Few souls could say as much.

When the set was over, Morgan wiped her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. She ventured toward the stage area, and the woman, Saoirse, immediately embraced her as though they were long-lost friends.

“Morgan,” she cried. “This feels like a dream.”

Maybe it all was, Morgan thought, letting her mind wander for a brief passing moment. Maybe all we are and were was but a dream. Within a dream, within a dream.

“This is Cillian,” said Saoirse, once they’d parted.

Morgan nodded and shook the younger man’s hand. His fingers were calloused.

“And our dad, Gerry.”

Morgan stepped toward the older gentleman who was tall and burly. She offered her hand and her name. “Morgan Reynolds.”

Her Uncle Gerry smiled as he took her hand, then pulled her into an embrace. “There are no strangers in Ireland,” he said. “Certainly not among the Reynoldses. You’re staying with Saoirse, then, for a while?”

Morgan nodded. She’d found Saoirse Reynolds as all people find one another these days: on Instagram. She showed her the decades-old picture of Saoirse and Cillian with the other Reynolds children, explaining who she was afterward, of course, and, since she was exploring France at the time, less than two hundred dollars and two hours later, she was here, in Dublin.

“Will you join us?” asked Cillian. “We’re headed over to Johnnie O’s as soon as we pack up.”

Morgan looked at each of them, her family, and felt her heart constrict, swelling against her rib cage. “I will,” she promised. “But I have to meet someone here, first.”

Saoirse shared the address with her, and Morgan returned to the high-top table, extracting a book from her backpack, nestled next to her Bart Simpson doll. The cover was softened and it had a few more tears than when she’d bought it at a bookstore in London to read on the train to Paris. Setting the copy of Fight Club on the table, she ordered two pints of Guinness and two shots of Jameson, and waited for Hudson to walk through the door.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“What happens to them after?” I asked.

The sunlight streamed in through the living room window, creating a gauzy effect around my friend’s silhouette. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as she paused in thought, and said, “In a lot of cases, victims of abuse will continue to be victims … or they will become the perpetrators of it.”

It was this thread that began knitting the story of The Widowmaker. I would like to thank Sergeant Sarah Zupke of the Racine Police Department for sharing her knowledge as a former Sensitive Crimes investigator. Her insight helped shape Morgan and Hudson in ways I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish otherwise.