The Likeness

12

The next evening, after dinner, I went fishing in Uncle Simon’s epic masterpiece for information about a dead Glenskehy girl. It would have been a lot simpler to do this on my own, but that would have meant throwing a sickie from college, and I didn’t want to worry the others unless I really needed to; so Rafe and Daniel and I were sitting on the spare-room floor, with the Marches’ family tree spread out between us. Abby and Justin were downstairs, playing piquet.

The family tree was a huge sheet of thick, tattered paper covered with a wild variety of handwritings, from delicate, browning ink at the top—James March, born ca. 1598, m. Elizabeth Kempe 1619—to Uncle Simon’s spider scrawl at the bottom: Edward Thomas Hanrahan, born 1975, and last of all Daniel James March, born 1979. “This is the only thing in this room that’s intelligible,” Daniel said, picking a bit of cobweb off the corner, “presumably because Simon didn’t write it himself. The rest… we can try having a look, Lexie, if you’re really that interested, but as far as I can tell he wrote most of it when he was very, very drunk.”

“Hey,” I said, leaning over to point. “There’s your William. The black sheep.”

“William Edward March,” Daniel said, putting a finger gently on the name. “Born 1894, died 1983. Yes; that’s him. I wonder where he ended up.” William was one of only a handful that had made it past forty. Sam had been right, the Marches died young.

“Let’s see if we can find him in here,” I said, pulling a box towards me. “I’m getting curious about this guy. I want to know what the big scandal was.”

“Girls,” Rafe said loftily, “always sniffing for gossip,” but he reached for another box.

Daniel was right, most of the saga was almost illegible—Uncle Simon went in for lots of underlining and no space between lines, Victorian-style. I didn’t need to read it; I was only scanning for the tall curves of a capital W and M. I’m not sure what I was hoping we’d find. Nothing, maybe; or something that whacked the Rathowen story right out of court, proved that the girl had moved to London with her baby and set up a successful dressmaking business and lived happily ever after.

Downstairs I could hear Justin saying something and Abby laughing, faint and faraway. The three of us didn’t talk; the only sound was the soft, steady rustle of paper. The room was cool and dim, a blurred moon hanging outside the window, and the pages left a dry film of dust on my fingers.

“Oh, here we go,” Rafe said suddenly. “ ‘William March was the subject of much unjust and—sensational?—something, which finally cost him both his health and…’ Jesus, Daniel. Your uncle must have been trolleyed. Is this even in English?”

“Let me see,” Daniel said, leaning across to look. “ ‘Both his health and his rightful place in society,’ I think.” He took the sheaf of pages from Rafe and pushed his glasses up his nose. “ ‘The facts,’ ” he read slowly, running a finger under the line, “ ‘stripped of rumormongering, are as follows: from 1914 through 1915 William March served in the Great War, where he’—that has to be ‘acquitted’—‘himself well, later being awarded the Military Cross for his acts of bravery. This alone should—something—all low gossip. In 1915 William March was discharged, suffering from a shrapnel wound to the shoulder and from severe shell-shock—’ ”

“Post-traumatic stress,” Rafe said. He was leaning back against the wall, hands behind his head, to listen. “Poor bastard.”

“I can’t read this bit,” Daniel said. “Something about what he had seen—in battle, I assume; that word’s ‘cruel.’ Then it says: ‘He dissolved his engagement to Miss Alice West and took no part in the amusements of his set, preferring to spend his time among the common people of Glenskehy village, much to the anxiety of all parties. All concerned realized that this’—unnatural, I think—‘connection could not have a happy result.’ ”

“Snobs,” said Rafe.

“Look who’s talking,” I said, scooting across the floor to rest my chin on Daniel’s shoulder and try to make out the words. So far, no surprises, but I knew—could not have a happy result—this was it.

“ ‘About this time,’ ” Daniel read, tilting the page so I could see, “ ‘a young girl of the village found herself in an unfortunate situation, and named William March as the father of her unborn child. Whatever the truth may have been, the people of Glenskehy, who were then well trained in morals unlike these present times’ ”—“morals” was underlined twice—“ ‘were shocked at her loose conduct. It was the strong—belief?—of all the village that the girl should remove her shame from their midst by entering a Magdalen convent, and till this should come about they made her an outcast among themselves.’ ”

No happy ending, no little dress shop in London. Some girls never escaped the Magdalen laundries. They stayed slaves—for getting pregnant, getting raped, being orphaned, being too pretty—till they went to nameless graves.

Daniel kept reading, quiet and even. I could feel the vibration of his voice against my shoulder. “ ‘The girl, however, either despairing of her soul or unwilling to perform the prescribed penance, took her life. William March—whether because he had in fact been her partner in sin, or because he had already witnessed too much bloodshed—was greatly affected by this. His health failed him, and when he recovered he abandoned family, friends and home to begin anew elsewhere. Little is known of his later life. These events may be taken as a lesson in the dangers of lust, or of mixing outside the boundaries of one’s natural level in society, or of…’ ” Daniel broke off. “I can’t read the rest. That’s all there is about William, anyway; the next paragraph is about a racehorse.”

“Jesus,” I said softly. The room felt cold all of a sudden, cold and too airy, as if the window had slammed open behind us.

“They treated her like a leper till she cracked,” Rafe said. There was a taut little twist to one corner of his mouth. “And till William had a breakdown and left town. So it’s not just a recent development, then, Glenskehy being Lunatic Central.”

I felt a slight shudder run down Daniel’s back. “That’s a nasty little story,” he said. “It really is. Sometimes I wonder if the best thing would be for ‘no pasts’ to apply to the house, as well. Although…” He glanced around, at the room full of dusty battered things, the ragged-papered walls; the dark-spotted mirror, down the corridor, reflecting the three of us in blues and shadows through the open door. “I’m not sure,” he said, almost to himself, “that that’s an option.”

He tapped the edges of the pages straight and put them carefully back in their case, closed the lid. “I don’t know about you two,” he said, “but I think I’ve had enough for tonight. Let’s go back to the others.”

“I think I’ve seen every piece of paperwork in the country that has the word ‘Glenskehy’ on it,” Sam said, when I phoned him later. He sounded wrecked and blurry-paper fatigue; I knew the note well—but satisfied. “I know a lot more about it than anyone needs to, and I’ve got three guys that fit your profile.”

I was in my tree, with my feet tucked up tight into the branches. The feeling of being watched had intensified to the point where I was actually hoping that whatever it was would jump me, just so I could get some kind of fix on it. I hadn’t mentioned this to Frank or, God forbid, Sam. As far as I could see, the main possibilities were my imagination, the ghost of Lexie Madison and a homicidal stalker with procrastination issues, and none of those was something I felt like sharing. During the day I figured it was imagination, maybe with some help from the resident wildlife, but at night it was harder to be sure. “Only three? Out of four hundred people?”

“Glenskehy’s dying,” Sam said flatly. “Almost half the population is over sixty-five. As soon as the kids are old enough, they pack up and move to Dublin, Cork, Wicklow town, anywhere that has a bit of life to it. The only ones who stay put are the ones who have a family farm or a family business to take over. There’s less than thirty fellas between twenty-five and thirty-five. I cut out the ones who commute for work, the unemployed ones, the ones who live alone and the ones who could get away during the day if they wanted to—night-shifters, fellas who work alone. That left me with three.”

“Jesus,” I said. I thought of the old man hobbling across an empty street, the tired houses where only one lace curtain had twitched.

“I suppose that’s progress for you. At least there’s jobs for them to go to.” Flick of paper: “Right, here’s my three lads. Declan Bannon, thirty-one, runs a small farm just outside Glenskehy with his wife and two young kids. John Naylor, twenty-nine, lives in the village with his parents and works on another man’s farm. And Michael McArdle, twenty-six, lives with his parents and does the day shift in the petrol station up on the Rathowen road. No known links to Whitethorn House anywhere. Any of the names ring a bell?”

“Not offhand,” I said, “sorry,” and then I almost fell out of my tree. “Ah, sure,” Sam was saying philosophically, “that would’ve been too much to expect,” but I barely heard him. John Naylor: finally, and about bloody time, I had someone who began with an N.

“Which one do you like?” I asked. I made sure I didn’t skip a beat. Of all the detectives I know, Sam is the best at pretending he’s missed things. It comes in useful more often than you might expect.

“It’s early days, but for now Bannon’s my favorite. He’s the only one with any kind of history. Five years ago, a couple of American tourists parked their car blocking one of Bannon’s gates while they went for a walk in the lanes. When Bannon turned up and couldn’t move his sheep, he kicked a pretty serious dent in the side of the car. Criminal damage and not playing nicely with outsiders; this vandalism could be right up his street.”

“The others are clean?”

“Byrne says he’s seen both of them a little the worse for wear, at one time or another, but not enough that he could be bothered pulling them in for public drunkenness or anything like that. Any of them could have criminal activity we don’t know about, Glenskehy being what it is, but to look at, yeah, they’re clean.”

“Have you talked to them yet?” Somehow, I had to get a look at this John Naylor. Going down to the pub was out, obviously, and wandering innocently onto the farm where he worked was probably a bad idea, but if I could find a way to sit in on an interview—

Sam laughed. “Give me time. I’m only after narrowing it down this afternoon. I’m aiming to have chats with all of them tomorrow morning. I wanted to ask you—would you be able to come in for that? Just to give them the once-over, see if you pick up anything?”

I could have kissed him. “God, yeah. Where? When?”

“Yeah, I thought you might want a look.” He was smiling. “I’m thinking Rathowen station. Their homes would be best, not to spook them, but I couldn’t exactly bring you along there.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Sounds great, actually.”

The smile in Sam’s voice deepened. “To me, too. Will you be able to get away from the others?”

“I’ll tell them I’ve got a hospital appointment, to get my stitches checked. I should be doing that anyway.” The thought of the others gave me a strange little pang. If Sam got anything solid on one of these guys—it wouldn’t even have to be enough for an arrest—then it was over; I was out, back to Dublin and DV.

“Will they not want to come in with you?”

“Probably, but I won’t let them. I’ll get Justin or Daniel to drop me off at Wicklow Hospital. Can you pick me up there, or will I get a taxi to Rathowen?”

He laughed. “You think I’d miss the chance? Say half past ten?”

“Perfect,” I said. “And, Sam—I don’t know how much depth you’re planning to go into with these three guys, but before you start chatting to them, I’ve got a bit more info for you. About that girl with the baby.” That sticky traitorous feeling clamped round me again, but I reminded myself that Sam wasn’t Frank, it wasn’t like he would show up at Whitethorn House with a search warrant and a bunch of deliberately obnoxious questions. “It looks like the whole thing happened sometime in 1915. No name on the girl, but her lover was William March, born 1894.”

An instant of amazed silence; then: “Ah, you gem,” Sam said, delighted. “How’d you do that?”

So he wasn’t listening in on the mike feed—not all the time, anyway. It startled me, how much of a relief that was. “Uncle Simon was writing a family history. This girl got a mention. The details don’t exactly match up, but it’s the same story, all right.”

“Hang on,” Sam said; I heard him finding a blank page in his notebook. “Now. Off you go.”

“According to Simon, William went off to the First World War in 1914, came back a year later deeply messed up. He broke off his engagement to some nice suitable girl, cut off contact with all his old friends and started hanging around the village. Reading between the lines, the Glenskehy people weren’t too pleased about that.”

“Not a lot they could do,” Sam said dryly. “One of the landlord’s family… He could do whatever he liked, sure.”

“Then this girl got pregnant,” I said. “She claimed William was the father—Simon sounded a little skeptical about that, but either way, Glenskehy was horrified. They treated her like dirt; the general opinion was that she belonged in a Magdalen laundry. Before anyone could send her off, she hanged herself.”

Brush of wind through the trees, small raindrops flicking leaves.

“So,” Sam said, after a moment, “Simon’s version takes the responsibility right off the Marches and puts it on those mad peasants down the village.”

The flare of anger caught me off guard; I almost bit his head off. “William March didn’t get off scot-free either,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice. “He had some kind of nervous breakdown—I don’t have specifics, but he ended up in what sounds like a mental institution. And it might not even have been his kid to start with.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Right,” Sam said. “True enough. I’m not about to argue over anything tonight, anyway. I’m too happy about seeing you again.”

I swear it took me a second to catch up. I had been so focused on the chance of seeing the mysterious N, it hadn’t even hit me that I would be seeing Sam. “Less than twelve hours,” I said. “I’ll be the one looking like Lexie Madison and wearing nothing but white lace underwear.”

“Ah, don’t be doing that to me,” Sam said. “This is business, woman,” but I could still hear the grin in his voice when we hung up.

Daniel was in one of the armchairs by the fire, reading T. S. Eliot; the other three were playing poker. “Oof,” I said, flopping down on the hearth rug. The butt of my gun jammed itself neatly under my ribs; I didn’t try to hide the wince. “What are you doing out? You never get knocked out first.”

“I kicked his arse,” Abby called across, raising her wineglass.

“Don’t gloat,” Justin said. He sounded like he was losing. “It’s so unattractive.”

“She did, actually,” Daniel said. “She’s getting very good at bluffing. Are your stitches hurting again?”

A fraction of a pause, from the table, in the sound of Rafe flipping his stack of coins through his fingers. “It’s just ’cause I’m thinking about them,” I said. “I’ve got this follow-up appointment tomorrow, so the doctors can poke me some more and tell me I’m fine, which I already knew anyway. Give me a lift?”

“Of course,” Daniel said, putting his book down on his lap. “What time?”

“Wicklow Hospital, ten o’clock. I’ll get the train into college afterwards.”

“But you can’t go in there alone,” Justin said. He was twisted around in his seat, the card game forgotten. “Let me take you. I’ve got nothing else to do tomorrow. I’ll come in with you, and then we’ll go into college together.”

He sounded really worried. If I couldn’t get him to back off, I was in serious trouble. “I don’t want anyone to come with me,” I said. “I want to go on my own.”

“But hospitals are awful. And they always make you wait for hours, like cattle, jammed into those hideous waiting rooms—”

I kept my head down and rummaged in my jacket pocket for my smokes. “So I’ll bring a book. I don’t even want to be there to begin with; the last thing I need is someone breathing down my neck the whole time. I just want to get this over with and forget the whole thing, OK? Can I do that?”

“It’s her choice,” Daniel said. “Let us know if you change your mind, Lexie.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m a grown-up, you know. I can show the doctor my stitches all by myself.”

Justin shrugged and went back to his cards. I knew I had hurt his feelings, but there was nothing I could do about that. I lit a cigarette; Daniel passed me the ashtray that had been balancing on the arm of his chair. “Are you smoking more these days?” he inquired.

My face must have been totally blank, but my mind was going like crazy. If anything, I’d been smoking less than I should have—I’d been keeping it at fifteen or sixteen a day, halfway between my normal ten and Lexie’s twenty, and hoping the drop would be put down to me still feeling weak. It had never occurred to me that Frank had only the others’ word for that twenty. Daniel hadn’t fallen for the coma story; God only knew how much more he had suspected. It would have been so easy, terrifyingly easy, for him to slip just one or two bits of disinformation into his interviews with Frank, sit back—those calm gray eyes, watching me without any trace of impatience—and wait to see if they found their way home.

“Not sure,” I said, puzzled. “I haven’t thought about it. Am I?”

“You didn’t usually take your cigarettes on your walk,” Daniel said. “Before the incident. Now you do.”

The relief almost punched the breath out of me. I should have caught that—no smokes on the body—but a research glitch was a whole lot easier to deal with than the thought of Daniel playing, blank-faced, a hand full of wild cards held close against his chest. “I always meant to,” I said. “I just kept forgetting them. Now that you guys make me remember my mobile, I remember my smokes too. Anyway”—I sat up and gave Daniel an offended look—“why are you giving me hassle? Rafe smokes like two packs a day and you never say anything to him.”

“I’m not giving you hassle,” Daniel said. He was smiling across at me, over his book. “I just believe that vices should be enjoyed; otherwise what’s the point in having them? If you’re smoking because of tension, then you’re not enjoying it.”

“I’m not tense,” I told him. I collapsed back on my elbows, to prove it, and propped the ashtray on my stomach. “I’m fine.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being tense just now,” Daniel said. “It’s very understandable. But you should find another way of releasing stress, rather than wasting a perfectly good vice.” That hint of a smile again. “If you should feel the need to talk to someone…”

“You mean like a therapist?” I asked. “Ewww. They said that in hospital, but I told them to fuck off.”

“Well, yes,” Daniel said. “So I imagine. I think that was a good choice. I’ve never understood the logic behind paying a stranger of undetermined intelligence to listen to your troubles; surely that’s why one has friends. If you do want to talk about it, all of us are—”

“Holy Jesus Christ almighty,” Rafe said, his voice rising. He slapped his cards down on the table, hard, and shoved them away. “Someone pass me a sick bag. Oh, I validate your feelings, let’s all talk about this—Did I miss something? Did we move to fucking California and no one told me?”

“What the hell is your problem?” Justin demanded, in a vicious undertone.

“I don’t like touchy-feely bollocks. Lexie’s fine. She said so. Is there any particular reason why we can’t all just bloody leave it alone?”

I was sitting up by now; Daniel had put his book down. “That’s hardly your decision,” Justin said.

“If I’m going to have to listen to this crap, then yes, it bloody well is my decision. I fold. Justin, it’s all yours. Deal, Abby.” Rafe reached across Justin for the wine bottle.

“Speaking of using vices to release tension,” Abby said coolly, “don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink for one night?”

“Actually,” Rafe told her, “I don’t think so, no.” He filled his glass, so high that a drop sloshed over the edge onto the table. “And I don’t recall asking for your advice. Deal the fucking cards.”

“You’re drunk,” Daniel said coldly. “And you’re becoming obnoxious.”

Rafe whipped round on him; his hand was gripping the top of the glass and for a second I thought he was going to throw it. “Yes,” he said, low and dangerous, “I am in fact drunk. And I intend to get a whole lot drunker. Do you want to talk about it, Daniel? Is that what you want? Would you like us all to have a talk?”

There was something in his voice, something precarious as the smell of petrol, ready and waiting to ignite at the first spark. “I don’t see any point in discussing anything with someone in your condition,” Daniel said. “Pull yourself together, have some coffee and stop acting like a spoiled toddler.” He picked up his book again and turned away from the others. I was the only one who could see his face. It was perfectly calm, but his eyes weren’t moving: he wasn’t reading a word.

Even I could tell that he was handling this all wrong. Once Rafe had worked himself into one of his moods, he didn’t know how to snap back out of it. What he wanted was someone to do it for him, change the note in the room to silliness or peace or practicality so he could follow. Trying to bully him was only going to make him worse, and the fact that Daniel had made such an uncharacteristic mistake sent a jab through the back of my mind: amazement and something else, something like fear or excitement. I could have settled Rafe down in seconds (Oo, do you think I have PTSD? Like Vietnam vets? Someone yell “Grenade” and see if I dive…) and I almost did, it took an effort of will to stop myself; but I needed to see how this played out.

Rafe caught his breath as if he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind, gave a disgusted head-shake and shoved his chair back hard. He grabbed his glass in one hand and the bottle in the other and stalked out. A moment later his door slammed.

“What the hell?” I said, after a moment. “I’m gonna go see that shrink after all and tell him I’m living with total loopers.”

“Don’t you start,” Justin said. “Just don’t.” His voice was shaking.

Abby put the cards down, stood up, pushed her chair in carefully and left the room. Daniel didn’t move. I heard Justin knock something over and swear viciously under his breath, but I didn’t look up.

Breakfast was quiet, the next morning, and not in a good way. Justin was pointedly not speaking to me. Abby moved around the kitchen with a tiny worried furrow between her eyebrows, till we finished washing up and she prised Rafe out of his room and the three of them left for college.

Daniel sat at the table and gazed out of the window, wrapped in some private haze, while I dried the dishes and put them away. Finally he stirred, caught a deep breath: “Right,” he said, blinking bemusedly at the cigarette burned away between his fingers. “We’d better get moving.”

He didn’t say a word on the drive to the hospital, either. “Thanks,” I said, as I got out of the car.

“Of course,” he said absently. “Do ring me if there’s anything wrong, not that I think there will be, or if you change your mind about having someone with you.” He waved, over his shoulder, as he drove away.

When I was sure he was gone, I got a Styrofoam cup of approximate coffee from the hospital café and leaned against the wall outside to wait for Sam. I saw him, pulling into a parking space and getting out of his car to scan the car park, before he saw me. For a fraction of a second I didn’t recognize him. He looked tired and pudgy and old, ridiculously old, and for that instant all I could think was: Who is this guy? Then he saw me and smiled and my mind snapped back into focus, and he looked like himself again. I told myself Sam always puts on a couple of pounds during a big case-junk food on the run—and I had been spending all my time with twenty-somethings, a thirty-five-year-old was naturally going to look geriatric. I tossed my cup in the bin and headed over.

“Ah, God,” Sam said, wrapping me in a massive hug, “it’s good to see you.” His kiss was warm and strong and unfamiliar; even the smell of him, soap and fresh-ironed cotton, seemed strange. It took a second before I figured out what this felt like: that first evening in Whitethorn House, when I was supposed to know everything around me inside out.

“Hi,” I said, smiling up at him.

He pulled my head against his shoulder. “God,” he said, on a sigh. “Let’s forget all about this bloody case and run away for the day, will we?”

“Business,” I reminded him. “Remember? You’re the one who wouldn’t let me wear the white lace undies.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He ran his hands down my arms. “You look great, do you know that? All relaxed and wide awake, and not half as thin. It’s doing you good, this case.”

“Country air,” I said. “Plus Justin always cooks for about twelve. What’s the plan?”

Sam sighed again and let go of my hands, leaned back against the car. “My three lads are coming into Rathowen station, half an hour apart. I figure that’s plenty of time; for now, all I want to do is feel them out, not put their backs up. There’s no observation room, but from reception you can hear everything that goes on in the interview room. You can just wait in back while I bring them in, then slip out to reception and have a listen.”

“I’d like a look, too,” I said. “Why don’t I just hang out in reception? It might do no harm to let them see me, accidentally on purpose. If one of them’s our guy—for the murder, or even just the vandalism—then he’s going to have a pretty strong reaction to me.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s what I’m worried about, sure. Remember the other night, when we were on the phone? You thought you heard someone? If my boy’s been following you around, and then he thinks you’re talking to us… We already know he’s got a temper.”

“Sam,” I said gently, linking my fingers through his, “that’s what I’m there for. To get us closer to our guy. If you don’t let me do that, I’m just a lazy wagon getting paid to eat good food and read pulp fiction.”

After a moment Sam laughed, a small reluctant breath. “Right,” he said. “Fair enough. Have a look at the lads when I bring them out.”

He squeezed my fingers, gently, and let go. “Before I forget”—he fished inside his coat—“Mackey sent you these.” It was a bottle of tablets like the one I’d brought to Whitethorn House, with the same pharmacist’s label announcing loudly that they were amoxicillin. “He said to tell you your wound isn’t all the way healed yet and the doctor’s worried you could still get an infection, so you’ve to take another course of these.”

"At least I’m getting my vitamin C,” I said, pocketing the bottle. It felt too heavy, dragging at the side of my jacket. The doctor’s worried… Frank was starting to think about my exit.

Rathowen station was craptacular. I’d seen plenty like it, dotted around back corners of the country: small stations caught in a vicious circle, getting dissed by the people who hand out funds and by the people who hand out posts and by anyone who can get any other assignment in the universe. Reception was one cracked chair, a poster about bike helmets and a hatch to let Byrne stare vacantly out the door, rhythmically chewing gum. The interview room was apparently also the storeroom: it had a table, two chairs, a filing cabinet—no lock—a help-yourself pile of statement sheets and, for no reason I could figure out, a battered eighties riot shield in one corner. There was yellowing linoleum on the floor and a smashed fly on one wall. No wonder Byrne looked the way he did.

I stayed out of sight behind the desk, with Byrne, while Sam tried to kick the interview room into some kind of shape. Byrne stashed his gum in his cheek and gave me a long depressed stare. “It’ll never work,” he informed me.

I wasn’t sure where to go with this, but apparently it was no reply required; Byrne retrieved his gum and went back to gazing out the hatch. “There’s Bannon now,” he said. “The ugly great lump.”

Sam has a lovely light touch with interviews, when he wants to, and he wanted to that day. He kept it easy, casual, nonthreatening. Would you have any ideas, any at all, about who might have stabbed Miss Madison? What are they like, those five up at Whitethorn House? Have you seen anyone you didn’t recognize, hanging around Glenskehy? The impression he gave, subtly but clearly, was that the investigation was starting to wind down.

Bannon mainly answered in irritable grunts; McArdle was less Neanderthal and more bored. Both of them claimed to have no clue about anything, ever. I only half listened. If there was anything there, Sam would spot it; all I wanted was a look at John Naylor, and at the expression on his face when he saw me. I arranged myself in the cracked chair with my legs stretched out, trying to look like I’d been dragged in for more pointless questions, and waited.

Bannon was in fact an ugly great lump: a serious beer belly surrounded by muscles and topped off with a potato head. When Sam ushered him out of the interview room and he saw me, he did a double take and shot me a vicious, disgusted sneer; he knew who Lexie Madison was, all right, and he didn’t like her. McArdle, on the other hand—he was a long skinny streak of a guy, with a straggly attempt at a beard—gave me a vague nod and shambled off. I got back behind the desk and waited for Naylor.

His interview was a lot like the others: seen nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. He had a nice voice, a quick baritone with the Glenskehy accent I was starting to know—harsher than most of Wicklow, wilder—and an edge of tension. Then Sam wound it up and opened the interview-room door.

Naylor was average height, wiry, wearing jeans and a baggy, colorless sweater. He had a mop of tangled red-brown hair and a rough, bony face: high cheekbones, wide mouth, narrow green eyes under heavy eyebrows. I didn’t know what Lexie’s taste in men had been like, but there was no question, this guy was attractive.

Then he saw me. His eyes widened and he gave me a stare that almost slammed me back in my seat. The intensity of it: this could have been hatred, love, fury, terror, all of them at once, but it wasn’t Bannon’s narky little sneer, nothing like it. There was passion there, bright and roaring like an alarm flare.

“What do you think?” Sam asked, watching Naylor stride across the road towards a muddy ’89 Ford that was worth maybe fifty quid in scrap metal, on a good day.

What I thought, mainly, was that I was pretty sure where that prickle at the back of my neck had been coming from. “Unless McArdle’s very good at faking on his feet,” I said, “I think you can move him to the bottom of the list. I’d bet money he didn’t have a clue who I was—and even if your vandal’s not our guy, he’s been paying a lot of attention to the house. He’d know my face.”

“Like Bannon and Naylor did,” said Sam. “And they weren’t one bit pleased to see you.”

“They’re from Glenskehy,” Byrne said gloomily, behind us. “They’re never pleased to see anyone, sure. And no one’s ever pleased to see them.”

“I’m starving,” Sam said. “Come for lunch?”

I shook my head. “I can’t. Rafe’s already texted me, wanting to know if everything’s OK. I told him I was still in the waiting room, but if I don’t get into college soon, they’re going to head down to Wicklow Hospital looking for me.”

Sam took a breath, straightened his shoulders. “Right,” he said. “We’ve knocked one out of the running, anyway; only two to go. I’ll give you a lift into town.”

Nobody asked, when I got into the library; the others nodded at me like I’d been out on a smoke break. My snit fit at Justin, the night before, had made its point.

He was still sulking at me. I ignored it all afternoon: the silent treatment makes me tense as hell, but Lexie’s stubbornness would never have cracked, just her attention span. I finally snapped over dinner—stew, so thick that it barely counted as a liquid; the whole house smelled wonderful, rich and warm. “Is there enough for seconds?” I asked Justin.

He shrugged, not looking at me. “Drama queen,” Rafe said, under his breath.

“Justin,” I said. “Are you still mad because I was a snotty cow last night?”

Another shrug. Abby, who had been reaching to pass me the stew pot, put it down.

“I was scared, Justin. I was worried I’d go in there today and the doctors would say there was something wrong and I’d need another operation or something.” I saw him glance up, a quick anxious flick, before he went back to turning his bread into little pellets. “I couldn’t handle you being scared as well. I’m really, really sorry. Forgive me?”

“Well,” he said after a moment, with a tiny half smile. “I suppose so.” He leaned over to put the stew pot beside my plate. “Now. Finish that off.”

“And what did the doctors say?” Daniel asked. “You don’t need more surgery, do you?”

“Nah,” I said, ladling stew. “Just more antibiotics. It hasn’t healed up all the way; they’re scared I could still get an infection.” Saying it out loud sent a twist through me, somewhere under the mike.

“Did they run tests? Do scans?”

I had no idea what doctors would have done. “I’m fine,” I said. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Good girl,” Justin said, nodding at my plate. “Does this mean we can use onions more than once a year, now?”

I got a horrible dropping feeling in my stomach. I gave Justin a blank look.

“Well, if you want more,” he said primly, “then they don’t make you gag after all, do they?”

Fuckfuckfuck. I’ll eat just about anything; it hadn’t occurred to me that Lexie might have food quirks, and it wasn’t exactly something Frank could have found out in casual conversation. Daniel had lowered his spoon and was looking at me. “I didn’t even taste them,” I said. “I think the antibiotics are doing something weird to my mouth. Everything tastes the same.”

“I thought it was the texture you didn’t like,” Daniel said.

Fuck. “It’s the thought of them. Now that I know they’re in there—”

“That happened to my granny,” Abby said. “She was on antibiotics and she lost her sense of smell. Never came back. You should talk to the doctor about that.”

“God, no,” said Rafe. “If we’ve found something that makes her stop bitching about onions, I vote we let nature take its course. Are you having the rest of that, or can I?”

“I don’t want to lose my sense of taste and eat onions,” I said. “I’d rather get an infection.”

“Good. Then pass it over here.”

Daniel had gone back to his food. I prodded dubiously at mine; Rafe rolled his eyes. My heart was going ninety. Sooner or later, I thought, I am going to make a mistake that I can’t talk my way out of.

“Nice save on the onions,” Frank said, that night. “And when it comes time to pull you out, you’ve got it all set up and ready to go: the antibiotics were messing with your sense of taste, you quit taking them, and hey presto, you got an infection. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

I was up my tree, bundled in the communal jacket—it was a cloudy night, fine drizzle spattering the leaves, threatening to turn into full-on rain any minute—and keeping a very sharp ear out for John Naylor. “You heard that? Don’t you ever go home?”

“Not much, these days. Plenty of time to sleep once we’ve got our man. Speaking of which, my weekend with Holly’s coming up, so if we could start winding this up, I’d be a very happy camper.”

“Me too,” I said, “believe me.”

“Yeah? I got the feeling you were starting to settle in very nicely.”

I couldn’t read his voice; no one does neutral like Frank. “It could be a lot worse, sure,” I said carefully. “But tonight was a wake-up call. I can’t keep this up forever. Anything useful on your end?”

“No luck on what sent May-Ruth running. Chad and her buddies can’t remember anything unusual happening that week. But they might not anyway; it’s been four and a half years.”

This came as no surprise. “Oh, well,” I said. “Worth a shot.”

“Here’s something that came up, though,” Frank said. “Probably nothing to do with our case, but it’s odd, and anything odd is worth thinking about, at this stage. Just on the surface, what kind of person did Lexie come across as, to you?”

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. There was something squirmy about this, too intimate, like being asked to describe myself. “I don’t know. Bouncy, I guess. Cheerful. Confident. Lots of energy. A little childish, maybe.”

“Yeah. Same here. That’s what we got off the video clips, and that’s what we got off all her mates. But that’s not what my FBI boy’s getting from May-Ruth’s pals.”

Something cold rippled through my stomach. I tucked my feet up higher into the branches and started chewing my knuckle.

“They’re describing a shy kid, very quiet. Chad thought that had to do with her being from some nowhere town in the Appalachians; he said Raleigh was a huge adventure to her, she loved it but she was a little overwhelmed by it all. She was gentle, a daydreamer, loved animals, was thinking of maybe becoming a vet’s assistant. Now tell me this: does that sound anything like our Lexie to you?”

I ran my hand through my hair and wished I were on solid ground; I needed to move. “So you’re saying what? You think we’re dealing with two different girls who both happen to look like me? Because I have to tell you, Frank, I’ve pretty much hit my limit for coincidences on this case.” I had this insane vision of more and more doubles popping out of the woodwork, matching mes vanishing and reappearing all over the world like a huge Whack-a-Mole game, a me in every port. This is what I get for wanting a sister when I was little, I thought wildly, biting back a hysterical giggle, be careful what you wish for—

Frank laughed. “Nah. You know I love you, babe, but two of you are enough for me. Plus our girl’s prints matched May-Ruth’s. I’m just saying it’s odd. I know people who’ve dealt with identity-swappers-protected witnesses, adult runaways like our girl—and they all say the same thing: these people were the same afterwards as they were before. It’s one thing getting a new name and a new life; it’s a whole other thing getting a new personality. Even for a trained undercover, it’s a constant strain. You know what it was like, having to be Lexie Madison twenty-four seven-what it’s like now, sure. It’s not easy.”

“I’m doing OK,” I said. I had that wild urge to laugh again. This girl, whoever the hell she was, would have made a fantastic undercover. Maybe we should have swapped lives earlier.

“You are, of course,” Frank said smoothly. “But so was our girl, and that’s worth looking into. Maybe she was just naturally gifted, but maybe she had training, somewhere—as an undercover, or as an actor. I’m putting out feelers; you have a little think and see if you’ve noticed any indicators that point in one direction or another. That sound like a plan?”

“Yeah,” I said, slowly leaning back against the tree trunk. “Good thinking.”

I didn’t feel like laughing any more. That first afternoon in Frank’s office had just flashed across my mind, so vivid that for an instant I smelled dust and leather and whiskeyed coffee, and for the first time I wondered if I had completely missed what was happening in that little sunlit room; if I had bounced blithely, unconsciously, past the most crucial moment of all. Here I had always believed the test had come in the first few minutes, with that couple on the street or when Frank asked me if I was afraid. It had never occurred to me that those were only the outer gates and that the real challenge had come much later, when I thought I was already safe inside; that the secret handshake I had given, without even realizing it, might have been the ease with which I helped come up with Lexie Madison.

“Does Chad know?” I asked suddenly, when Frank was about to hang up. “About May-Ruth not being May-Ruth?”

“Yep,” Frank said cheerfully. “He does. I left him his illusions as long as I could, but this week I had my boy tell him. I needed to know if he was holding something back, out of loyalty or whatever. Apparently he wasn’t.”

The poor bastard. “How’d he take it?”

“He’ll survive,” Frank said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And he hung up. I sat in my tree, making patterns in the bark with my fingernail, for a long time.

I was starting to wonder if I’d been underestimating, not the killer, but the victim. I didn’t want to think this, I’d been flinching off it, but I knew: there had been something wrong with Lexie, way deep down. The flint of her, the way she had left Chad behind without a word and laughed while she got ready to leave Whitethorn House, like an animal biting off its own trapped paw with one snap and no whimper; that could have been just desperation. I understood that, all the way. But this, the seamlessness of that switch from sweet shy May-Ruth to bubbly clown Lexie: that had been something else, something wrong. No kind of fear or desperation could have demanded that. She had done it because she wanted to. A girl with that much hidden and that much dark could have sparked a very high caliber of anger in someone.

It’s not easy, Frank had said. But that was the thing: for me, it always had been. Both times, being Lexie Madison had come as natural to me as breathing. I had slid into her like sliding into comfy old jeans, and this was what had scared me, all along.

It wasn’t until I was getting into bed, that night, that I remembered: that day on the grass, when something had clicked into place and I had seen the five of them as a family, Lexie as the cheeky late-baby sister. Lexie’s mind had gone along the same track as mine had, only a million times faster. She had taken one look and seen what they were and what they were missing, and fast as a blink she had made herself into that.