News sure travels fast in small villages. I wonder if that’s why people feel so strongly about country life. Because it defines you so profoundly, it’s a part of your identity. Then again, I did have a show-off with Maeve and Heather here not even forty-eight hours ago.

She starts shoving my things into a stripy, nylon white and blue bag. “I arrived in Tolka three years after your mother left. They told me how you got the scar. I’m so sorry, Aurora.”

“Huh?” I look up at her, no longer smiling.

My mom wasn’t here to begin with—she said she never set foot in Ireland—so how could she possibly leave? And I was born with this birthmark. That’s what she said. This is not some Harry Potter scenario where the scar has deeper meaning. It is what it is: a birthmark. Knowing me, I probably punched myself in her uterus by accident.

The cashier hands me my bag.

“On the house. I’m just glad you survived.” She shakes her head a little, her long side braid moving back and forth.

“Survived what?” I’m trying not to lose patience. “What did you hear about me? About my mom?”

The bell above the door chimes, and someone walks into the shop. The light flickers, just for a second. On. Off. The universe is trying to tell me something. The universe can also go screw itself. It hasn’t helped at all so far. It just messes with me.

As soon as the woman sees who it is, her eyes widen and her mouth clamps shut. I turn around. It’s Father Doherty, and he’s already holding a bottle of wine, obviously in a hurry to pay and leave.

Fancy everyone having a party and not inviting the Wicked Witch of the West.

I wish I could say I am happy to see him, but more than anything, it’s panic that washes over me. I’m panicked about Mal being sick and walking around in the rain, panicked I’m losing grip on what I have with Callum, but most of all, I’m terrified that there’s some big secret about me I’m not privy to.

And all the answers are around me, in a demonic circle, dancing ritually and laughing. Only they’re invisible, and I can’t see them.

“Rory,” Father Doherty gasps, stumbling backwards. His back hits the magazine shelf.

I raise an eyebrow. There’s no way his grandson didn’t tell him I was here.

“I’ve been meaning to come up and say hello.” He clears his throat, mustering an embarrassed smile.

He looks even more ancient than he did eight years ago. Weaker, too. Tragedy has a way of painting your face in a different shade. You can always spot people who are grieving before they open their mouths.