“I know,” I said. I wanted to tell her that being loved is a talent too, that it takes as much guts and as much work as loving; that some people, for whatever reason, never learn the knack. Instead I got the photocopies back out of my bag and flipped through them-I practically had to hold them against my nose, to see-until I found the streaky color copy of that snapshot: the five of them, smiling, wrapped in falling snow and silence, outside Whitethorn House. “Here,” I said, and held it out to Abby.
Her hand, pale in the near-darkness, reaching out. She went to the window, tilted the page to the last of the light.
“Thanks,” she said, after a moment. “I’ll keep this.” She was still there, looking at it, when I closed the door.
After that I hoped I’d dream about Lexie, just every now and then. She’s fading from the others’ minds, day by day; soon she’ll be gone for good, she’ll be only bluebells and a hawthorn tree, in a ruined cottage where no one goes. I figured I owed her my dreams. But she never came. Whatever it was that she wanted from me, I must have brought it to her, somewhere along the way. The only thing I dream of is the house, empty, open to sun and dust and ivy; scuffles and whispers, always just one corner away; and one of us, her or me, in the mirror, laughing.
This is the one thing I hope: that she never stopped. I hope when her body couldn’t run any farther she left it behind like everything else that tried to hold her down, she floored the pedal and she went like wildfire, streamed down night freeways with both hands off the wheel and her head back screaming to the sky like a lynx, white lines and green lights whipping away into the dark, her tires inches off the ground and freedom crashing up her spine. I hope every second she could have had came flooding through that cottage like speed wind: ribbons and sea spray, a wedding ring and Chad’s mother crying, sun-wrinkles and gallops through wild red brush, a baby’s first tooth and its shoulder blades like tiny wings in Amsterdam Toronto Dubai; hawthorn flowers spinning through summer air, Daniel’s hair turning gray under high ceilings and candle flames and the sweet cadences of Abby’s singing. Time works so hard for us, Daniel told me once. I hope those last few minutes worked like hell for her. I hope in that half hour she lived all her million lives.
Acknowledgments
I owe huge thank-yous to more people every time. The amazing Darley Anderson and everyone at the agency, especially Zoë, Emma, Lucie and Maddie; three incredible editors, Kendra Harpster at Viking Penguin, Sue Fletcher at Hodder amp; Stoughton and Ciara Considine at Hodder Headline Ireland, for making this book so many times better; Clare Ferraro, Ben Petrone, Kate Lloyd and all at Viking; Breda Purdue, Ruth Shern, Ciara Doorley, Peter McNulty and all at Hodder Headline Ireland; Swati Gamble, Tara Gladden, Emma Knight and all at Hodder amp; Stoughton; Jennie Cotter at Plunkett Communications; Rachel Burd, for the razor-sharp copy-edit; David Walsh, for answering a wild variety of questions about police procedure; Jody Burgess, for Australia-related info, corrections and ideas, not to mention Tim Tams; Fearghas Ó Cochláin, for medical info; my brother, Alex French, for tech and other support; Oonagh Montague, for generally being great; Ann-Marie Hardiman, for her academic input; David Ryan, for his completely academic input; Helena Burling; all at PurpleHeart Theatre Company; the BB, for helping me to bridge the culture gap again; and, of course, my parents, David French and Elena Hvostoff-Lombardi, for a lifetime’s worth of support and faith.
In some places, where the story seemed to require it, I’ve taken liberties with facts (Ireland doesn’t, for example, have a Murder squad). All errors, deliberate or otherwise, are mine.
