The Gray Man slumped next to me. I instantly backed away on my hands and knees. A deep wound in its abdomen oozed the same grayish-green stuff that I was revolted to discover was also on my shirt, my skirt, and my bare legs. The Unseelie looked from Barrons to the spearhead—half-wrapped in what used to be my favorite purse, and might still have been if not for the slime dripping all over it—its eyes blazing with disbelief, hatred, and rage.

Though its wrath was for Barrens, it swung its head around and the last words it uttered were for me. "The Lord Master is back, you stupid bitch, and he's going to do the same thing to you he did to the last pretty little sidhe-seer. You'll wish you'd died at my hands. You'll beg for death the same way she did."

A few moments later, when Barrons gave me my purse back, even though I knew it was already dead, I pulled out the spear and stabbed it again anyway.

CHAPTER 20

In the year since the day I got on a plane to fly to Dublin, determined to find my sister's killer and bring him to justice, I've learned that you can discover just as much from what people don't say to you, as what they do.

It's not enough to listen to their words. You have to mine their silences for buried ore. It's often only in the lies we refuse to speak that any truth can be heard at all.

Barrons disposed of the Gray Man's body that night—I didn't ask how. I just went back to the bookstore, took the longest, hottest shower of my life, and scrubbed my hair three times. Yes, I took the spear into the shower with me. I'd learned my lesson.

The next day, I finished up at the museum without incident. No V'lane, no old woman, and not a single OOP in the entire place.

For the first time since I'd been staying at the bookstore, Barrons didn't make an appearance that night. I guessed he must have slipped out while I was upstairs, answering e-mails on my laptop. It was a Saturday, so I thought he might have a date and wondered where a man like him went on one. I couldn't see him doing the movie-and-dinner routine. I wondered what kind of woman he went out with, then remembered the one from Casa Blanc. Out of sheer boredom, I imagined them having sex, but when the woman began looking more and more like me, I decided there were wiser ways to kill time.

I spent the evening watching old movies by myself on a small TV that Fiona kept behind the counter in the bookstore, trying not to stare at the phone, or think too much.

By Sunday morning, I was a wreck. Alone with too many questions and no one to talk to, I did what I'd sworn I wouldn't do.

I called home.

Dad answered, as he had every time I'd called from Ireland. "Hi," I said brightly, crossing my legs and twirling the phone cord around my finger. I was sitting on the comfy couch in the rear conversation area of the bookstore. "How's it going?"

We chatted halfheartedly for several minutes about the weather in Georgia and the weather in Dublin, before moving on to comparing and contrasting the food in Georgia to the food in Dublin, then he launched into a rambling diatribe that supposedly linked climates with high per-annum rainfall to dour personalities and, just when I was thinking he'd surely exhausted his run of banality and we could begin a real conversation, he started in on one of his favorite filler topics about which he'd been known to pontificate for hours: the ever-fluctuating price of gas in America and the role the president was playing in our current economic woes.

I almost burst into tears.

Was this what we'd come to—stilted conversation between strangers? For twenty-two years this man had been my rock, my skinned-knee-kisser, my Little League coach, my fellow sports-car enthusiast, my teacher, and—although I knew I'd never been the most ambitious daughter—I hoped he counted me among his pride and joys. He'd lost a daughter and I'd lost a sister; couldn't we manage to comfort each other somehow?

I fidgeted with the phone cord, hoping he'd wind down but he didn't, and finally, I could wait no longer. I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. "Dad, can I talk to Mom?" I interrupted.

I got his canned reply: She was sleeping and he didn't want to disturb her because she so rarely did anything but toss and turn, despite all the medication she was on, and the doctor had said only time and rest could help her heal, and he wanted his wife back, and didn't I want my mother? So we should both let her rest.

"I need to talk to Mom," I insisted.

There was no budging him. I think I get my stubbornness from him. We both dig our heels in and sprout roots if somebody tries to push us. "Is something wrong with her that you're not telling me?" I asked.

He sighed and it was such a sad, deeply exhausted sound that I suddenly knew if I saw him right now, he would look like he'd aged ten years in the two weeks since I'd left. "She's a little out of her head with grief, Mac. She blames herself for what happened to Alina and there's no reasoning with her about it," he said.

I

"How could she possibly blame herself for Alina's death?" I exclaimed.

"Because she let her go to Ireland in the first place," he said tiredly, and I could tell it was a conversation he'd had with her a dozen times but made no headway. Maybe I get my stubbornness from both sides. Mom digs in, too.

"That's ridiculous. That's like saying if I decided to take a cab somewhere and the cab wrecked, it was your fault. It was my choice to take the cab. You couldn't know something would go wrong and neither could Mom."

"Unless somebody warned us in the first place," he said in a voice so low that I nearly missed it, and then I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.

"Huh?" I said. "What did you say? Did somebody tell you not to let Alina go to Ireland? Oh, Dad, people are always full of gloom and doom! Everybody's a prophet in retrospect. You can't listen to them!" Though I love Ashford, we have our share of busybodies, and I could just see some of the nosier and less-kind inhabitants of the town gossiping in the grocery store, and not quietly, when my parents went by. Saying snide things like, Well, what did they expect—sending their daughter four thousand miles away by herself, anyway?

Right on cue, Dad said, "What kind of parents let their daughter go four thousand miles away from home by herself?"

"All kinds of parents let their kids study abroad," I protested. "You can't blame yourselves."

"And now you're gone, too. Come home, Mac. Don't you like it here? Wasn't it good? We always thought you and your sister were happy here," he said.

"We were!" I exclaimed. "I was! Then Alina got killed!"

There was a weighty silence that I spent most of wishing I'd kept my big, fat mouth shut, then he said, "Let it go, Mac. fust walk away. Let it go."

"What?" I was stunned. How could he say that? "You mean, come home and let the monster who did this to Alina just get away with it? Go on walking around out there to kill someone else's daughter next?"

"I don't give a grand, glorious shit about anyone else's daughter!"

I flinched. In my entire life, I'd never heard my father cuss. If he did so at all, he did it in private, or beneath his breath.

"I care about mine. Alina is dead. You're not. Your mother needs you. I need you. Get on a plane. Pack up right now and come home, Mac!"

I swear, I prefaced it a thousand different ways in my head; from a several sentence buildup, to a five-minute explanation and apology for what I was about to ask, but none of it came out. I opened my mouth, it stayed open, and I merely managed to breathe into the phone as I thought about all the things I could or should say, including just shutting up and never asking.