“It was cancer,” she said shortly.

No sympathy wanted, he judged, and offered none. “I represent Rogan Sweeney,” Hobbs began, “his wife and her family.”

“Rogan Sweeney?” Cautious, Shannon joined him at the table. “I know the name, of course. Worldwide Galleries has a branch in New York. They’re based in . . .” She trailed off, setting down her mug before her hands could shake. Ireland, she thought. In Ireland.

“You know, then.” Hobbs read the knowledge in her eyes. That, too, would make his job easier. “My clients were concerned that the circumstances might be unknown to you.”

Determined not to falter, Shannon lifted her cup again. “What does Rogan Sweeney have to do with me?”

“Mr. Sweeney is married to Margaret Mary Concannon, the oldest daughter of the late Thomas Concannon, of Clare County, Ireland.”

“Concannon.” Shannon closed her eyes until the need to shudder had passed. “I see.” When she opened her eyes again, they were bitterly amused. “I assume they hired you to find me. I find it odd that there would be an interest after all these years.”

“I was hired, initially, to find your mother, Ms. Bodine. I can tell you that my clients only learned of her, and your existence, last year. The investigation was initiated at that time. However, there was some difficulty in locating Amanda Dougherty. As you may know, she left her home in New York suddenly and without giving her family indication of her destination.”

“I suppose she might not have known it, as she’d been tossed out of the house for being pregnant.” Pushing her coffee aside, Shannon folded her hands. “What do your clients want?”

“The primary goal was to contact your mother, and to let her know that Mr. Concannon’s surviving children had discovered letters she had written to him, and with her permission, to make contact with you.”

“Surviving children. He’s dead then.” She rubbed a hand to her temple. “Yes, you told me that already. He’s dead. So are they all. Well, you found me, Mr. Hobbs, so your job’s done. You can inform your clients that I’ve been contacted and have no interest in anything further.”

“Your sisters—”

Her eyes went cold. “I don’t consider them my sisters.”

Hobbs merely inclined his head. “Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Thane may wish to contact you personally.”

“I can’t stop them, can I? But you can forward the fact that I’m not interested in reunions with women I don’t know. What happened between their father and my mother some twenty-eight years ago doesn’t change the status quo. So—” She broke off, eyes sharpening again. “Margaret Mary Concannon, you said? The artist?”

“Yes, she is known for her glass work.”

“That’s an understatement,” Shannon murmured. She’d been to one of M. M. Concannon’s showings at Worldwide New York herself. And had been considering investing in a piece. The idea was almost laughable. “Well, that’s amusing, isn’t it? You can tell Margaret Mary Concannon and her sister—”