“I saw you, Walter.” Hallie’s voice held back tears; Colleen knew the sound well.

“Saw me?” Walter’s smooth voice, so seductive and calm, so caring and sweet.

“Hug my sister. I saw you. Did you kiss her, too?”

A great rip of laughter burst from Colleen. She slammed her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Walter and Hallie turned toward her, moving out of the light to see Beckett and Colleen. “I’m sorry,” Colleen said. “It’s not funny, is it?”

“Not funny at all.” Hallie stepped toward her sister.

“But it is,” Colleen said. “Can’t you see that? Nothing happened and look at how you feel. Feel how you feel.” Colleen felt the veracity moving in waves, and she came closer to Hallie in the darkness. “Imagine you’re in a wedding dress. Imagine you have no idea. Imagine . . .”

Hallie made a soft noise in the back of her throat. “We have children . . . we have a family.”

“I was your family!” Colleen spread her hands wide. “We were your family. But you chose him.” The grief rose and Colleen turned to Beckett for help.

Beckett held out his hand and Colleen took it. “Come with me,” he said.

Hallie stepped back to stand next to her husband. Colleen kept her eyes on Beckett. She allowed herself to be guided by his hand and the faint glow of the pub light. “Where are we headed?”

“Do you have to know everything?” he asked.

“Yes, I believe I do.”

Chapter Seventeen

Memory . . . is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

NINE DAYS UNTIL THE PARTY . . .

In the wee morning hours before her dad awoke, Colleen sat cross-legged on her single bed. Hallie’s bed across the room was empty and well made, the blue and white throw pillows neatly stacked. Colleen set her laptop on the pillows and began to search for a list of alternative Alzheimer’s treatments. Brain games. Chanting. Vitamins. Vegan diet. CBD oil. Fish oil. Ginkgo. Vitamin D. The list was overwhelming and yet Colleen wanted to do something, to show up at the social worker’s meeting with more than financial and insurance information. She wanted to have a list in hand—what now? she would ask. What now? Help us.

The morning sounds of her childhood home waking had not altered during all the intervening years, a series of creaks and groans as familiar as her favorite song. Colleen had once imagined that the house was a living being, that secrets were hiding in the basement and that the heart of it was cached in a corner she hadn’t yet found. Although even then she’d known and explored every inch of the house, still she’d believed in this fantasy. Dad had ingrained in Colleen the belief that in the Celtic world all things were alive. All had a soul. All had a purpose.