Lily glanced over at him once or twice. He didn't say a word. The detectives were asking her again about the baby. Lily's voice shook as she told them it was too painful to talk about. Her distress was real—Patrick knew she was probably thinking about Rose, calling up to mind any one of her many surgeries, or the fact that she was somewhere hidden now. Her movements were small, careful. He watched the way she held her hands, gestured as she spoke.

Chasing her to Canada, he had met Marisa. Life had a funny way of unfolding.

“Now, if you'll all excuse me,” Lily finally said, “I'd like to be alone with my grandmother.”

Officers Dunne and Sheridan thanked her and said they'd be by Maeve's house later to look around. They headed for the door. Patrick hesitated. He thought maybe Lily would want to have a private word with him. But it was as if he were just a part of the unwelcome investigating team—she had turned her back on the three of them, ministering to her grandmother. Her profile was so delicate, bent over Maeve, smoothing the hair back from her forehead.

Patrick backed out of the room, came face-to-face with the other two. Down the hall, the crowd remained around the nurses' station. When police showed up at the hospital, word got around. And in this case—considering the fact that Mara Jameson had just reappeared— word was spreading like wildfire.

“What's going on?” Chris Dunne asked.

“What are you talking about?” Patrick replied.

“There's something between you—it's obvious.”

“Between us?”

“You and Mara. Lily. Whatever the hell she calls herself. You two were exchanging looks as if you've known each other for years.”

“I have known her for years,” Patrick said. “I know her better than she knows herself. Her birthday, her blood type, her favorite dessert—it's blueberry pie, in case you're wondering—her favorite movies, the reason she likes needlepointing so much, and oh—the difference between needlepointing and cross-stitch. That's significant, when it comes to understanding the inner workings of her mind. You know why?”

“Shit, Murphy,” Chris said.

“I'll tell you why,” he continued as if she hadn't spoken. “Because her mother did needlepoint, see? Her mother was Irish. We're big storytellers, us micks, and if we can't get you to listen with your ears, we'll tell you stories any way we can. Young Lily was quite the genius with a needle and canvas when she was little, and her grandmother told me she used to get all her grief and pain out by stitching away.”

“Maeve Jameson told you that?”

“Yep. During one of our many interviews.”

“Do you believe her about the dead baby boy?”

Patrick thought of Rose—smiling, arms around Lily's neck, freckles across her cheeks, her brown braids, her big green eyes.

“Mmm,” he said. “Why wouldn't I?”