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‘What?’ Then he realised the image she had before her. Him on his knees, his hands on hers.

‘God, no.’ He saw her expression fall. ‘I don’t mean it like that.’ He wondered if perhaps he should ask her the pertinent question. He loved her. Both of them had a troubled past and they were able to share experiences – and, he added in his mind, he really didn’t want to live his life without her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t look so worried.’ Her face was strained as she tried to make light of her faux pas.

‘I’m thinking that maybe it’s not such a bad idea.’ He noticed her scrunched brow. ‘To get married. You and me. Tie the knot. You know?’

Her face lit up. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘Amy, I never meant anything like it in all my life. Will you marry me?’

He nearly toppled backwards as she threw her arms around his neck, leaned down and whispered in his ear, ‘This is the most unromantic proposal ever, in a bathroom with me puking my guts up, and I love you for it.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Of course it is.’

A swell of happiness rushed from his head to his toes as he stood, taking her with him. Then he felt her pushing him away and dashing to lift the lid of the toilet again.

‘You’re right, Amy. This is not the most romantic place to ask you to marry me,’ he said, holding her hair back as she retched.

72

CONNEMARA

As the sun rose on the horizon, Lottie was back standing at the window, a cup of Nespresso in her hand. The spacious room seemed a waste without having Boyd with her. The sea was rough, and the blue skies of the previous few days had been replaced with troubling black clouds.

Imelda’s words swirled around in her head, consuming her. Mooney had phoned her at a godawful hour that morning to tell her about his chat with Ann Wilson the night before. She was glad to get his updates and wondered if he did this to keep her from investigating on her own or to get things straight in his mind. Probably a bit of both, she concluded. Her own mind was full of questions.

Why was Imelda in hiding? Why did she say Assumpta was the key to everything? She must have discovered something crucial while researching her documentary. That had to be it. Then there was the link to Bryan’s DNA. Was Imelda his daughter? It seemed likely and could yet prove to be critical.

Her brain was still racing when her phone rang. Putting down the cup, she checked the screen.

Mooney. She hadn’t expected to hear from him again so soon.

‘There’s been another murder,’ he said without preamble.

‘Imelda?’

‘No, and I’m only telling you because you’ll hear about it. I want you nowhere near this. I need you to know that the shit is properly going to hit the fan today. But I’m warning you. Stay away.’

He hung up.

She tapped into the news app on her phone, fingers trembling at what new horror she would find.

Her breath caught in her throat as she started to read.

Ignoring Mooney’s instruction to stay away, she drove over to the crime scene but could not get close. An avalanche of media trucks had descended on the small, seemingly select community of houses where the Wilsons lived. The pack was held back at the end of the road, but she guessed the prominence of Denis Wilson and his radio station, not to mention his role in local politics, had catapulted the murder to the top of the national news.

Mooney must have blacklisted her name, because there was no way anyone was allowing her to get close to the house. Irritation clawed beneath her skin as the first drops of rain fell on her face. She craned her neck to see over the shoulders of the reporters in front of her. No joy. She didn’t see any sign of Mooney either. He was probably inside the house.

She made her way back to her car, digging her nails into the palms of her hands in frustration. She hated this outside-looking-in lark.

As she approached the car, a hand reached out from behind her, tugging her sideways.

‘Hey, what the…?’ She paused when she saw who it was. An ashen, harried face. A tattered and torn blue fleece with the hood up.

‘Imelda?’