False Mermaid

Devaney exchanged a quick look with Cormac. “Well, I’ll leave you. That’s all the news I’ve got for now. I’d better get back to Róisín before she’s completely corrupted by all these Donegal tunes. Give us a shout if you need anything, right?”

After Devaney left them, Nora was silent a long time, staring down at her empty whiskey glass. “Why didn’t she come to me, Cormac? Why wouldn’t she trust me? I could have done something to help her—”

Suddenly the musicians hushed, and all ears in the pub tuned to the sound of an old woman singing. Only a few words of Irish came through; the other sounds seemed nonsensical, a series of long, plaintive vowels. But the leathery voice was so full of experience and grief that all who heard it were mesmerized, unable to move until the last note faded away. Nora swiped at her eyes.

“Who was that singing?” Cormac asked the barman, who’d come to collect their empty glasses.

“Ah, that’s Kitty Sean Cunningham. From Cappagh, just above Teelin. Seventy-eight last Monday week, but she can still wind a good song.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They say she used to sing, out collecting seaweed, and the seals would come up onto the rocks and listen. Not everyone can call them. But Kitty has the power, they say, because her grandmother was one of ’em.”

“And people still believe that?” Cormac asked.

The barman smiled. “Ah, sure, no one believes the old stories anymore. But like my granny used to say, that doesn’t mean they aren’t true. Can I get you another drink?”

“No thanks,” Cormac said. “We’re finished here.”

As they left the bar, Nora still felt stunned. Devaney’s report dredged up all sorts of dreadful possibilities about what Tríona had gone through in those last few weeks. Each new realization brought fresh pain. Cormac followed her outside, apparently unsure what he should say. What could he say?

At the car, she turned to him. “Do you realize what this means? All this time, I thought Peter was just possessive and jealous. That he killed Tríona—had her killed—because he couldn’t bear to let her go. But it wasn’t that kind of jealousy at all. It was a different kind. He was taking her clothes, Cormac, wearing them down to the river. He didn’t just want to possess Tríona, he wanted to be her—I never understood until now.”

“Nora, what are you saying?”

“All those awful things he accused her of—the drugs and the late nights, the sex with random strangers—Tríona didn’t have any memory of doing those things, because she never did them. He did. And she must have found out somehow. That’s what she was trying to tell me, when she talked about letting things go too far. But she gave him the benefit of the doubt. Right up until the very end. Even after she knew he was deliberately tormenting her, she still wouldn’t believe it. My God—it’s all so twisted.” Though the night was warm, Nora couldn’t keep from shivering. “And it just keeps getting worse. How could he have fooled us for so long—how could we not see what he was? He must have realized that Tríona would try to leave him sooner or later, that eventually she’d begin to figure it out.”

“But just as he was getting desperate enough to act, Miranda came onto the scene, mad jealous of Natalie Russo,” Cormac said. “She played right into his hand.”

“Oh, Cormac—how can I ever tell Elizabeth any of this? It’s all so insane.”

“Don’t think about it, not tonight. Let me take you home.”

4

The next morning, Cormac awakened to find Nora beside him in bed, the fingers of her right hand laced through his. They’d managed to make it through the night, but neither of them had slept well. He could see that the revelations of the previous evening had not loosed their grip on Nora. She looked pale, exhausted. And her parents were due to arrive in less than six hours. That meant everything would be gone over again, in detail, including Elizabeth’s accusations, and he could not save her from any of it.

Nora’s eyes were closed, but she was awake. He touched her face. “I meant to ask, where’s your hazel knot—the one I made you out at Loughnabrone?”

Her hand slipped from his. “It must have fallen out of my pocket the night of the crash. I kept it with me, Cormac, I swear. Right here in my pocket—” She leaned down to pick up her jeans from the floor, showing him where she’d kept it.

A crinkled bit of fabric peeped from the pocket, and he pulled it out, surprised to find an old-fashioned woolen stocking. “What’s this?”

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” she said. “I think an eagle dropped it on me, over at Port na Rón.”

Cormac held the stocking up to the light. Fine black wool—and the heel was neatly darned. He felt a vibration, the same frequency as when he’d first laid eyes on the high-button shoe from the abandoned cottage.

Nora continued: “I’m not sure why I kept it. An odd thing to find at a beach, I guess.”

“Could you show me exactly where you found it?”

“What is it, Cormac? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain when we get there.”