. It almost came out automatically. Instead I said, “You’re saving your sister’s life.”

“I’m putting her in prison.”

“You’re doing the best you can. That’s all any of us can do.”

She said suddenly, as if the words had forced their way out, “When we were kids I used to pray that Jenny would do something awful. I was always in trouble-nothing major, I wasn’t some delinquent, just little stuff like giving my mum cheek or talking in class. Jenny never did anything bad, ever. She wasn’t a goody-goody; it just came natural to her. I used to pray she’d do something really terrible, just once. Then I would tell and she’d get in trouble, and everyone would be like, ‘Well done, Fiona. You did the right thing. Good girl.’”

She had her hands clasped together in her lap, tightly, like a child at confession. I said, “Don’t tell that story again, Ms. Rafferty.”

My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. Fiona went back to staring out the window. “I wouldn’t.”

After that we didn’t talk. As I turned into Ocean View a man swung out from a side road, running hard; I slammed on the brakes, but it was a jogger, eyes staring and unseeing, nostrils flaring like a runaway horse’s. For a second I thought I heard the great gasps of his breath, through the glass; then he was gone. He was the only person we saw. The wind coming off the sea shook the chain-link fences, held the tall weeds in the gardens at a steep slant, shoved at the car windows.

Fiona said, “I read in the paper they’re talking about bulldozing these places, the ghost estates. Just smash them down to the ground, walk away and pretend it never happened.”

For one last second, I saw Broken Harbor the way it should have been. The lawn mowers buzzing and the radios blasting sweet fast beats while men washed their cars in the drives, the little kids shrieking and swerving on scooters; the girls out jogging with their ponytails bouncing, the women leaning over the garden fences to swap news, the teenagers shoving and giggling and flirting on every corner; color exploding from geranium pots and new cars and children’s toys, smell of fresh paint and barbecue blowing on the sea wind. The image leapt out of the air, so strong that I saw it more clearly than all the rusting pipes and potholed dirt. I said, “That’s a shame.”

“It’s good riddance. It should’ve happened four years ago, before this place was ever built: burn the plans and walk away. Better late than never.”

I had got the hang of the estate: I got us to the Spains’ house on the first try, without asking Fiona for directions-she had vanished into her mind again, and I was happy to leave her there. When I parked the car and opened my door, the wind roared in, filling my ears and my eyes like cold water.

I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Go through the motions of finding something in your pocket, just in case someone’s watching.” The Gogans’ curtains hadn’t moved, but it was only a matter of time. “If anyone comes over to you, don’t talk to them.” Fiona nodded, out the window.

The padlock was still in place: the souvenir hunters and ghouls were biding their time. I found the key I had taken off Dr. Dolittle. When I stepped inside out of the wind, the instant silence rang in my ears.

I rummaged through kitchen cupboards, not bothering to stay clear of the blood spatter, till I found a bin-liner. I took it upstairs and threw things into it, working fast-Sinéad Gogan was presumably glued to her front window by now, and would be happy to tell anyone who asked exactly how long I had spent in here. When I was done, I put on my gloves and opened Jenny’s jewelry box.

The charm bracelet was laid out in a little compartment all its own, ready to put on. The golden heart, the tiny golden house, glowing in the soft light drifting through the cream lampshade; the curly E, chips of diamond sparkling; the J, enameled in red; the diamond drop that must have been for Jenny’s twenty-first. There was plenty of room left on the chain, for all the wonderful things that had still been going to happen.

I left the bin-liner on the floor and took the bracelet into Emma’s room. I switched on the light-I wasn’t about to do this with the curtains open. The room was the way Richie and I had left it when we finished searching: tidy, full of thought and love and pink, only the stripped bed to tell you something had happened here. On the bedside table the monitor was flashing a warning: 12º. TOO COLD.

Emma’s hairbrush-pink, with a pony on the back-was on her chest of drawers. I picked out the hairs carefully, matching the lengths, holding them up-they were so fine and fair, at the wrong angle they vanished into the light-to find the ones with roots and skin tags still attached where a careless sweep of the brush had tugged too hard. In the end I had eight.

I smoothed them together into a tiny lock, held the roots between thumb and finger and wound the other end into the charm bracelet. It took me a few tries-on the chain, the clasp, the little gold heart-before it caught tightly enough, in the loop holding the enameled J, that a tug jerked the hairs free of my fingers and left them fluttering against the gold.

I put the bracelet around one hand and pulled till a link bent open. It left a red mark across my palm, but Jenny’s wrists had been covered with bruises and abrasions where Pat had tried to hold her off. Any one of them, blurred by the others, could have come from the bracelet.

Emma had fought; Cooper had told us that already. For a moment she had managed to pull the pillow off her head. As Jenny scrabbled to get it back into place, her bracelet had snagged in Emma’s whipping hair. Emma had grabbed hold of it, yanked till a weak link bent, then lost her grip; her hand had been trapped under the pillow again, nothing left in it but a few strands of her own hair.

The bracelet had stayed on Jenny’s wrist while she finished what she was doing. As she went downstairs to find Pat, the bent link had slipped loose.

Probably it wouldn’t be enough for a conviction. Emma’s hair could have snagged in the bracelet as Jenny brushed it before bed, that last evening; the link could have caught on a door handle as she rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was. The whole thing was dripping with reasonable doubt. But together with everything else, it would be enough to arrest her, charge her, to keep her on remand while she waited for trial.

That can take a year or more. By then Jenny would have spent plenty of time with various psychiatrists and psychologists, who would shower her with meds and counseling and everything else that would give her a chance of stepping back from that windswept edge. If she changed her mind about dying, she would plead guilty: there was nothing else she needed to get out for, and a guilty plea would take the shadow off Pat and Conor both. If she didn’t change her mind, then someone would spot what she was planning-in spite of what some people think, most mental-health professionals know their job-and do what they could to keep her somewhere safe. I had told Fiona the truth: it wasn’t perfect, far from it, but there was no place left for perfect in this case.

Before I left Emma’s room I pulled back one of her curtains and stood at the window, looking out at the rows of half-houses and the beach beyond them. The winter was starting to draw in; it was barely three o’clock, but already the light was gathering that evening melancholy and the blue had leached out of the sea, leaving it a restless gray streaked with white foam. In Conor’s hide, the plastic sheeting thrummed with the wind; the houses around it threw crazy shadows on the unpaved road. The place looked like Pompeii, like some archaeological discovery preserved to let tourists wander through it-openmouthed and neck-craning, trying to picture the disaster that had wiped it bare of life-for a brief few years, until it collapsed to dust, until anthills grew up in the middle of kitchen floors and ivy twined around light fixtures.

I closed Emma’s door behind me, gently. On the landing floor, next to a coil of power cable running into the bathroom, Richie’s precious video camera pointed up at the attic hatch and blinked a tiny red eye to show that it was recording. A little gray spider had already built a hammock of web between the camera and the wall.

Up in the attic, the wind poured in at the hole under the eaves with a high fluttering wail like a fox or a banshee. I squinted up into the open hatch. For an instant I thought I saw something move-a shifting and coalescing of the black, a deliberate muscled ripple-but when I blinked, there was only darkness and the flood of cold air.

The next day, once the case was closed, I would send Richie’s tech back out to collect the camera, inspect every frame of the footage and write me a report in triplicate about anything he saw. There was no reason why I shouldn’t have flipped up the little built-in monitor and fast-forwarded through the footage myself, kneeling there on the landing, but I didn’t do it. I already knew there was nothing there.

Fiona was leaning against the passenger door, staring blankly at the skeleton house where we had talked to her that first day, with a cigarette sending up a thin thread of smoke between her fingers. As I reached her she threw the cigarette into a pothole half full of murky water.

“Here are your sister’s things,” I said, holding up the bin-liner. “Are these what you had in mind, or would you like anything different?”

“That stuff’s fine. Thanks.”

She hadn’t even glanced over. For a dizzy second I thought she had changed her mind. I said, “Are you all right?”

Fiona said, “Looking at the house reminded me. The day we found them-Jenny and Pat and the kids-I picked this up.”

She brought her hand out of her pocket, curled as if she were holding something. I held out my palm, cupped close around the bracelet to shield it from watchers and from the wind, and she opened her empty one above it.

I said, “You should touch it, just in case.”

She clasped her hand around the bracelet, tight, for a moment. Even through my gloves, I could feel the cold of her fingers.

I said, “Where did you get this?”

“When the policemen went in the house, that morning, I followed them. I wanted to know what was going on. I saw this at the bottom of the stairs, like right up against the bottom stair. I picked it up-Jenny wouldn’t want it getting kicked around the floor. I put it in my coat pocket. There’s a hole in my pocket; this went down into the lining. I forgot about it, till now.”

Her voice was thin and flat; the ceaseless roar of the wind scudded it away, into the raw concrete and rusted metal. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”

I went round to the driver’s side and opened the door. Fiona didn’t move. It wasn’t until I had put the bracelet into an evidence envelope, labeled it carefully and tucked it into my coat pocket that she straightened up and got into the car. She still didn’t look at me.

I started the car and drove us out of Broken Harbor, maneuvering around the potholes and the straggles of wire, with the wind still slamming against the windows like a wrecking ball. It was that easy.

The caravan site was farther up the beach than the Spains’ house, maybe a hundred yards to the north. When Richie and I had walked through the dark to Conor Brennan’s hide, and back again with him between us and our case all solved, we had probably crossed over the spot where my family’s caravan used to stand.

The last time I saw my mother was outside that caravan, on our last evening at Broken Harbor. My family had gone up to Whelan’s for a big farewell dinner; I had made myself a couple of quick ham sandwiches in our kitchenette and I was getting ready to go out, to meet the gang down at the beach. We had flagons of cider and packets of cigarettes stashed in the sand dunes, flagged by blue plastic bags tied in the marram grass; someone was going to bring a guitar; my parents had said I could stay out till midnight. The smell of Lynx Musk deodorant hanging in the caravan, the low rich light through the windows hitting the mirror so that I had to duck sideways to gel my hair into careful spikes; Geri’s case open and already half packed on her bunk, Dina’s little white hat and sunglasses thrown on hers. Somewhere kids were laughing and a mother was calling them in to dinner; a faraway radio was playing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” and I sang along, under my breath in my new deep voice, and thought of the way Amelia pushed back her hair.

Jeans jacket on, running down the caravan steps, and then I stopped. My mother was sitting outside, in one of the little folding chairs, her head tilted back to watch the sky turning peach and gold. Her nose was sunburned and her soft fair hair was falling out of its bun from a day of lying in the sun, building sand castles with Dina, walking by the waterline hand in hand with my father. The hem of her long skirt, pale-blue cotton dotted with white flowers, lifted and swirled in the breeze.

Mikey, she said, smiling up at me. You’re looking very handsome.

I thought you were up at the pub.

Too many people. That should have been my first clue. It’s so lovely here. So peaceful. Look.

I shot a token glance at the sky. Yeah. Pretty. I’m going down to the beach, remember I said? I’ll be-

Sit down here with me a minute. She reached out a hand, beckoning.

I’ve got to go. The lads are-

I know. Just a few minutes.

I should have known. But she had seemed so happy, all those two weeks. She was always happy at Broken Harbor. Those were the only two weeks of the year when I could be just a normal guy: nothing to guard against except saying something stupid in front of the lads, no secrets prowling the back of my mind except the thoughts of Amelia that turned me red at all the wrong moments, nothing to watch for except big Dean Gorry who fancied her too. I had relaxed into it. All year long, I had watched and worked so hard; I thought I deserved this. I had forgotten that God, or the world, or whatever carves the rules in stone, doesn’t give you time off for good behavior.

I sat on the edge of the other chair and tried not to jiggle. Mum leaned back and sighed, a contented, dreamy sound. Look at that, she said, and stretched out her arms towards the flirt and rush of the water. It was a soft evening, lavender waves lapping and the air sweet and salty as caramel, only a high thin haze in the sunset to say that the wind might turn on us and bite down sometime in the night. There’s nowhere like here, sure there isn’t. I wish I never had to go home. Don’t you?

Yeah. Probably. It’s nice.

Tell me something. That blond girl, the one with the nice dad who gave us milk that day we ran out. Is she your girlfriend?

Jesus! Mum! I was twisting with embarrassment.

She didn’t notice. Good. That’s good. Sometimes I worry that you don’t have girlfriends because… Another small sigh, as she brushed hair off her forehead. Ah, that’s good. She’s a lovely girl; she’s got a lovely smile.

Yeah. Amelia’s smile, the way her eyes came up sideways to meet mine; the curve of her lip that made me want to bite it. I guess.

Take good care of her. Your dad’s always taken good care of me. My mother smiled, reached across the gap between the chairs to pat my hand. So have you. I hope that girl knows how lucky she is.

We’ve only been going out a few days.

Are you going to keep on seeing each other?

I shrugged. Don’t know. She’s from Newry. In my head I was already sending Amelia mix tapes, writing out the address in my best handwriting, picturing the girl-bedroom where she would listen to them.

Stay in touch. You’d have beautiful children.

Mum! We’ve only known each other-

You never know. Something skimmed across her face, something swift and frail as the shadow of a bird on water. You never know, in this life.

Dean had a million little brothers and sisters, his parents didn’t care where he was; he would be down on the beach already, ready and waiting to leap on his chance. Mum, I have to go. OK? Can I?

I was half off my seat, legs braced ready to shoot me off through the dunes. Her hand reached across the gap again, caught hold of mine. Not yet. I don’t want to be on my own.

I glanced up the path towards Whelan’s, praying, but it was empty. Dad and the girls’ll be back any minute.

We both knew it would be longer than that. Whelan’s was where all the caravan-park families went: Dina would be running around playing catch and shrieking with the other little kids, Dad would get into a game of darts, Geri would sit on the wall outside flirting for just one more minute. Mum’s hand was still wrapped around mine. There are things I need to talk to you about. Things. It’s important.

My head was full up with Amelia, with Dean, with the wild sea-smell surging in my blood, with the whole cider-tasting world of night and laughter and mystery that was waiting for me in those dunes. I thought she wanted to talk about love, girls, maybe God forbid sex. Yeah, OK, just not now. Tomorrow, when we get home-just I have to go, Mum, seriously, I’m meeting Amelia-

She’ll wait for you. Stay with me. Don’t leave me on my own.

The first note of desperation rising through her voice, tainting the air like toxic smoke. I whipped my hand out from under hers as if it had burned me. Tomorrow at home I would have been ready for this, but not here, not now. The unfairness of it slashed like a whip across the face, left me stunned, outraged, blinded. Mum. Just don’t.

Her hand still outstretched towards mine, ready to clutch. Please, Mikey. I need you.

So what? It exploded out of me, took all my breath and left me panting. I wanted to punch her out of my way, out of my world. I’m so fucking sick of taking care of you! You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of me!

Her face, stricken, openmouthed. The sunset light gilding away the gray in her hair, turning her young and shimmering, ready to vanish into its blinding brightness. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry-

Yeah. I know. Me too. I was shifting on the chair, scarlet with shame and defiance and hideous embarrassment, dying to get out of there even more. Just forget it. I didn’t mean it.

You did. I know you did. And you’re right. You shouldn’t have to… Oh, God. Oh, love, I’m so sorry.

It’s OK. It’s fine. Bright flashes of color were moving in the dunes, long-legged shadows stretching in front of them as they ran towards the water. A girl laughed; I couldn’t tell whether it was Amelia. Can I go?

Yes. Of course. Go. Her hand twisting among the flowers of her skirt. Don’t worry, Mike, love. I won’t do this to you again. I promise. You have a gorgeous evening.

As I jumped up-already putting up a hand to gingerly triple-check my hair, running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they were clean-she caught me by the sleeve. Mum, I have to-

I know. Just a second. She pulled me down, pressed her hands to my cheeks and kissed my forehead. She smelled of coconut suntan oil, of salt, of summer, of my mother.

Afterwards people blamed my father. We had done a good job, he and I and Geri, of keeping our secret locked safe inside our own four walls; too good. No one had ever suspected the days when my mother couldn’t stop crying, the weeks when she lay in bed staring at the wall; but back then neighbors watched out for each other, or watched each other, I’m not sure which it was. The whole road knew there had been weeks when she didn’t come out of the house, days when she could only manage a faint hello or when she tucked her head down and scurried away from their curious eyes.

The adults tried to be subtle, but every condolence had a question swaying in the undercurrent; the guys in school didn’t even try, half the time. They all wanted to know the same things. When she kept her head down, was she hiding black eyes? When she stayed indoors, was she waiting for ribs to heal? When she went into the water, was it because my father had sent her there?

I shut the adults up with a cold blank stare; I beat the shit out of classmates who got too blatant, right up until the day when my sympathy points got used up and teachers started giving me detention for fighting. I needed to get home on time, to help Geri with Dina and the house-my father couldn’t do it, he could barely talk. I couldn’t afford detention. That was when I started learning control.

Deep down, I didn’t blame them for asking. It looked like plain salacious nosiness, but even then I understood that it was more. They needed to know. Like I told Richie, cause and effect isn’t a luxury. Take it away and we’re left paralyzed, clinging to some tiny raft lurching wild and random on endless black sea. If my mother could go into the water just because, then so could theirs, any night, any minute; so could they. When we can’t see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.

I fought them because the pattern they were seeing was the wrong one, and I couldn’t make myself tell them any other way. I knew they were right about this much: things don’t happen for no reason. I was the only one in the world who knew that the reason was me.

I had learned how to live with that. I had found a way, slowly and with immense amounts of work and pain. I had no way to live without it.

There isn’t any why. If Dina was right, then the world was unliveable. If she was wrong, if-and this needed to be true-if the world was sane and it was only the strange galaxy inside her head that was spinning reasonless off any axis, then all of this was because of me.

I dropped Fiona outside the hospital. As I pulled up the car, I said, “I’ll need you to come in and give an official statement about finding the bracelet.”

I saw her eyes shut for a second. “When?”

“Now, if you don’t mind. I can wait here while you drop off your sister’s things.”

“When are you going to…?” Her chin tilted towards the building. “To tell her?”

To arrest her. “As soon as possible. Probably tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll come in after that. I’ll stay with Jenny till then.”

I said, “It might be easier on you to come in this evening. You might find it tough, being with Jenny right now.”

Fiona said tonelessly, “I might, yeah.” Then she climbed out of the car and walked away, holding the bin-liner in both arms, leaning backwards as if it weighed too much to carry.

I handed the Beemer in to the car pool and waited outside the castle wall, lurking in shadows like a corner boy, until the shift was over and the lads had gone home. Then I went to find the Super.

O’Kelly was still at his desk, head bent in a circle of lamplight, running his pen along the lines of a statement sheet. He had his reading glasses on the end of his nose. The cozy yellow light brought out the deep creases around his eyes and mouth, the white streaks growing in his hair; he looked like some kind old man in a storybook, the wise grandfather who knows how to fix it all.

Outside the window the sky was a rich winter black, and shadows were starting to pile up around the ragged stacks of files leaning in corners. The office felt like a place I had dreamed about once when I was a kid and spent years trying to find, a place whose every priceless detail I should have been hoarding in my memory; a place that was already dissolving through my fingers, already lost.

I moved in the doorway, and O’Kelly raised his head. For a split second he looked tired and sad. Then all that was wiped away and his face turned blank, utterly expressionless.

“Detective Kennedy,” he said, taking off his reading glasses. “Shut the door.”

I closed it behind me, stayed standing until O’Kelly pointed his pen at a chair. He said, “Quigley was in to me this morning.”

I said, “He should have left it to me.”

“That’s what I told him. He put on his nun-face and said he didn’t trust you to come clean.”

The little fuckwad. “Wanted to get his version in first, more like.”

“He couldn’t wait to drop you in the shite. Practically came in his kacks at the chance. Here’s the thing, though: Quigley’ll twist a story to suit himself, all right, but I’ve never known him make one up from scratch. Too careful of his own arse.”

I said, “He wasn’t making it up.” I found the evidence bag in my pocket-it felt like days since I had put it there-and laid it on O’Kelly’s desk.

He didn’t pick it up. He said, “Give me your version. I’ll need it in a written statement, but I want to hear it first.”

“Detective Curran found this in Conor Brennan’s flat, while I was outside making a phone call. The nail polish matches Jennifer Spain’s. The wool matches the pillow that was used to suffocate Emma Spain.”

O’Kelly whistled. “Sweet fuck. The mammy. Are you sure?”

“I spent the afternoon with her. She won’t confess under caution, but she gave me a full account off-the-record.”

“Which is bugger-all use to us, without this.” He nodded at the envelope. “How’d it get into Brennan’s flat, if he’s not our man?”

“He was at the scene. He’s the one who tried to finish off Jennifer Spain.”

“Thank Jaysus for that. At least you didn’t arrest a holy innocent. That’s one less lawsuit, anyway.” O’Kelly thought that over, grunted. “Go on. Curran finds this, clicks what it means. And then? Why the hell didn’t he hand it in?”

“He was in two minds. In his view, Jennifer Spain’s suffered enough, and no purpose would be served by her arrest: the best solution would be to release Conor Brennan and close the file, with the implication that Patrick Spain was the perpetrator.”

O’Kelly snorted. “Beautiful. That’s only beautiful. The fucking gobshite. So out he walks, cool as a cucumber, with this yoke in his pocket.”

“He was holding on to the evidence while he decided what to do with it. Last night, a woman who’s also known to me was at Detective Curran’s house. She spotted that envelope and thought it shouldn’t be there, so she took it away with her. She tried to hand it in to me this morning, but Quigley intercepted her.”

“This young one,” O’Kelly said. He was clicking the top of his pen with his thumb, watching it like it was fascinating stuff. “Quigley tried to tell me ye were all having some mad three-way-said he was concerned because the squad should be upholding morals, all that altar-boy shite. What’s the real story?”

O’Kelly has always been good to me. “She’s my sister,” I said.

That got his attention. “Holy God. I’d say Curran is missing a few teeth now, is he?”

“He didn’t know.”

“That’s no excuse. Dirty little whoremaster.”

I said, “Sir, I’d like to keep my sister out of this, if possible. She’s not well.”

“That’s what Quigley said, all right.” Only presumably not in those words. “No need to bring her into it. IA might want to talk to her, but I’ll tell them there’s nothing she can add. You make sure she doesn’t go chatting to some media bastard, and she’ll be grand.”

“Thank you, sir.”

O’Kelly nodded. “This,” he said, flicking the envelope with his pen. “Can you swear you never saw it till today?”

I said, “I swear, sir. I didn’t know it existed till Quigley waved it in my face.”

“When did Curran pick it up?”

“Thursday morning.”

“Thursday morning,” O’Kelly repeated. Something ominous was building in his voice. “So he kept it to himself for the bones of two days. The two of ye are spending every waking moment together, you’re talking about nothing only this case-or at least I hope you are-and Curran’s got the answer in the pocket of his shiny tracksuit the whole time. Tell me, Detective: how the sweet living fuck did you miss that?”

“I was focused on the case. I did notice-”

O’Kelly exploded. “Sweet Jesus! What does this yoke look like to you? Chopped liver? This is the fucking case. And it’s not some piece-of-shite druggie case where nobody cares if you take your eye off the ball. There are murdered kids here. You didn’t think this might be a good time to act like a bloody detective and keep an eye on what’s going on around you?”

I said, “I knew something was on Curran’s mind, sir. I didn’t miss that. But I thought it was because we weren’t on the same page. I thought Brennan was our man, and looking anywhere else was a waste of time; Curran thought-said he thought-that Patrick Spain was a better suspect and we should spend more time on him. I thought that was all it was.”

O’Kelly took a breath to keep bollocking me, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Either Curran deserves an Oscar,” he said, but the heat had gone out of his voice, “or you deserve a good kicking.” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and finger. “Where is the little prick, anyway?”

“I sent him home. I wasn’t about to let him touch anything else.”

“Too bloody right. Get onto him, tell him to report to me first thing in the morning. If he survives that, I’ll find him a nice desk where he can file paperwork till IA’s done with him.”

“Yes, sir.” I would text him. I had no desire to talk to Richie, ever again.

O’Kelly said, “If your sister hadn’t nicked the evidence, would Curran have handed it over, in the end? Or would he have flushed it down the jacks, kept his mouth shut for good? You knew him better than I did. What do you figure?”

He’d have handed it in today, sir, I’d bet my month’s salary on it… All those partners I had envied would have done it without a second thought, but Richie wasn’t my partner any more, if he ever had been. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a clue.”

O’Kelly grunted. “Not like it matters either way. Curran’s through. I’d boot him back to whatever council flat he came from, if I could do it without IA and the brass and the media crawling up my arse; since I can’t, he’ll be reverted to uniform, and I’ll find him some lovely shitehole full of addicts and handguns where he can wait for his pension. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his mouth shut and take it.”

He left a space in case I wanted to put up a fight. His eye told me it would be pointless, but I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I said, “I think that’s the right outcome.”

“Hold your horses there. IA and the brass aren’t going to be happy with you, either. Curran’s still on probation; you’re the man in charge. If this investigation’s gone down the jacks, that’s all yours.”

“I accept that, sir. But I don’t think it’s down the jacks just yet. While I was at the hospital with Jennifer Spain, I ran into Fiona Rafferty-that’s the sister. She picked this up in the Spains’ hallway, the morning we were called to the scene. She’d forgotten about it until today.”

I found the envelope with the bracelet in it and put it on the desk, next to the other one. A tiny detached part of me was able to be pleased at how steady my hand was. “She’s identified the bracelet as Jennifer Spain’s. Going by color and length, the hair caught in it could belong to either Jennifer or Emma, but the techs should have no trouble telling us which one: Jennifer’s hair is lightened. If this is Emma’s-and I’d bet it is-then we’ve still got our case.”

O’Kelly watched me for a long time, clicking the top of his pen, those sharp little eyes steady on mine. He said, “That’s very bloody convenient.”

It was a question. I said, “Just very lucky, sir.”

After another long moment, he nodded. “Better play the Lotto tonight. You’re the luckiest man in Ireland. Do you need me to tell you how much shit you’d have been in if this yoke hadn’t shown up?”

Scorcher Kennedy, the straightest straight arrow, twenty years’ service and never put a toe over the line: after that one wisp of suspicion, O’Kelly believed I was as pure as the driven snow. So would everyone else. Even the defense wouldn’t waste their time trying to impeach the evidence. Quigley would bitch and hint, but nobody listens to Quigley. “No, sir,” I said.

“Hand it in to the evidence room, quick, before you find a way to bollix it up. Then go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you for IA on Monday.” He jammed his reading glasses onto his nose and bent his head over the statement sheet again. We were done.

I said, “Sir, there’s something else you should know.”

“Oh, Jesus. If there’s any more fucking shite to do with this mess, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Nothing like that, sir. When this case is wound up, I’ll be putting in my papers.”

That brought O’Kelly’s head up. “Why?” he asked, after a moment.

“I think it’s time for a change.”

Those sharp eyes poked at me. He said, “You don’t have your thirty. You’ll get no pension till you’re sixty years of age.”

“I know, sir.”

“What’ll you do instead?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He watched me, tapping his pen on the page in front of him. “I put you back on the pitch too early. I thought you were fighting fit again. Could’ve sworn you were only dying to get off the bench.”

There was something in his voice that could have been concern, or maybe even compassion. I said, “I was.”

“I should’ve spotted that you weren’t ready. Now this mess is after shaking your nerve. That’s all it is. A few good nights’ kip, a few pints with the lads, you’ll be grand.”

“It’s not that simple, sir.”

“Why not? You won’t be spending the next few years sharing a desk with Curran, if that’s what you’re worried about. This was my mistake. I’ll say that to the brass. I don’t want you booted onto desk duty, any more than you do; leave me stuck with that shower of eejits out there.” O’Kelly jerked his head towards the squad room. “I won’t see you shafted. You’ll take a bollocking, you’ll lose a few days’ holidays-sure, you’ve plenty saved up anyway, am I right?-and everything’ll be back to normal.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I appreciate that. But I’ve got no problem taking whatever’s coming my way. You’re right: I should have caught this.”

“Is that it? You’re sulking because you missed a trick? For Christ’s sake, man, we’ve all done it. So you’ll get some slagging from the lads-Detective Perfect hitting a banana skin and going arse over tip, they’d want to be saints to turn down a chance like this. You’ll survive. Get a grip on yourself and don’t be giving me the big farewell speech.”

It wasn’t just that I had tainted everything I would ever touch-if this came out, then no solve with my name on it would be safe. It wasn’t just that I knew, somewhere deeper than logic, that I was going to lose the next case, and the next, and the one after that. It was that I was dangerous. Stepping over the line had come so easily, once there was no other way; so naturally. You can tell yourself as much as you want It was only this once, it’ll never happen again, this was different. There will always be another once-off, another special case that needs just one little step further. All it takes is that first tiny hole in the levee, so tiny it does no harm to anything. The water will find it. It will nose into the crack, pushing, eroding, mindless and ceaseless, until the levee you built collapses to dust and the whole sea comes roaring over you. The only chance to stop that is at the beginning.

I said, “It’s not a sulk, sir. When I ballsed up before, I took the slaggings; I didn’t enjoy it, but I survived. Maybe you’re right: maybe my nerve’s gone. All I can say is, this isn’t the right place for me any more.”

O’Kelly rolled his pen across his knuckles and watched me for what I wasn’t telling him. “You’d want to be bloody sure. If you have second thoughts once you’re gone, you’ve got no right to come back. Think about that. Think long and hard.”

“I will, sir. I won’t go until Jennifer Spain’s trial is over and done with.”

“Good. Meantime, I won’t say this to anyone else. Come back to me and tell me you’ve changed your mind, any time you like, and we’ll say no more about it.”

We both knew I wasn’t going to change my mind. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”

O’Kelly nodded. “You’re a good cop,” he said. “You picked the wrong case to fuck up, all right, but you’re a good cop. Don’t forget that.”

I took one last look at the office, before I closed the door behind me. The light was gentle on the massive green mug that O’Kelly has had since I joined the squad, on the golf trophies he keeps on his bookshelf, on the brass nameplate saying DET. SUPT. G. O’KELLY. I used to hope that that would be my office, someday. I had pictured it so many times: the framed photos of Laura and of Geri’s kids on my desk, my musty old criminology books on the shelves, maybe a bonsai tree or a little aquarium for tropical fish. Not that I was wishing O’Kelly gone, I wasn’t, but you need to keep your dreams vivid, or they’ll get lost along the way. That had been mine.

I got in my car and drove to Dina’s place. I tried her flat and all the other flats in her fleapit building, shoved my ID in the hairy losers’ faces: none of them had seen her in days. I tried four of her exes’ places, got everything from a slammed-down intercom to “When she shows, tell her to give me a call.” I went through every corner of Geri’s neighborhood, trying every pub where the lighted windows might have caught Dina’s eye, every green space that might have looked soothing. I tried my place, and all the nearby laneways where vile subhumans sell every vile thing they can get their hands on. I tried Dina’s phone, a couple of dozen times. I thought of trying Broken Harbor, but Dina can’t drive and it was too far for a taxi.

Instead I drove around the city center, leaning out of my car window to check the face of every girl I passed-it was a cold night, everyone wrapped tight in hats and scarves and hoods, a dozen times some slim graceful girl’s walk almost choked me with hope before I craned my neck far enough to catch a glimpse of her face. When a tiny dark girl with stilettos and a cigarette yelled at me to fuck off, I realized that it was after midnight, and what I looked like. I pulled in at the side of the road and sat there for a long time, listening to Dina’s voice mail and watching my breath turn to smoke in the cold of the car, before I could make myself give up and go home.

Sometime after three o’clock in the morning, when I had been lying in bed for a long time, I heard fumbling at the door of my apartment. After a few tries a key turned in the lock, and a band of whitish light from the corridor widened on my sitting-room floor. “Mikey?” Dina whispered.

I stayed still. The band of light shrank to nothing, and the door clicked closed. Careful steps across the floor, stage-tiptoeing; then her silhouette in my bedroom doorway, a slim condensation of blackness, swaying a little with uncertainty.

“Mikey,” she said, just above a whisper this time. “Are you awake?”

I closed my eyes and breathed evenly. After a while Dina sighed, a small exhausted sound like a child after a long day playing outside. “It’s raining,” she said, almost to herself.

I heard her sitting down on the floor and pulling off her boots, the thump of each of them on the laminate flooring. She climbed into bed beside me and pulled the duvet over us, tucking the edges in tight. She nudged her back against my chest, insistently, until I put my arm around her. Then she sighed again, snuggled her head deeper into the pillow and tucked the point of her coat collar into her mouth, ready for sleep.

All those hours Geri and I had spent asking her questions, over all those years, that was the one we had never been able to ask. Did you pull away, at the edge of the water, waves already wrapping round your ankles; did you twist your arm out of her warm fingers and run back, into the dark, into the hissing marram grass that closed around you and hid you tight from her calling? Or was that the last thing she did, before she stepped off that far edge: did she open her hand and let you go, did she scream to you to run, run? I could have asked, that night. I think Dina would have answered.

I listened to the small noises of her sucking on her collar, to her breathing slowing and deepening into sleep. She smelled of wild cold air, cigarettes and blackberries. Her coat was sodden with rain, soaking through my pajamas and chilling my skin. I lay still, looking into the dark and feeling her hair wet against my cheek, waiting for the dawn.