Chapters (81)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
- Forty-nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-one
- Fifty-two
- Fifty-three
- Fifty-four
- Fifty-five
- Fifty-six
- Fifty-seven
- Fifty-eight
- Fifty-nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-one
- Sixty-two
- Sixty-three
- Sixty-four
- Sixty-five
- Sixty-six
- Sixty-seven
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Read More
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Follow Merilyn online
- Dedication
Carla sat back, exasperated. ‘Gerry, this is serious. Whoever is writing them may be involved in Connor O’Brian’s murder. I need to see the others – all of them.’
‘Carla, I can’t without Eve’s say-so.’
‘She agreed to one – she must have known the others would come out.’
Gerry looked sceptical.
‘You got her to show us the latest one, so you may as well give us the rest.’
She kept her eyes on him, but he still hesitated.
‘You’re not going to make me get a court order, are you?’ She laughed, Gerry didn’t, because they both knew she could.
‘I’ll get them for you,’ he said, pushing back his chair to stand. ‘But let me tell Eve first, OK?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled, ‘and thanks, Gerry.’
Seventeen
Then
Alf’s Café is a mix of old and new. The tables and chairs are totally 1970s, but the photos on the wall are present-day and I wonder if he’s taken them himself: black and white, the odd moody colour shot, all depicting shadows from people lying in the sun.
As I examine each picture I wonder why he doesn’t want actual people in them, but adults are strange and get odd fixations, so this is probably one of his. Shame, though. Surely people are more important than their shadows?
‘Ice-cream waffle?’ Alf’s voice fills the café. I stop looking at the photographs and check to see what Aoife says. She’s sitting on the counter, legs swinging.
‘Sure,’ making it sound like it’s not the biggest treat we’ve had since we got here. ‘With sprinkles?’
Alf grins. His teeth fall all over each other and I’m not sure where one starts and another stops, but his eyes are bright like a cat’s, so I can’t help but smile.
‘Sprinkles it is,’ he says.
We eat warm waffles dripping with ice cream as Alf quizzes us about our families.
‘So, you have a dad?’
Aoife shrugs.
‘And what about your mum?’
Aoife points to my plastered arm, her mouth full, and while I’m annoyed about the inaccuracy – it was after all my dad who broke it – I can sort of see her point. Where is my mum?
Alf is watching our exchange. He’s standing behind the gallery kitchen divide, hands behind, like he’s about to pull himself up onto the work surface. But of course he won’t: too much effort, too much weight, even I can see that.
When we’re finished eating Aoife says we should go, but rain is pounding the windows so hard it’s almost impossible to believe they won’t crack.
‘You want a lift?’
‘It’s OK, we’ll be fine.’