False Mermaid

1

While Nora was showering after their dip in the sea, Elizabeth crept downstairs to the kitchen, glad to have all that itchy salt off her skin. In her left hand was the seal doll she had stolen from the cottage, tucked under her shirt when Nora wasn’t looking. The black button eye stared back at her, unblinking. She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken it, except that the poor thing seemed to need looking after. She pushed the springy wool back into the open seam at the side of its head, feeling a little uneasy about her conversation with Nora at the cottage. Should she have said all those things about her mother? Her dad said it wasn’t a good idea to talk about the naps mama used to take. He said talking about it could get them all into trouble.

Cormac came in through the back door with a heavy box of provisions. Elizabeth drew back into a corner of the kitchen, dropping whatever it was she’d been holding. He stooped to pick it up—and recognized the seal poppet from the selkie cottage. He studied the creature for a minute before handing it back. “Is everything all right, Elizabeth? Where’s Nora?”

“Upstairs—taking a shower.”

“I’ve got a surprise,” Cormac said, hoping to put her at ease. “Something I hope you’ll find interesting.” Fishing in his box of groceries, he pulled out a flat brown paper bag. “Here’s the first thing we need,” he said. “And here’s the second.” Ducking into his father’s room, he brought out the fiddle case he’d found there earlier. He lifted the instrument from the case and set it on the table. “Can you see our trouble?”

Elizabeth looked closer. “No strings.”

“And that’s what we’re going to remedy, right now.” Elizabeth sat at the table, keeping the seal hidden on her lap as he took out his flute case as well.

“Did you and Nora get up to anything interesting while I was out?”

“We went to a beach. It had all these round stones—”

“Ah—I know the place you mean. It’s called Port na Rón. Rón is the Irish word for seal—like your friend there. ‘Port na Rón’ means ‘Seal Harbor.’ People say it used to be a great spot for smugglers and pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“I swear. Those round stones are called duirlings. Do you have any Irish?” Elizabeth shook her head. “Would you like to learn a bit?” Her answer was a noncommittal shrug. “All right, say somebody wanted to ask your name. They’d say: ‘Cad is ainm duit?’”

“Cahd iss AH-nim ditch.”

“Good. And you would answer, ‘Is mise Éilis’—‘I’m Elizabeth.’ Can you say that?”

“Iss missha AY-lish.”

“Excellent. Elizabeth was my mother’s name, too. But she always went by Éilis.”

Nora came through the door, with her hair still damp from the shower, and evidently surprised to see the instruments on the table between them. “Whose fiddle?”

Cormac looked up. “I found it in the wardrobe, and thought I’d try restringing it—with the help of my able assistant of course.” Elizabeth colored slightly, but kept twisting the fiddle string around her peg. “You’re just in time. We’re about to tune up and give it a go.”

“You don’t even play the fiddle—do you?”

“No—but you learn a few things, hanging around fiddle players.” He took up the flute and blew an A, and looked to Elizabeth to pluck the A string. He showed her how to use the fine tuners to match the note. When the strings were within range, Cormac picked up the fiddle and bowed each pair to check the intonation and handed the instrument to Elizabeth. “All right, your turn now. Let the neck rest in your hand, and tuck the chin rest just under here, like that.” He set the bow between her fingers. “You don’t have to hold it tight. Just relax, keep the wrist loose. Off you go.”

Elizabeth pulled the bow, and the top string made a deep groan.

“Good! Keep going. Just play with it.” He slid down the bench to join Nora, raising a hand to shield his voice from Elizabeth. “You’ll never guess who I met in the village just now—Garrett Devaney.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“He was in the pub. Here for the Fiddle Week with his daughter.”

“That’s strange. I tried to ring him on the way up here, but whoever answered—his wife, probably—said he wasn’t available. Now I know why. Did you speak to him?”

“Briefly. He invited me for a tune sometime. His daughter is about Elizabeth’s age—a nice player. He asked after you, by the way, but I told him you were gone home to the States. I wasn’t sure what else to say—the walls might have ears.”

“Do you think we could ask them for a tune here—right away, this evening? Frank Cordova—the detective back in Saint Paul—said he’d get in touch with the Guards, to see if he couldn’t get some help tracking Peter. We could ask Devaney to keep his ear to the ground, let us know if he hears anything.”

Cormac reached into his pocket and pulled out a beer mat with a mobile number scrawled in the margin. “Shall I say half-past six?”

Elizabeth was still tentatively trying out different notes on the fiddle. Her plaintive chords summoned up the singing of the seals he’d heard out rowing. Cormac looked down into Nora’s anxious face and offered a hopeful half smile. “What do you know about that? She might just take to it.”

2

In the end, after hours of interviews, Frank had to spring Truman Stark. The kid still wasn’t telling the whole truth, but there wasn’t enough to hold him—on any charge. And Frank wanted to start checking into Miranda Staunton. He had spent what was left of the night going back into the files for interview records. At the time, they’d seen only Miranda’s glancing connection with Tríona Hallett; her brother was engaged to Tríona’s sister. Miranda had been interviewed twice, and had made all the right noises, provided additional background. She hadn’t even been on their radar as a suspect. With Stark’s statement, all that had changed.

Miranda never mentioned that she was working at the Great Northern Trust Building at the time of Tríona Hallett’s murder. The actual event wasn’t until several months later, but she had been out doing the advance prep work in July. Nobody would have looked askance at her being in the neighborhood. But if she happened to see Tríona, or was actually following her, as Truman Stark claimed…

At ten past seven in the morning, Frank’s phone began to buzz. He dug through the blizzard of papers on his desk to find it. “Cordova here.”

“Holly Blume here, Detective. I think I have something you should see.”

Twenty minutes later, Frank was at the Herbarium, looking through the eyepiece of a microscope at the same shriveled shapes he’d seen at the crime lab.

“That’s the first of the two samples you brought me,” Holly said. “From the separate crime scenes. You wanted to know if we could say from the plant evidence whether any of the seeds or leaves in the two samples were from the same site—”

“And?”

“They are. I don’t know if you recognize those seeds—do you remember the plant Nora and I were talking about the last time you were here?”

“False mermaid—the seeds you identified from Tríona Hallett’s hair.”

“That’s right. Floerkea proserpinacoides.Both of the samples you brought me that day happened to contain Floerkea seeds. So did the third sample, the one you had sent over yesterday from the crime lab. Floerkea has some interesting and unusual properties. Part of the reason the species is so endangered here is that it produces very few seeds, usually only about four to twelve per stem. They’re quite large and heavy, for such a small plant, and they have no wings or hooks, or other features that help them disperse. In population terms, those things can pose a real problem. And to compound that, insects usually reject the seeds, because they contain toxic flavonol glycosides—in other words, they taste awful. What I’m trying to say is that Floerkea seeds don’t usually travel very far from their parent plant, not without help. I’m telling you all this as a prelude to the DNA results. I went down to the crime scene, collected additional samples for testing. To do the sort of test you needed, I first had to establish allele frequencies, which alleles are most common within the species, and which are more rare. Does that make sense so far?”

“I think so—go on.”

“I got some good data from a colleague who’s studied Floerkea in detail. The upshot is that the seeds from all three of your samples did come from the same parent plant. The DNA profiles are identical.”

Frank had to step back and think for a minute. This new evidence meant they could place Tríona Hallett, and the person who wore Harry Shaughnessy’s shoes, at Natalie Russo’s grave. It still didn’t tell them who’d killed Natalie, or Tríona, but it was a definite connection. Something to build upon, at long last.

“There was something else as well,” Holly said. “I don’t know if they showed you this at the crime lab.” She waved him over to an adjacent bench. “On this first scope, we’ve got Sample A—from the first crime scene sample you brought me.”

“The material combed from Tríona Hallett’s hair.”

“Next is Sample B, collected from your Hidden Falls crime scene. The third, C, is the most recent sample from the state crime lab, from the shoe treads. Take a look, and tell me what you see.”

Frank peered through each lens in turn. “They all look like the same sort of seed.”

“Yes—they’re all false mermaid. What else do you notice?”

“Samples A and C seem to be a slightly different color.”

“Very good. Some of the Floerkea seeds from your samples looked like they were coated in a foreign substance. I sent a few back to the crime lab, asked them to check. They just called back. That’s the second bit of information I have for you. The foreign substance turned out to be dried blood—”

“Which means the blood was fresh when the seeds were picked up. So whoever wore Harry Shaughnessy’s spare shoes could be a witness—or a killer.”

“You’re getting there, Detective—congratulations.”

“Thanks, Holly. I owe you for this. Big time.”

“Just doing my job. I’ll write up my results and get them over to you ASAP.”

Frank paused on his way out the door. “Can you hear that?”

Holly peered at him curiously. “Sorry—I don’t hear anything.”

“Listen carefully. It’s the sound of a cold case cracking wide open.”

3

Nora felt a moment of panic when the bell rang at half-past six. Cormac opened the door to Garrett Devaney, who proffered a bottle of red wine with an apologetic aside. “Only what was on offer at the pub, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll do nicely. Come in.” Cormac ushered Devaney and his daughter into the sitting room. The policeman’s face registered mild surprise when he saw Nora.

“Dr. Gavin,” he said. “Heard you were over in the States.”

“I just got back—and it’s Nora, please. This is my niece—”

“Éilis,” said Elizabeth. “Is mise Éilis.”

Nora had to mask her own surprise. She checked Devaney’s reaction. If he had heard anything official about a missing red-headed eleven-year-old, the policeman showed no sign of it, though he might have looked slightly askance at Elizabeth’s strange haircut.

“My daughter, Róisín,” he said.

Nora watched the two girls eye each other warily. How quickly children learned to take the measure of another person, she thought. Elizabeth seemed especially intrigued by the fact that Róisín carried her own fiddle case.

As they sat down to the table, Nora couldn’t help noticing the deference Garrett Devaney showed his daughter, in tiny, gentle ways—turning the spoon as he passed the potatoes, putting a word in her ear about which cut of the roast chicken might suit. Nora saw that Elizabeth couldn’t help noticing either.

After supper, they took advantage of the long summer daylight to walk over to Port na Rón, stopping at the top of the headland to enjoy the view. The evening was fine, and the rattle of the pebbles on the beach nearly drowned out the faint bluster of the wind. The two girls wandered off, leaving the adults at the top of the headland.

“I’m afraid we had an ulterior motive in asking you for dinner,” Nora said to Devaney. “I’ll just tell you straight out. The police may be looking for us—Elizabeth and me. She ran away from her father and stepmother when they arrived in Dublin on Friday—”

“Gave them the slip at the airport,” Cormac said. “Took a taxi straight to Nora’s apartment.”

“Only I wasn’t there; I’d gone back to the States last week. Fortunately, I have kind neighbors, who were able to look after her until I could fly over the next day.”

Devaney frowned. “Why did the child run away?”

Nora glanced at Cormac. “I think she found out about her mother. My sister Tríona was murdered—it happened five years ago. Elizabeth was too young to understand.”

“We think she may have discovered that her father is still the main suspect,” Cormac added.

Nora said: “He’s never been charged. Unfortunately, whenever we get a promising lead, it seems to evaporate. The point is that Elizabeth came to me for help, for protection. I can’t just let her go back—”

Cormac said: “There’s another possible wrinkle as well. Her father might claim that Nora abducted her. You see our predicament—”

Devaney rubbed his chin. “You haven’t spoken to anyone in the police over here?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Nora said. “The detective working the case at home said he would contact Garda headquarters and Interpol, let them know he had a murder suspect on the loose over here. My brother-in-law’s name is Hallett, by the way—Peter Hallett.”

“And so far as you know, nobody’s got him under obso?”

“No—not as far as we know. As I said, he arrived in Dublin on Friday, so he could be anywhere in the country by now.”

“And you don’t know if he’s filed a missing persons report?”

Nora shook her head. “I’m afraid we’re completely in the dark. We obviously couldn’t just phone up and ask. Frank Cordova, the detective back in the States, has been working on some new leads. A few things have just turned up in the past few days, but—”

“Still not enough to file charges?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Devaney pondered for a minute. “Well now, it seems to me your only choice is to dig in for a bit, at least until your detective can scare up more on those leads. He should get in touch with me directly, and I can shuttle him to the right person in the Serious Crimes Unit. In the meantime, I’ll work a few contacts, see what I can find out.”

“I’d be so grateful for any help. I should warn you—Peter Hallett is dangerous. He has a way of twisting things, turning everything around so that he looks like the victim, and anyone who dares to question him seems seriously disturbed. He made my sister seem completely mad—and he’s been trying to back me into that same corner for five years.”

The two girls had climbed to the top of the opposite promontory overlooking the harbor. Nora shaded her eyes to peer over at them.

Devaney’s voice was thoughtful. “Could Elizabeth know enough about her mother’s death to be in danger?”

“I don’t know. She was only six, and she was out of town with my parents at the time of Tríona’s murder.”

“Still, children see and hear things nobody else does. Especially true in domestic cases. But kids don’t want to be grassing on the other parent. Has she ever been interviewed by a social worker or counselor?”

“Her father wouldn’t allow it. He moved away after my sister’s death, so I’ve had no contact with Elizabeth for the past four years. Even now, I can’t get her to talk to me. I tried to ask this afternoon why she ran away, and do you know what she asked me? If everyone believed her dad was a murderer. She flatly denies that he had anything to do with my sister’s death.”

“Not uncommon, unfortunately. Sometimes it takes them a long time to figure things out. But she did come to you—that’s a good sign.”

Nora was remembering how Elizabeth fidgeted when pressed. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with children.”

Devaney offered a sympathetic wince. “My wife tells me to stop worrying and start listening—I think it’s very good advice.” He turned to Cormac. “Ready for that tune now?”

Back at the house after the excursion, Nora watched the musicians getting ready to play, Róisín taking a half-sized fiddle from her case while her father slid an amber cake of rosin up and down his bow, the rounded belly of his fiddle still dusty from the last application. When all was ready, the two fiddlers sat cradling their instruments, plucking absently at their strings, bows at the ready on the table. “Why don’t you and Róisín play something together to start us off?” Cormac suggested to Devaney. “Maybe the tune you were playing down at the pub this afternoon—‘The Pigeon on the Gate.’ That was a nice setting.”

Father and daughter exchanged a quick glance and launched into the tune, not too fast, not too slow, triplets slipping up and over the head of the melody like tiny snares, the low notes a throaty growl. Elizabeth seemed secretly impressed that someone her own age could just sit down and start playing an instrument. She couldn’t take her eyes off Róisín’s dancing fingers. When the two fiddles slipped easily into a second set of reels and Cormac picked up his flute to join in, Elizabeth’s eyes grew wider.

Nora thought about something a teetotaling friend had said to her once, as they were crushed in the crowded back room of a pub. I don’t drink myself, this friend had shouted in her ear over the din. But I like being where it is. That was what being near this music felt like, she thought. The tunes belonged to another realm, a separate world of which she was not really a part. She did not speak the language, and yet hearing these tunes was somehow essential, almost like nourishment. Elizabeth’s eyes were still on Róisín’s fiddle. Some people were susceptible to this music, and some were not. Elizabeth looked to be smitten.

“Shall we try a few Donegal tunes?” Cormac asked. “What about ‘The Gravel Walks’?” He began to play, leading them into a thicket of angular reels. There was definitely something different about the music in a place like this. Donegal had a reputation as a “gentle” place, where the veil between worlds was thin. Otherworldliness was simply fact here, like hearing music on the wind, or swimming with the souls of the drowned.

The evening passed quickly, but after a feast of excellent tunes, Róisín looked as if she might be tiring. Nora knew the evening was drawing to a close when she felt Cormac’s eyes upon her.

“Nora, would you ever give us a song?”

“I’m not in great form—”

He touched her hand. “Please, Nora.”

How was it possible to refuse? She closed her eyes and began:

There was a sudden commotion, and Nora opened her eyes to find that Elizabeth had risen from her chair and darted from the room.

“Excuse me,” Nora said to the others at the table. By the time she reached the upstairs bedroom, Elizabeth had managed to wedge herself in between the wardrobe and the wall, and was pressing her face into the cupboard as if wishing she might crawl behind it. Was it something in the song that set her off? She couldn’t possibly know the meaning of the words.

Nora crouched against the wardrobe. “Elizabeth, please tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Go—away—” Dry sobs came like short, involuntary howls. Cormac’s head appeared at the door, but Nora signaled him that she was all right, for the moment, and he retreated.

“Lizzabet, please don’t push me away.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Will you let me try?”

“You think—I ran away—because my dad—” Her voice slid up almost an octave. “He didn’t do anything. He’s my dad—I miss him.”

Nora felt yet again as if her heart would crack. “Why, then, Lizzabet? Why did you come to me?”

There was no answer for a moment but ragged sobs. When Elizabeth finally spoke, her voice sounded small and faraway. “Because of Miranda. She said she knew what I was up to. But I don’t know what she’s talking about—I’m not up to anything.”

“No, of course you’re not.”

“She said I was looking for attention. And maybe I was more like my mother than anybody knew. What was she talking about? Why does she have to be so mean?”

“Oh, Lizzabet. I don’t know.” Nora had inched close enough to reach into the gap between the wall and cupboard to stroke Elizabeth’s back. “I do know one true thing: your mama loved you more than anyone or anything else in the world. She has her arms around you right now, love. And she’s never letting go.”

4

It was after ten when Elizabeth finally drifted off. Nora returned to the kitchen to find Garrett Devaney and his daughter gone. The only illumination came from candles on the table and on the wide windowsills as Cormac finished the washing up. He set the last wineglass in the cupboard and brought out a package he’d evidently placed there earlier. He handed it to Nora, slightly embarrassed when she looked inside to find several extra heavy-duty door chains. “I thought it might be a good idea, but didn’t want to set off any alarm bells this afternoon.” He produced a screwdriver, and began marking the doorframe. “That song you started to sing tonight, ‘An Mhaighdean Mhara’—where did you get it?”

“I heard someone sing it at a competition once,” Nora said. She could still see the face of the young woman, whose name she couldn’t recall, standing alone before a restless crowd in a drafty school gymnasium. Little by little the crowd hushed as each person was drawn in. When the song finished, the girl calmly returned to her chair while the silence in the room gave way to shouts and crushing waves of applause.

“You know it’s a famous Donegal song.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“What made you sing it tonight?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because Tríona and I used to sing it together. That was a long time ago—I don’t think Elizabeth ever heard us.”

“You think it was the song that upset her?”

Nora crossed her arms and sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything.”

Cormac set down the door chain and came closer. “Nora, what’s wrong? What did Elizabeth say?”

“It’s everything that’s happened—yesterday, and this morning while you were away. We went over to Port na Rón to check out the caves, like you suggested. We never made it that far. We got as far as the beach. I got distracted for a moment, and when I turned around, Elizabeth was walking straight out into the water, like she was headed somewhere. I had to go in after her—”

“You don’t think she was trying to harm herself?”

“I don’t know, Cormac. I’m baffled. I just can’t seem to get through to her. I feel so unprepared for this, so inadequate.”

“You’re doing your best.”

“Elizabeth is having second thoughts about running away. Do you know what she told me upstairs? That it wasn’t her father she was running from—it was Miranda.” Cormac tried to step closer, but she put up a hand to keep him away. “What am I doing here? I shouldn’t be here.” She began to pace.

“Nora, what are you talking about?”

“All this time I’ve spent over here, these last three years, digging in bogs—it wasn’t what I should have been doing at all. I should have been at home. All the things we stumbled upon this week back in Saint Paul, they were there all along—”

“Nora, what’s got into you? This isn’t like you—”

“How do you know? Maybe this is the real me. And now—” She held up the door chain. “Now I’ve brought it all down on you, on Frank. His brother died, Cormac, but he’s still over there, working the case, because he doesn’t want to let me down. I’m the one who let everyone down. I keep thinking, ‘This time, we’ll get the evidence, we’re finally going to get down to the truth. This time, it’s going to work. It’s got to work.’ Well, what if it doesn’t? What if Peter gets Elizabeth back, and he manages to make everyone believe that I took her? It could happen—and if it does, it won’t just be a restraining order for me this time—I could actually go to jail for kidnapping.”

“Nora, let me help—”

“How? How can you help me? There are so many things I haven’t told you—”

“Tell me now.”

Nora had the feeling she was standing at the edge of a precipice. She was about to close her eyes and fall forward, and there was no parachute. She let Cormac settle her in a chair, and let out a long breath. “Nobody had any idea what was really going on. After Tríona was killed, all kinds of strange details started to surface, bit by bit. Most of it still doesn’t make any sense.” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “The first bizarre piece of evidence was a bottle of eyedrops found in Tríona’s purse. When the police analyzed the stuff in the bottle, they found it wasn’t eyedrops at all. It was a drug called GHB—”

Cormac shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

“It has all sorts of names—Grievous Bodily Harm, liquid ecstasy. One of the club drugs. I don’t know what they call it here. It was developed years ago as a presurgery anesthetic, until someone discovered how it could affect a person’s sexual appetite. Lots of people started to use it recreationally. When the police searched Tríona’s house, they found a dozen similar bottles stashed all over the place—all with her fingerprints on them.”

“You think she was using the stuff?”

“That’s what everyone assumed, but Tríona didn’t do drugs, Cormac. She wouldn’t. The thing is, GHB also induces amnesia—one capful, and you don’t remember a thing. It’s easy to slip into drinks, and gets metabolized very quickly—the cops will tell you, that’s what makes it the trickiest of the date rape drugs. I think Peter was giving it to her. I found a tape when I was home, a message Tríona left for me, about what to do if something happened to her. She says on the tape that there were hours, whole days, that she couldn’t remember. She didn’t know what was happening to her.”

“If she was being drugged, there must be some way to prove it.”

“The effects of GHB wear off as soon as it’s out of your system. There’s no way to prove she wasn’t taking it on her own. And the more I find out about what he did, the worse it gets.” Nora struggled to maintain control. “At first, Peter seemed horrified about the drugs. He told the police he was mystified, that their marriage was rock solid. He couldn’t imagine who had a motive to kill Tríona. But when they kept questioning him—”

“Let me try to help you, Nora. Please.”

“After several interviews, Peter broke down, and started telling stories about coming home from work and finding Tríona asleep, Elizabeth still in her pajamas. He told them that since the prior summer, Tríona had been going out at all hours, coming home with leaves in her hair, strange bruises, and no memory of where she’d been or what happened. He said for months he’d been at his wit’s end, wondering every night whether she’d come home at all. It was lies, Cormac, it had to be. That wasn’t Tríona—it just wasn’t. But he was so convincing—and there was no way to prove it hadn’t happened just as he described. When the police searched the house, they found not just the GHB, but the clothes as well—” She shut her eyes, trying to keep it together. “Tríona’s clothes, all torn and stained with dirt and—”

“What? Nora, tell me.”

She couldn’t speak above a whisper. “Biological substances—blood and semen. From multiple unknown donors, as the crime lab so delicately put it. Peter managed to make it look as if my sister had been neglecting her child, that she’d been going out and getting high, and screwing everything in sight—”

“So a murder could be down to her own risky behavior, and he looks perfectly innocent—”

“Not just innocent—saintly. You have no idea how devious he is. Destroying Tríona’s reputation wasn’t enough. He stole everything from her. She began to doubt who she was. She didn’t even know herself anymore. In her message on the tape, Tríona pointed me to some things she’d hidden away—a datebook, with certain days marked. I thought maybe those were the days she knew she’d been drugged. There were also some bloody clothes, and a whole raft of newspaper articles about a woman who’d gone missing a few weeks before. I think Peter murdered the other woman, and tried to make Tríona believe that she had done it. I think she woke up one morning covered in blood, with no idea what had happened. I think he set it all up, to make her believe she’d done something terrible. And some part of her believed it. She must have felt like she was losing her mind. But she didn’t get rid of the bloody clothes. She hung onto them, hid them away, told me where to find them. She’d been working, saving up money, and she sent Elizabeth away that weekend she was killed. I know she was walking out, Cormac, she was this close—”

“What stopped her?”

“I don’t know. All I know is what she said to me on the phone that night—”

“What did she say, Nora?”

“What I told you once before, that Peter seemed to get some strange pleasure from hurting her. I thought he was hitting her, but it turned out to be far worse than that. And—”

Cormac took her face between his hands. “Tell me, Nora, please.”

“She said that she had done things, too, unspeakable things—that she had lied and deceived everyone. That she had to find out the truth. The last thing she said was: ‘Isn’t it shocking, what you’ll do when you love someone?’”

“Oh, Nora—”

“She doubted herself more than she doubted him. That’s what drove her to the woods that night. It wasn’t the truth about Peter she was looking for, it was the truth about herself. She truly loved him, and he used that to destroy her. He goes on destroying her, in the eyes of her child, the eyes of the world. I can’t let him do it any longer. I won’t.”

“You’ve been carrying this alone, all these years?”

“Only one other person in the world ever knew as much as I’ve just told you.”

“Frank Cordova.”

“He was the only person who took me seriously—do you have any idea what it’s like, to be undermined and disbelieved for so many years? What it means to have one person stand by you? I didn’t mean for it to happen, that night with Frank. It was before I met you, Cormac. I just couldn’t go on—”

Cormac moved closer, but she pushed him away again. “Do you understand? I can’t—what we’ve had these past few months—I don’t deserve it, any of it. I should have listened to Tríona, I should have seen—”

But he moved in again, slowly, gently, folding her body into his. After a few moments, she stopped resisting and her head dropped forward, finally coming to rest against his chest.

Out beyond the harbor at Port na Rón, Ferghal O’Gara hit the switch to reel his nets in for the night. Another pitiful catch. He’d have to give it up, if things didn’t improve. But what would he do? Fishing was all he knew—the tides and banks, maneuvering a boat through rough seas, running the nets, negotiating a price for his catch—but it was all going by the wayside, with the corporate crowd taking everything over.

Ferghal didn’t allow himself to trust anything that operated on such a colossal scale. It was madness. Because when disasters came—for they had always come and always would—those disasters were on a colossal scale as well. All he wanted was to bring home enough to feed the children. Was that so much to ask? And maybe enough for the odd pint once in a while.

Once the nets were in, and the catch (what little there was) safely stowed, he started up the diesel engine and began motoring back to port. The moon was high and bright, and as he passed by the harbor at Port na Rón, he could see a disturbance in the water. Seals, dozens of them, calling out and splashing in the bay. What could have set them off? He’d never heard of killer whales hunting at night.

Ferghal cut his engine and stepped out onto the foredeck, listening to the eerie wailing, and remembering a story his grandfather had told him, about a group of men, a hundred years ago or more, out hunting seals in the caves below Port na Rón. One of the men had raised up his club to strike a pup when he heard the mother cry out in Irish: Mo pháistín, mo pháistín! My child, my child!

Ferghal himself was well used to the creatures—he’d practically been reared with them, always swimming around the boat looking for any fish that might escape his nets. He had to admit there was something about them, the way they looked up at you from the water, that expression in their eyes saying they knew and shared your deepest sorrows.

All at once, the sound of a single voice rose above the others.

Oro, mo pháistín! Oroo!

It carried like the voices of the old women he’d once heard at a wake, with their strange prayers and incantations. There was no more. He strained to listen, but the noise of the water and the wind in his ears made it impossible to tell if what he had heard was true, or only his imagination.

The boat heeled suddenly, as the broad back of a killer whale breached the water on his starboard side. Ferghal grasped the gunwale and scrambled to keep from falling back against the wheelhouse. As the huge predator glided by, he almost felt that if he could only reach out far enough, his fingers might brush against the creature’s high dorsal fin. But the whale moved on, and as it dived and disappeared, the white underside of its tail glowed briefly in the moonlight. The seals had fallen silent.

Ferghal shivered and switched the diesel engine back on. He’d have a mug of strong tea when he got home tonight, maybe a drop of something stronger. Then he’d go to bed, have a tumble with the wife, if he were lucky and she were willing. And he would never, ever tell anyone what he had seen and heard out here tonight, in case they would say he was mad.

5

Frank Cordova sat at his desk, trying to piece together all he knew about Miranda Staunton. She’d been spotted following Tríona Hallett around Lowertown, and if Truman Stark was telling the truth, she knew about the parking ramp security system. All the work they’d done to try to nail Peter Hallett, and now everything was beginning to point away from him and toward Miranda.

Frank glanced at his watch. Already after four, and he had to be down at the funeral home by six for a private family viewing before his brother’s wake. The phone at his elbow rang, and he picked up. “Cordova here.”

“Okay, here’s the lowdown on all those clothes you asked me to check.” Frank could heard Jackie Smart sorting through papers as she spoke. “The blood on the U of M tee shirt and shorts matched your vic from Hidden Falls, Natalie Russo. I got some wearer DNA from the inside as well, but the sample was pretty cross-contaminated—”

“Which means?”

“Just that more than one person seems to have worn them. At least one male, one female. Don’t ask me why. Still working on those profiles.”

So even though Tríona had possession of clothes worn by the person who likely killed Natalie Russo, they couldn’t prove she had worn them. They also couldn’t prove that she hadn’t. What mystery man would have worn Tríona Hallett’s clothes?

Jackie continued: “The DNA on your hit-and-run was pretty interesting, too. The newer bloodstains on the Galliard sweatshirt were a match to the accident victim, Harry Shaughnessy—no surprise there. The older stains were pretty degraded, but with amplification I was able to get a match to your cold-case vic—Tríona Hallett.”

Frank felt a flare of emotion. “That’s great, Jackie. I appreciate you turning everything around so fast—”

“I haven’t even come to the interesting part yet—the third DNA profile from inside the sweatshirt.” She shifted more papers. “I got Harry Shaughnessy’s DNA from the collar and cuffs—probably the only areas that ever made contact with his skin. But I got additional wearer DNA from inside the shirt. No hits against any forensic profiles or convicted offenders in the system. All I can say for sure at this point is that the other person who wore the clothes was female.”

“Female?”

“Yup. The fancy running shoes were the same; blood on the outside was a match to the same cold-case vic, Tríona Hallett. And inside, the same unknown female who wore the shirt.”

Cordova sank down into his chair. Peter Hallett was slipping away from them—again. “You’re absolutely positive it’s a female?”

“As positive as any forensic scientist will admit to being. Sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear. Since we got no hits in the database, it’s going to be tough to find out who our mystery woman is—unless you have some idea.”

“I might.”

“We’d need a known sample to run a comparison.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He hung up the phone. Another round of evidence pointing to Miranda Staunton. There was also her direct link with Natalie Russo, through the rowing club. A strong rower like Miranda must have good upper body strength—enough to render a human face unrecognizable? And where was he going to get a known sample from Miranda Staunton? Frank let his memory travel back to the last time he’d seen her—in the rowing club locker room. He picked up the phone.

When Sarah Cates met him at the door of the boathouse thirty minutes later, she was dressed not in workout gear, as he’d expected, but in a dark blue-green suit that set off the color of her eyes. “Welcome back, Detective. What can I do for you this time?”

“I need to get into the women’s locker room again.”

Sarah Cates led the way, again making sure the coast was clear before bringing Frank inside the locker room. He made a beeline for the bench where he’d seen Miranda lacing up those odd-looking shoes. Sliding an evidence envelope from his pocket, he opened his penknife and crouched down beside the bench. There it was, the wad of chewing gum Miranda had stuck on the underside of the plank two days ago. He prized the gum loose and let it drop into the envelope.

Sarah Cates spoke behind him. “I have a question, when you’re finished there.”

“Done,” Frank said, climbing to his feet. “What’s your question?”

“You asked me before if anyone might have resented Natalie’s ability—”

“You said you couldn’t think of anyone.”

“But the question got me thinking. The finals were screwy at one of our big races that year. There was some controversy about handicapping. I don’t even remember what the disagreement was about; I just know the person who took second thought she should have won. The judges’ decision was final. She was pretty steamed—”

“Who are we talking about?”

“You asked me if I knew her last time you were here—Miranda Staunton.”

“You mentioned that she joined the club right after college.”

“And we were lucky to have her. Galliard had a great rowing program—really top class.”

6

At six-thirty, Frank Cordova stood looking down into the casket at his brother’s face. Composed, expressionless—completely unlike the way it had been when he was alive. Frank touched Chago’s cheek, knowing it would be cold, but he was surprised nonetheless. Like a wax figure, a puppet. Not the real Chago. He knew Veronica and Luis were worried that he might lose it again, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. Chago was beyond anyone’s help now. He wished he could believe what Veronica said, that Chago was with their mother in heaven now, that there was a reward for those who had suffered, but he could not believe it. He had tried.

Frank turned away and sat down in the back row of chairs, watching his sister greet the mourners at the door. She saw him sitting, and came to rest her feet beside him. As a boy, he had thought her the most beautiful of his sisters, and she still was. A little extra bulk around the middle now proclaimed her age, but Veronica’s hands and feet had always been small and delicate, and her face remained as lovely as ever. He could see the worry in her eyes.

“I’m all right, Noni. I won’t make any trouble.”

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about, Paco.” She put an arm around him and squeezed his hand. “We never knew it was so bad for you and Chago, I swear. We never would have left, Mila and Luisa and I, but we needed those jobs at the luggage factory up here. We didn’t know how bad things were back home. Mami always wanted to bring you here, you and Chago, to have a better life, I know she did, but she couldn’t leave Papi. She knew he had the spirit sickness. She even brought in the healer, the curandero—”

“The old man in white? I thought he came for Chago.”

“No, for Papi. You were too young to understand, Paco. We didn’t know how much you would remember, how much of it you or Chago would even understand. He didn’t know what he was doing, Paco, it was the sickness inside him, the spirit sickness. He never would have hurt Mami like that, I know.” She laid a hand on his chest. “You may look like him, Paco, but you are not Papi. Do you hear me? You must never worry about that.”

He looked up at Chago’s composed face in the casket, and a kind of effervescence began to rise up inside him. Everything in his life up to now had been part of a confusing dream. Now that Chago was gone, he could begin to wash off the dust, to unwind the jagged wire that had lashed them together all these years. Veronica’s voice broke in beside him. “Paco, your phone is buzzing.”

He pulled it out, and stared at the unfamiliar number. “I’m sorry, Noni. I have to take this—”

“Go,” she said. “Chago knows you love him. Go.”

Frank stepped out onto the veranda. As he closed the door behind him, he thought he glimpsed a figure in a blue-green suit at the front door of the funeral home. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Frank Cordova.”

“Detective Cordova? Gordon MacLeish, Maine State Police—retired. I heard you were looking for information about an old case of mine.”

“That’s right. The Nash murders.”

“How much do you know about the case?”

“Not a lot, just what was in the papers—that the Nashes were killed on board their boat, and the son’s friend confessed to it—”

“That’s right—Jesse Benoit. All the physical evidence pointed to him—”

Frank sensed a hesitation. “But?”

“Well, Jesse never gave any reason for the murders. After he was sent down to Augusta—that’s our state mental hospital—his mother came to me and claimed he couldn’t have planned and carried out a double murder, not on his own. She said he was her son and she loved him, but he was easily led. She thought Tripp Nash put him up to it, planned the whole thing.”

“How did she figure?”

“After he went down to Augusta, Jesse told his mother why he’d killed the Nashes. He said it was for Tripp. Years before, Harris Nash had discovered the two of them fooling around with makeup, trying on Connie Nash’s clothes. And according to Jesse, Nash threatened Tripp if the boy didn’t perform certain… services for him. Jesse claimed Connie knew, and did nothing, just kept herself medicated with booze and tried not to think about it. Jesse’s mother said her kid couldn’t stand seeing his friend used like that any longer.”

“Why hadn’t he said anything earlier?”

“He said Tripp begged him not to tell anyone about their little dress-up adventures. Jesse’s mother claimed that he had never lied. She said he might hear voices, or think he was a bird sometimes, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth. I believed her, but before I could arrange to talk to Jesse, he’d managed to hang himself from one of the windows in his room. I went back to the Nash kid. He swore up and down there’d never been any cross-dressing or sexual abuse, that Jesse must have made the whole thing up.”

“And nobody but himself left to argue.”

“Exactly. It smelled rotten, but we didn’t have a scrap of physical evidence to tie Tripp Nash to the murders. I kept at him, tried to wear him down, see if he wouldn’t slip somewhere. After about six months, he said he felt like he could trust me.” Frank could hear MacLeish shaking his head, remembering.

“What did he tell you?”

“That he and Jesse had been best friends since they were kids, but in the past year, Jesse had started to ‘act strange.’ That was the way he put it. When I asked for examples, he said Jesse got jealous if he talked about any of the girls he’d met at boarding school. That made him uncomfortable, so he’d tried to ease things off, but that just made the situation worse.”

“How?”

“He said Jesse got upset, started to make threats against him and his family. All my years in law enforcement, and I swear I’ve never met such a convincing liar. He knew exactly how to play it, how far to push—the kid was only seventeen, but he’d figured all the angles. He knew I couldn’t touch him, and he was right.”

“So you think it was murder by proxy?”

“I’d stake my life on it. I never told anybody this, but I used to drive down to his college, park at the edge of campus and just sit in the car—out in the open, where he could see me, wondering if he had the nerve to try something right under my nose. He never did—way too smart for that. I lost track of him after he left college. But you know what it’s like—there’s always one case that gets stuck in your head. I’m retired eight years now, but I still flip through my notes on the Nash case every once in a while, just in case something might pop. And I have to tell you, I’ve kind of been expecting this call. The last time I talked to Jesse’s mother—must be at least five years ago now—she told me she’d finally found Tripp Nash. After all this time. But before I could get the details, she died.”

“What happened?”

“Heart attack. I tried to find out what she knew, but she was living in a halfway house in Portland by then. They’d pitched her stuff by the time I got the news that she was dead. I’m curious—what’s any of this got to do with your case?”

“I’m not really sure. We found an article about the Nash case in with a bunch of newspaper clips about one of our victims, Natalie Russo. Does that name ring a bell?”

“Not really.”

“There was a note in with the clips as well. Addressed to our suspect. Unsigned. ‘You’re gonna pay. For what you did.’ Postmarked in Portland, Maine.”

“And what’s your suspect’s name?”

“Hallett. Peter Hallett.”

MacLeish cursed on the other end of the phone—softly, but vehemently. “Connie Nash was Tripp’s aunt—his father’s sister. The kid’s maternal grandfather became his legal guardian after the parents were killed in a car crash, but the old man never paid much attention to him, so Connie and her husband took the boy in. He went by Nash when he lived with them, but there was never any legal adoption process. And Tripp was just a nickname. The kid’s real name was—”

“Don’t tell me,” Frank said. “Peter Hallett.” Now it was his turn to swear. He filled MacLeish in on Tríona’s murder, the discovery of Natalie Russo’s body at the river, how they hadn’t been able to establish a connection between Hallett and the first victim. “We’re convinced he was involved, but all the physical evidence so far points to the killer in both cases being female.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You know what does? That he had no handy scapegoat waiting in the wings for his wife’s murder, nobody conveniently lined up to take the fall. Tripp Nash, Peter Hallett, call him whatever you like, he doesn’t do anything for himself. Doesn’t have to. You want my advice? Look around. Your killer’s got to be someone close to him, somebody like Jesse Benoit—prone to jealousy, easily led. Somebody who believes Hallett’s been ill-treated, abused.” MacLeish was silent for a moment. “He’s just going to keep at it, isn’t he? Until somebody stops him.”

7

The following morning, while Cormac was on his daily visit to the hospital, Nora and Elizabeth set out again for the caves at Port na Rón. The clouds from the previous day had given way to clear blue overhead, but beneath the open vault of sky, a thick mist rolled in on the sea’s glassy surface. The mist had the strange effect of altering distance, of making the small islands in the cove seem to loom close, and then recede. At times it was only a thin veil, and other times it appeared amazingly solid, looking for all the world like a footbridge upon which a person might walk straight out to the rocky crags in the harbor.

They bypassed the beach this time, and crossed over to the far side of the bay beyond the fisherman’s cottage. The caves were more easily accessible from water than from land. Nora led the way as they climbed down between the rocks. As they drew closer, the smell of salt and seaweed mingled with a distinctive animal scent. These caves were a rookery, Cormac had said—a birthing place for seals, where they came for rest and respite during their most vulnerable time. Nora moved forward into the cave, imagining the floor carpeted with warm bodies, white pups nursing at their mothers’ breasts. Cormac had assured her that seal breeding season wasn’t until the autumn, a few weeks away, and that they could stay here if need be without interfering with the annual migration.

While Elizabeth’s back was turned, Nora removed a bundle of candles, batteries, and food from her pack, and stashed it in a cleft in the rocks. She turned to see Elizabeth crouched and staring at the floor of the cave.

“Look,” Elizabeth said, as Nora approached, pointing to a shallow indentation in the rocks at her feet. “What do you think it is?”

The dishlike depression was splashed with deep crimson. Blood—it had to be. Some creature had been injured here.

Nora heard the soft sound of breathing, and looked up to find herself and Elizabeth observed from the cave’s opening by a spotted gray seal. One of the animal’s eyes was damaged; the side of its head bore a star-shaped scar. It was very like the creature they’d seen down the road at Bruckless. Not completely inconceivable—seals migrated long distances, looking for food. Still, it was odd.

“Lizzabet,” Nora said. She kept her voice calm, hoping not to startle the animal. “Here’s your friend again.”

Elizabeth turned slowly, her eyes widening at the sight of the unexpected intruder. The seal’s fleshy body was draped across the threshold of the cave, and its single dark eye glinted as it looked to each of them in turn. Nora realized she had never been so close to a wild creature, at least never one so large as this seal. She studied the fine white eyebrow whiskers that lent it a look of perpetual wonder. There was a gash in the seal’s fleshy neck—perhaps that’s where the blood had come from. The creature made a soft snuffling sound, and then opened its mouth, exposing teeth and tongue, and let out a bawl that sounded unnaturally loud inside the cave.

“What do you suppose it wants?” Nora asked.

As if in answer to her question, the seal began to shuffle in reverse. Once outside the cave, the animal heaved its bulk to one side, casting a glance back at them with its good right eye.

“She wants us to follow her,” Elizabeth said.

The seal led them down to the water’s edge and along the edge of the beach, turning to check every few seconds, as if to make sure they were still in pursuit. At the end of the rocky alcove, the seal galloped out into the rippling waves and dived, immediately transformed from lumbering beast to sleek bullet—the webbed flippers, useless on land, now marvelously graceful in that watery world. Then it was gone, leaving only widening circles in its wake.

Elizabeth stood staring out at the water, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of a glossy head, while Nora’s attention was pulled to a gleaming cabin cruiser tied up at the near side of the concrete pier. She hadn’t heard a boat approaching, but the thick mist and the sound of the rolling stones might have been enough to mask any engine noise. Or it might have been there all along. Small waves rocked the white hull gently from side to side. No one seemed to be aboard.

Nora felt a cold chill down her arms. She climbed the hill where the pier was attached to the harbor side, and Elizabeth followed. Before venturing out onto the narrow concrete jetty, she turned. “Stay right there, Lizzabet. Don’t move.”

The boat was twenty-five feet at least, with a cabin belowdecks and a powerful inboard motor that wouldn’t have made a lot of noise coming in. Why had someone just abandoned it here? She glanced back at Elizabeth and reached for the walkie-talkie, hoping she remembered Cormac’s instructions on how to work it.

“Cormac—come in. Are you there?” She crept closer to the boat, expecting a head to emerge any moment from below.

His voice came crackling through the speaker. “What’s happening, Nora? Where are you?”

“At Port na Rón. There’s a boat tied up at the pier, but I can’t see anyone around. You haven’t heard from Devaney?”

“No. Maybe you should head back to the house—”

“I’m going to see if anyone’s below.”

“Nora, don’t—”

His voice cut out as she clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt, and started down the ladder at the side of the pier. “Stay there,” she called to Elizabeth. “I’ll be right back.”

Down on the level with the boat, she vaulted onto the deck over the gunwale. A pair of sunglasses lay on the ledge above the wheel, but there were no other obvious signs of occupancy. No keys in the ignition. She called down into the cabin through the open hatch door. “Hello—anyone here?” No answer. She unclipped the walkie-talkie and pressed the button to speak. “Cormac, are you still there?”

“What’s happening? Is everything all right?”

“There’s no one on the boat. Nobody around at all. It’s odd.”

“Listen, I’m coming up to Kilcar, and I’m calling Devaney right now. Will you please get out of there? Let me know as soon as you get back to the house.”

“I will—I promise.”

She clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt again and climbed up the ladder, stopping short at the sight that greeted her. Elizabeth stood at the far end of the pier, arms pinned behind her back. The person who held her was Miranda Staunton—the new Mrs. Hallett.

8

Miranda offered a chilly smile. “What’s the matter, Nora—not the person you expected? Take a step closer, and I’ll break her arms. Don’t tempt me.” Elizabeth caught a sharp breath as Miranda tugged at her elbows.

Nora raised her right hand, signaling her niece to keep still, while her left hand inched closer to the walkie-talkie at her waist. Miranda’s icy voice stopped her: “No, you don’t—drop it.”

There was no choice. Nora slid her thumb across the “talk” button as she lifted the walkie-talkie from her belt, and Cormac’s voice sounded through hissing static. “Nora? Nora—are you there?”

Miranda shook her head. “Too bad you can’t answer. Now kick that thing into the water. Do it!”

Nora tried nudging the walkie-talkie with her foot, hoping she could get it to land on the lower pier, but the rubber casing that rendered the bloody thing indestructible also made it bounce. The walkie-talkie landed in the water with a loud plop.

Miranda began to edge up the side of the ridge above the pier, keeping her eyes on Nora, and Elizabeth in front of her. Nora’s mind raced. If she could just buy some time—

“How on earth did you find us?”

Miranda fumbled for Elizabeth’s backpack and held up a small disk attached to the zipper. “The wonders of modern technology—a GPS kid tracker. Turn-by-turn directions at the touch of a BlackBerry.”

“And you think Peter will be grateful when you bring Elizabeth back, is that it?”

Miranda’s voice was steel: “I didn’t come here to bring her back.” She continued: “Whose idea do you think it was to drag her along in the first place? Her father was going to leave her in Saint Paul. Of course the original plan didn’t include you, but now that we’re all here, I’m thinking this might actually work out for the best. The tragedy will just be compounded. Elizabeth will have an unfortunate accident, trying to escape from her kidnapper—that’s you—and then, in a fit of remorse, you’ll throw yourself onto the rocks. Or maybe you’ll just lose your footing—I haven’t decided. Sometimes it’s better to let things develop naturally.” She continued climbing backward up the hill, pulling Elizabeth along. The ground beneath their feet grew steeper with every step.

Nora knew she had to keep Miranda talking if they were to have any chance at all. “How can you think you’ll get away with this?”

Miranda stopped and beamed with malicious satisfaction. “You mean, besides the fact that I’ve gotten away with everything so far? Including your precious sister—”

Nora watched Elizabeth’s lips move soundlessly: Mama.

“You’re telling me Peter had nothing to do with Tríona’s death?”

“When are you going to get it through your thick skull, Nora? Peter couldn’t hurt a fly—that’s always been his problem. Fortunately, it’s a fault I’m willing to overlook.”

“You put that bottle under my brake pedal.”

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t ruin everything. For Chrissake, Nora, you left the car unlocked. It was practically an invitation.”

“And Natalie Russo? What about her?”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? I knew there’d be trouble when somebody found poor Natalie. It was bound to happen. I just hoped I’d be far away by then. Thought she could knock me out of the trials—”

Miranda was approaching the top of the crag. She stood for a moment, slightly winded, still pinning Elizabeth’s arms behind her back.

“I don’t know how Tríona found out about Natalie, but she did. And she was going to make me pay. You have this idea that she was so perfect, but you don’t know what she was up to—the drugs, going down to the river, screwing her brains out every night. Did you know she threatened to accuse Peter of child abuse if she didn’t get what she wanted? She was planning to take him to the cleaners in the divorce. You have no idea what she was capable of.”

“You sent the note—to get her to meet you out in the woods that night.”

“What do you mean? She was the one who sent me a note about meeting at Hidden Falls.”

“What did you do with it?”

“With what?”

“The note, Miranda—what did you do with the note?”

“I stuck it in my pocket. What does it matter?”

Nora’s thoughts raced. The Galliard sweatshirt—it never belonged to Peter, it was Miranda’s. She’d dumped it after killing Tríona. But there were two notes, one in Harry Shaughnessy’s sweatshirt pocket and one Sotharith the fisherman picked up in the woods. Miranda thought Tríona had sent her the note, trying to blackmail her about Natalie—but Tríona had received an identical note, telling her to go to Hidden Falls, the place where she believed that she had killed Natalie—all at once, the horror of it began to crystallize.

Miranda was just a murder weapon, the blunt instrument Peter Hallett had wielded from a distance. The deviousness, the cunning of his plan almost took her breath away. But she had to speak. “I know how long you’ve loved him, Miranda. Since the beginning, long before he ever met Tríona. Peter knew it, too. He’s been taking advantage of you, using you this whole time. Did you never wonder why he changed? Why, after so many years of indifference, he suddenly took an interest in you? Because you were useful. You could solve a problem for him. I suppose he broke down a few times about Tríona, all the suffering she’d put him through. He depended on you—if only she were out of the way, he’d finally belong to you. But what’s going to happen when you become the problem, Miranda? Because sooner or later, you will. And you’ll disappear, just like my sister. You think he hasn’t got it all worked out? He’s way ahead of you, Miranda. He’s been ahead of us all for years.”

“Be quiet.”

“He lied about Tríona. Nothing he told you about her was true. He made up all kinds of outrageous stories to egg you on. Somehow he knew about Natalie—maybe he was out running when he saw you attack her at the river. That was when he knew he could use you. He took the clothes you dumped that morning and put Natalie’s blood all over Tríona. Convinced her that she had something to do with Natalie’s murder. He sent her a note that said, I know what you did. The same as the note he sent you. All he had to do then was to sit back and watch. Tríona went to the river that night because she was terrified that she had killed Natalie. Because he’d taken away her self-respect. He made her believe it. Peter has been watching you, and using you for years, Miranda. Can’t you see that?”

Miranda’s voice was cold. “I told you to stop talking.” She pulled a flare gun from her waistband and pointed it at Elizabeth’s head. “Not another word.”

They continued to edge upward, and Miranda’s foothold on the small ridges grew increasingly precarious. Nora stayed silent. She forced herself to keep from focusing on the muzzle pressed to Elizabeth’s temple, and looked instead into the child’s frightened eyes. Don’t speak, Lizzabet, she urged silently. Keep still—

Without warning, Miranda’s right foot went from under her. This was their only chance.

Seizing Elizabeth by the hand, Nora pushed the child ahead of her, shouting: “Keep going up! Don’t look down, just keep going. Go!” She followed, feeling for footholds, struggling to keep from slipping down the steep incline. As a cloud of mist began to envelop the headland, Nora knew that Miranda was close behind, but the only sounds she could hear were her own ragged breathing and the pulse of the surf below.

After a few seconds, she felt Miranda’s fingers grasp at her ankle. “Keep going,” she urged Elizabeth. “Don’t stop!” Giving a sharp thrust downward, Nora heard a cry as her foot made contact with some part of Miranda’s body. “Not much farther,” she shouted upward again. “Keep going. Can you see the top?”

Through the mist she saw a pair of legs cantilever out for a few seconds, and then disappear from view. “Run back to the house, Elizabeth. Find Cormac.”

Reaching the top a few seconds later, Nora heaved herself up over the edge and staggered to her feet, scrabbling up the gravel wash where Elizabeth had fled. She hadn’t gone more than ten yards when Miranda tackled her from behind. They rolled down the steep incline, until Nora’s head and arms dangled over the edge. The wind had come up, and now waves below churned violently.

9

Nora was pinned, with Miranda astride her, holding a stone in both hands above her head. She grabbed for Miranda’s wrists, trying to keep the deadly weapon at arm’s length. They struggled, and finally, with a sharp twist, Nora pushed Miranda aside and scrambled to her feet. She raced for the top of the hill, but again Miranda came from behind and lunged at her, sending them both sprawling down the rocky bed of scree. They struggled to their feet, hanging on to one another, banged up and breathing heavily, like grapplers in a ring. A voice sounded above them: “Miranda—what are you doing?”

They both looked up to see Peter at the top of the ridge. He came skidding down the loose stones, nearly losing his balance. “What’s going on?”

Nora knew she only had one more chance. She took Miranda by the shoulders. “Tell me—do you ever wake up and not remember what happened?”

Peter cut in: “Miranda, don’t listen to that—”

But Nora could see that her question had struck home, and she kept talking. “How many times has it happened? Once, twice—more? That’s GHB—liquid ecstasy—you can’t remember anything. He’s already turned on you, Miranda. Just like he turned on Tríona.”

“That’s a lie, Miranda. You know how she twists everything—” Peter began to inch forward, but Miranda raised a hand to warn him off.

“Shut up—just shut up, both of you!”

No one spoke. Nora’s left foot, bracing against the rim of the precipice, began to tremble. She glanced down as a few small pebbles tumbled off the edge and disappeared.

Miranda spoke: “That stuff—how does it make you feel?”

“Ready to fuck anything. And then it makes you sleep—”

Peter had begun to edge closer. Nora looked into his eyes and saw the same expression she’d seen there the morning after Tríona’s murder. He was perfectly calm. A person might even imagine that he was enjoying himself. And why shouldn’t he, when his two biggest troubles were about to take care of each other? He didn’t have to lift a finger, and he was about to triumph yet again.

Nora suddenly stopped struggling. She felt so outrageously tired. “Go ahead,” she said to Miranda. “Push me. See what happens. He’ll tell the police he tried to stop you. You’ll go down for murder, and he’ll be rid of us both. That’s what he really wants.” She started to pull Miranda closer to the edge. “It would be even more convenient if we went down together.” Miranda’s feet were skidding along the gravel bed as Nora pulled her along.

“Peter—help me! She’s trying to kill me!”

But Peter kept his distance, as Nora knew he would. “Miranda, don’t try anything foolish.”

Nora could see the fear in Miranda’s eyes. “He wants you to try something foolish, don’t you see? That’s exactly what he wants. Whatever happens here, he’s sitting pretty, rid of us both—just like that.”

All at once, something happened that Nora had not anticipated. Elizabeth slid down the gravel wash, shouting, “Stop it, stop it—all of you!” She began to flail with both fists against Miranda’s back. “Leave her alone! Leave Nora alone!”

Before anyone could stop her, Miranda reacted. She whirled around and gave a savage kick, and Elizabeth’s arms and legs seemed to windmill in slow motion as she sailed off the edge of the precipice. All Nora could see were the luminous eyes, so like Tríona’s, wide with terror. Then she was gone.

Miranda gave a short, mirthless laugh. And in that moment, a transformation came over Peter. His face, so relaxed and calm only a moment ago, was suddenly drained of color. He took two steps forward, seized Miranda savagely by the throat, and pushed her to the ground. His left hand searched blindly in the gravel for a stone heavy enough to crush her skull. His voice was quiet, toneless, as if he were berating a disobedient dog. “You crazy, stupid bitch—I told you to stay away from her. I told you she was only a kid—”

By the time Nora spotted the orange flare gun, it was too late to react. All she could do was watch as Miranda lifted the muzzle to Peter’s face and pulled the trigger.

There was a flash as the flare exploded, and Nora fell back, watching in horror as he half rose and staggered back a step, dazed and disoriented, head engulfed in flames, his right hand still gripping the stone. The flare cartridge, lodged in his right eye, released a coruscating hail of sparks.

Miranda threw herself at him and began to shriek: “I didn’t mean to—look what you made me do!” He roared in pain, and tried to fight her off, but she clung fiercely. They thrashed about, engulfed in a terrible rain of fire, before tumbling together into the sea.

Nora scrambled to the rim, but all she could see was a small spot of flame, glowing red under the water at the bottom of the cliff.

Cormac’s voice came from the top of the ridge. “Nora!” He scrambled down the gravel wash. “What’s happened here? Where’s Elizabeth?”

She pointed wordlessly, and Cormac craned his neck over the edge. “I don’t see her. She’s not there.”

“But I saw it—I watched her fall.”

“Come on,” he said. He pulled her to her feet, and they both scrambled down the steep slope to the rocky beach.

Standing at the water’s edge, Nora spotted something floating on the surface a short distance away—what seemed like a human form, strangely buoyant. It was not possible. She closed her eyes and opened them again. It was.

Elizabeth floated, face up in the shallow surf, tangled in a raft of seaweed. Nora waded out and ran her hands over the child’s slack limbs, feeling for fractures. There seemed to be none. A few scratches and scrapes, but no other outward signs of injury. How could that be? A faint snuffling noise made her turn, just in time to catch sight of a gray seal retreating into the waves. The animal turned to face her, one good eye clearly visible. It let out a single, plaintive bark before plunging into the surf.

Nora sank to her knees in the lapping water, cradling Elizabeth and smoothing her still-ragged hair. Suddenly Cormac was beside her, sinking down to catch the two of them in his arms, murmuring: “Ah no, please—”

Nora looked down at the smooth, insensible face of the child in her arms, then reached up to touch his face. “No, Cormac—she’s alive. She lives.”