When she turned, Fletcher was in the doorway. “I have to leave for a while,” he said, impassive. “We can talk later. I’ll let you get some sleep.”
When she was alone again, Abigail lay down flat on the carpeted floor next to the pool table and closed her eyes.
In through the nose for eight.
Hold for eight.
Out through the mouth for eight.
“Again,” she said, ignoring the tears trickling down her temples into the carpet.
In for eight. Hold for eight.
Out for eight.
Chapter 19
Boston, Massachusetts
4:15 p.m., EDT
August 26
Fiona O’Reilly relaxed slightly when she entered the Whitcomb Hotel on Charles Street, her small lap harp in a soft case over one shoulder, and saw Jeremiah Rush in the lobby. The hotel was so elegant with its antiques and shining brass, but Jeremiah, she thought, was amazing.
And she desperately wanted to relax.
She’d practiced for hours in the drawing room at the Garrison house. Owen wasn’t around, but the foundation’s staff was back at work and police cars stopped by. Tom Yarborough, Abigail’s partner, came into the drawing room at one point and asked her if she’d remembered anything else about yesterday. She’d said no and resumed practicing. Now she wondered if she shouldn’t have. If she should have just told him. But what if she was wrong? What if she was just being stupid? Hundreds of people had been on Beacon Street yesterday who could have planted the bomb in Owen’s car. The man she’d seen…
She lowered her harp off her shoulder. She was proud of herself for having screwed up the courage to visit Scoop. Seeing him so vulnerable was awful, but she’d done it. She hadn’t chickened out. Turning down police protection hadn’t made her afraid. The opposite. The prospect of bodyguards, even police bodyguards, scared her more than being on her own. She was an adult now and could decide for herself. She felt empowered.
She pulled herself out of her thoughts and greeted Jeremiah. “I’m here early. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” He got up from the dark wood desk, rumored to have belonged to his great-something-grandfather Whitcomb, and walked around to her. “I heard about the fire at your father’s house yesterday. How is everyone? Are you okay? Were you there?”
“I was there but I wasn’t hurt. It was pretty frightening. I didn’t sleep much last night, but I practiced most of the day. That always helps. I’ve been working on a Mozart concerto for flute and harp.” She gave Jeremiah what even felt like a strained smile. “Of course I slipped in a few Irish tunes.”
He frowned at her. He wore a light tan suit that didn’t have a single wrinkle. He was working reception right now, but he seemed willing to do a variety of jobs. Fiona had seen him running a vacuum last week. “I can tell you’ve been through an ordeal,” he said. “I saw on the news one of the detectives was badly hurt-”
“Scoop. His real name’s Cyrus Wisdom. He’s doing much better today. I’m not supposed to talk about the fire while it’s still under investigation.” That was the response Lucas Jones had suggested she give to any questions. He’d strictly forbidden her from talking about Abigail. Fiona made herself smile again. “I came here to get away from everything for a while.”
“Whatever we can do, let us know.”
“Thanks.” She changed the subject. “I thought I’d work some on planning our Ireland trip.”
“My brother Justin’s there now,” Jeremiah said, heading back behind the desk. “He’s a bellman at our Dublin hotel. He’s a natural. I swear he’d stay a bellman if our dad would let him. Mum wouldn’t care. She just wants us to be happy.”
Fiona’s mother had said that morning she just wanted Fiona and her sisters to be safe. Happy would be nice, too, she thought, suddenly feeling depressed.
Jeremiah opened a side drawer in the desk and pulled out a stack of brochures and an Ireland guidebook. “I’ve been collecting these for you. There’s a brochure on our Dublin hotel.”
“Does it serve tea on Christmas Eve?”
“Sure does.” He came back around to Fiona and handed her the stack. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look-”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, realizing she was about to cry. She brushed a stray tear and tried to smile. “Is your brother in Dublin cute?”
“He thinks so.”
Fiona laughed, but more tears escaped, and she thanked Jeremiah and took the steps down to Morrigan’s. It was at ground level, with full-size windows looking out on Charles Street. She found herself eye-to-eye with a dirty-faced toddler in a stroller. He waved at her, and she waved back, instantly feeling better.
She set her harp on the small stage. She and her friends had performed at Morrigan’s a half-dozen times over the summer. Her father didn’t know. She thought he’d object. Scoop and now Abigail knew, but Fiona hadn’t asked them not to tell her dad. Then it’d seem like she was keeping it a secret instead of just not having gotten around to telling him.
She sat at a table under a window with her brochures and ordered a Coke Zero. She wasn’t sure which friends would show up, but it didn’t matter. They all could play more than one instrument and would manage with whatever they had. Morrigan’s patrons always seemed to enjoy her ensemble’s performances.
She opened up one of the brochures to a photograph of a country lane that reminded her of her cousin Keira’s paintings. Fiona knew something terrible had happened in Ireland, too, but no one would tell her anything except that Keira was safe.
Keira was as excited as Fiona was about their trip to Ireland and had said she couldn’t wait to take her younger cousin to Irish pubs for live music. “You can join in, and we can get your dad and Simon to sing-just not my mum and me.” Keira’s mother, Fiona’s aunt Eileen, had come home from studying in Ireland in college pregnant with Keira. She’d had some kind of mad, mysterious affair in the same ruin, apparently, where Keira had found her Celtic stone angel. The angel had disappeared, but Fiona had no doubt her cousin had seen it. Keira believed that whatever had happened to it, it was where it was meant to be.
As Fiona finished her Coke, a man she didn’t recognize walked over to the stage area and pointed to her harp. “It looks like an angel’s harp,” he said in a British accent.
Fiona felt a shiver in her back. She’d just been thinking about Keira’s stone angel. “There are several different kinds of harps,” she said.
“And can you play all of them, Miss O’Reilly?”
Now the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end, and her breathing got shallow and her mouth went dry. But she didn’t move.
The man pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. “It’s all right, love. I’m a friend.”
“I’ve never met you. I’ll scream if you try anything.”
He smiled, winked at her. “You do that, love. Scream loud. How was your harp practice at the Garrison house?”
“How-”
“It’s a beautiful day for a stroll, isn’t it?”
Fiona thought she’d pass out. To calm herself, she looked up at a poster of the brightly painted Georgian doors of Dublin. They were already on her list of sights to see at Christmas.
“Have a sip of your drink,” the Brit said.
“It’s not alcoholic. I’m under twenty-one.”
There were several people in the bar. Jeremiah was just up the stairs. Fiona reminded herself she wasn’t alone. Feeling more in control, she focused on the man across from her. “You followed me?”
“Yes, love. I can follow you anytime, anywhere. You’ll never know if I’m there or not there.” He leaned back in his chair. “When and where did you last see Simon Cahill?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“I don’t believe you. Did you have anything to do with the fire at my dad’s?”