Dee sat on the deck, watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon. She had a glass of chilled white wine in front of her, and Johnny Cash in the background, singing about missing a girl in Tipperary town. Along the beach, the mobile home stood empty. No lights on, no voices drifting through the still air, reminding her that she wasn’t alone out here on this quiet stretch of beach.

Work had got her through the rest of the day. At four o’clock this afternoon, she’d finished the book and emailed it to her agent. Later, she’d driven to the wine shop in Meads and treated herself to a single bottle of Tokaji Furmint – Hungarian, dry and very expensive.

Today had been hard, but she’d expected that. Gradually, she would adjust to their absence, as she’d adjusted to so many other things. Adjusting to change was part of life. And while she adjusted, she would focus on the positives. Like the fact that she’d just written her first book, and knew she’d done a good job with it. Better than she’d ever have thought possible. Her agent would, doubtless, suggest some improvements, but nothing Dee couldn’t manage.

Then there was Dee’s growing relationship with her newly found cousins. Dee had spoken to both women yesterday. They were in Ireland at the moment, tying up the final loose ends in a story that had started twenty-three years earlier. Robert O’Brien was being held in custody in England and looking at a long jail sentence. The only question left unanswered was whether he served that in the UK or Ireland. Via video link two days ago, he’d told the Irish Guards where he’d buried Lucy Ryan. Her body had been recovered yesterday morning. So Maeve finally knew what had happened to her sister, and the people responsible were going to get the justice they deserved.

Ursula O’Brien had also been charged with a number of offences and was on remand awaiting trial for her role in the rape of Bríd Keenan. Shay Flaherty’s story would be front page news in tomorrow’s Irish Times. Twenty-three years after Lucy Ryan disappeared, Shay had finally got to write about what had happened to her.

The wound on Dee’s face, where Robert had cut her, was healing well too. Soon, there would be no trace of the wound at all. But no matter how many times Dee listed her reasons to be happy, she couldn’t feel it. Instead, there was nothing but this dreadful emptiness.

The sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, the kaleidoscope of pinks and oranges and reds fading to grey, when she heard a car coming towards her house. When the car stopped and the driver got out, the sound of the door closing echoed through the quiet night air.