We walked to the corner and she continued, “Seanna was never an easy child. There were hints of what you see. A self-centeredness that could be breathtaking, even for a Walsh. That worried her parents, but there was good, too, so we told ourselves if we were loving but firm, she would outgrow her selfishness.”

“Instead, she outgrew the good.”

“Too much of the love, not enough of the firm, I suppose. But it always worked with Walshes before. We are a naturally self-absorbed lot.”

“The fae blood.”

She nodded. “I realize that now. Growing up, we were just told it was an inheritance from our criminal ancestors.”

“Kind of.”

A brief smile. “True. Yes, caring about others doesn’t come naturally, so we focus on caring for family, and with that combination of love and firmness we have avoided the worst of what we could be. So we were, perhaps, arrogant with Seanna. Overly confident that we could fix her.”

“This is actually what I wanted to talk about,” I said. “Her history. Is that okay? If it’s a bad time, I understand.”

“Actually, it’s a perfect time.” She paused, and then said, “Thank you.”

I knew what she meant by that—she wanted to talk about Seanna. She’d just seen her niece in better shape than she’d been in thirty years, and she needed to talk about her.

Back at the house, Rose made tea and brought cookies, which we both agreed was a fine dinner substitute. She may also have added a generous dose of whiskey to our tea.

“Tell me about Seanna,” I said as we settled in.

As a child, Seanna Walsh had been a brat. There was no other way to describe it. Spoiled. Selfish. Prone to tantrums when things didn’t go her way. In other words, a kid with all the worst qualities of childhood amplified.

For most kids, outgrowing that self-centeredness is a normal part of development. We learn that the earth, sadly, does not revolve around us, that others have needs and emotions, too. For some, that connection never really clicks. The world is full of people with a degree of sociopathy, and I’ll include myself in that.

I can remember, as a child, coveting another’s toys, and needing to actively stop and imagine my parents’ voices, explaining to me that the other child was just as attached to her toys—and just as deserving of them—as I was to mine. Even then, I think I refrained from stealing only because I didn’t want to upset my parents.

I would love to say I’ve outgrown that. Just last month, though, I watched an elderly driver valiantly try to parallel park in the last street spot, and I’d had to recall my parents’ voices to keep from ducking in with my little Maserati.