LITMIR.BIZ

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shake of her head. “We have too much water over the dam and not enough real talking. Real listening. I flew to Boston on Thursday morning and went to your apartment, and you weren’t there. I saw a printout of your flight information. I had my passport with me. I booked a flight on Aer Lingus for that night, then turned around and went straight back to the airport.”

      “Did you have any idea where I was?”

      “Ireland,” she said, and this time her smile revealed more of the ultraconfident Lucy Yankowski he knew so well.

      “Were you mad?” Yank asked.

      “Incensed.”

      A Lucy word. He covered her hand with his. Hers was cool, and he could feel its slight tremble. “I’m glad you’re okay. There was a moment...” He breathed. “Lucy. Damn.”

      “It’s been a long two days.” She glanced at the studio, as if seeing the mess for the first time. “Does whatever happened here have anything to do with why you’re in Ireland?”

      “Probably.”

      “Aoife O’Byrne is a well-known artist. Where is she? I thought she’d come back. Then I realized it was the weekend, and maybe she was away.”

      “She’s in Boston,” Yank said.

      “Boston? Why—”

      “We’ll get to that. Why did you come here?”

      “I was curious. I arrived in Dublin at the crack of dawn. You know those overnight flights. I’d booked a room while I was at the airport in Boston, but it wasn’t ready. I dropped off my bags, took myself to breakfast and read about the murder in Declan’s Cross early last week. That’s what brought you to Ireland, isn’t it?”

      “Sort of.”

      “Aoife O’Byrne was mentioned in the article. I checked out her website. It lists her address. I decided to kill time by coming by to have a look. I guess I expected a public gallery. I didn’t think too much about it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

      “You’ve told all this to the Irish police?”

      She nodded. “I figured you would want to know, too.”

      “I do, Lucy. I want to know everything. When you’re ready. You’ve come through a hell of an ordeal. Aoife flew to Boston yesterday. Someone could have wanted to take advantage of her absence and see what was in here.”

      “An ordinary burglar, you mean. Then I walk in and startle them.” She swallowed, sinking back against the wall. “I don’t know why I walked in. I didn’t see that the door had been jimmied. I can’t explain. My mind didn’t grasp it. Lack of sleep, being in a foreign country, irritation with you. I just don’t know.”

      “It’s okay. You don’t need to make sense of it.”

      “Maybe not yet, anyway. I remember being in here, wondering where Aoife was. I heard someone in the other room. I called Aoife—except I mangled the pronunciation of her name. Sean Murphy’s already set me straight. Anyway, next thing I was falling, things were crashing around me, and I was trapped under a bookcase. I thought I could push it off me, but I couldn’t. It’s heavy, and I was afraid I’d dislodge something and do real damage to myself.”

      “Did you yell for help?”

      “Some. Once I was certain whoever had pushed the bookcase on top of me wouldn’t hear me. I wanted to preserve my energy—I didn’t want to waste it screaming if no one was around to hear me—but I also didn’t want...” She broke off with a small shake of her head. “Never mind. You know what I’m saying.”

      He did. His wife—trapped, scared and in pain—hadn’t wanted whoever had broken into Aoife’s studio to come back and kill her. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her to his little car and disappear into the Irish hills with her. Protect her, keep her safe. A little late, he thought bitterly as he saw the bruise on her forearm where she’d fended off a falling object from the bookcase.

      “I thought you were in a snit and that’s why you didn’t call me back.”

      “I was in a snit,” she said. “I wanted to strangle you when I realized you’d gone to Ireland without telling me. Then I thought...I’d surprise you. I’d get you off to a cute Irish hotel and we’d talk, finally. And if you couldn’t come—if your work wouldn’t allow it—then I’d see the sights on my own. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, but it was a plan.”

      “It would have been fun to see Dublin with you, Lucy,” Yank said softly.

      “I have my list of sights I want to see. The Book of Kells, the Long Room, Temple Bar, Grafton Street, Saint Stephen’s Green, Georgian Dublin.” Lucy sank her head against his shoulder. “Then I wanted to find a cozy Irish cottage and get you to take a few days off.”

      “I know just the one,” Yank said. “I stayed there this week. It’s in the Kerry hills. It’s owned by an Irish priest, one of Emma and Colin’s friends. I’m here because of work, but it’s not the only reason. I needed some time on my own.”

      “To think about us,” she said.

      He put his arm around her. “Every time I saw rainbows and sheep, I thought of how much you love them.”

      “You never see rainbows.”

      “I did this past week. Gorgeous rainbows. They made me wish you were with me. I saw one this morning when I left the cottage...” He heard his voice crack. “And you were here, trapped...”

      He glanced around the room. Sean Murphy was in close conversation with two other gardai. Yank knew he had to update his team back in Boston. Someone needed to talk to Aoife O’Byrne, keep an eye on her. Could she have faked the break-in for reasons of her own? Could someone have broken in looking for the stone cross that had ended up in Rachel Bristol’s hand on Bristol Island?

      If Rachel stole the cross from Aoife last night, why call an FBI agent? Had she figured she had information so important that Emma would overlook the theft?

      What if Rachel hadn’t stolen the cross? What if that was a story Aoife O’Byrne had made up?

      Those were the first questions off the top of his head. Sean Murphy would have the same questions, as well as ones of his own. Despite their personal connections to the events of the day, Yank knew he and Murphy would do their jobs. They wouldn’t go off half-cocked. They wouldn’t leap to conclusions based on emotion or urgency.

      Lucy’s trembling eased. She seemed ready to fall asleep. “Do your thing, Matt. I’m fine.”

      “Are you hungry?”

      She stirred, smiling suddenly. “Starving.” Her eyes sparked with mischief. This was the Lucy he’d known and loved for so long, and had seen too little of the past year. “And my first Guinness on Irish soil sounds damn good about now.”

       8

      Boston, Massachusetts

      Maisie Bristol sank onto a frayed leather sofa in the front room of the classic nineteenth-century bow-front house her family owned on a tree-lined section of West Cedar Street on Beacon Hill. To maintain eye contact with her, Emma sat across from her on an equally frayed wingback chair. Colin stayed on his feet by the foyer door. As they’d arrived on West Cedar, Yank had called them about the attack on his wife at Aoife O’Byrne’s studio in Dublin. It wasn’t something they planned to bring up with the Bristols, at least not right now.

      Danny Palladino had led them inside, explaining the place was getting a much-needed face-lift. Maisie, he’d said, was more Southern California than Beacon Hill and didn’t want the house to feel like a museum. He’d seemed out of place, not sure what he should do with himself, but finally settled on standing behind the sofa where Maisie was sitting. Travis Bristol,

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