Shame heats my face. “Jude—” I start, but I pause when something sounds from down the hall. I turn toward it. The noise is like scraping on wood, repetitive. Jude follows my gaze, his tear-filled eyes widening.
And without looking back at me, he says, “I think it’s best you leave now, Moira.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. His hurt expression scatters my thoughts, the ache in his voice pressing upon my heart. Turning away, I head for the door before he can show me out. I close my eyes as I step onto the path, taking a deep breath.
Alone, I start across the moors in the direction of town.
* * *
The police station is a narrow brick building on Dunmore’s main road. Its lobby is stuffy, smelling of must and wood polish. A secretary sits behind an oak counter, her fingers tapping at a typewriter. My heels click against the floorboards as I walk over, but she doesn’t look up.
“Pardon me,” I say. “I’d like to speak with Inspector Dale.”
She stops typing. I know her as everyone knows one another on this island. A familiar face with an even more familiar family name. Catriona Finley is pale-skinned, freckled, and only a couple of years older than Jude. Over her shirtwaist blouse, she wears a silver locket. The teardrop shape of it is one I’ve seen before, a gift from sailors to their sweethearts prior to long voyages. Meeting my eye, she tells me, “He isn’t in today.”
“Well,” I reply, a little clipped, “is there someone else in?”
“Detective Thackery.” She gestures down the hall, doors to sectioned offices lining both sides of the dimly lit corridor. “If you’d like to speak with him instead.”
“Which office is his?”
“Second door on the left.”
I nod my thanks. As I cross the lobby, Thackery’s door seems an ominous thing. I knock thrice on the polished wood, and a muffled voice calls, “Come in.”
I open the door to find Thackery sitting at his desk, pen in hand. His head is bent over a slip of paper, and there’s a certain urgency to the speed of his writing, the page marked in quick, pointed scrawls.
“Miss Alexander.” He offers me a fleeting glance and continues with his letter. “How may I be of service to you?”
The indirect attention is somewhat off-putting. Folding my hands in front of me, I say, “I was hoping to have a word with Inspector Dale—”
“Who is currently away,” interrupts Thackery. “So I say again, how may I be of service to you?”
“It’s about Connor Sheahan, sir. About his death.”
Thackery leans back in his chair to appraise me, setting down his pen in the same motion. “Oh? And what about it troubles you?”
Every single thing about it troubles me. The memory of that day returns to the forefront of my thoughts again and again, like a flame I can’t extinguish.
“I read the article in the Gazette. They say you’re not investigating, that you’ve closed the case.”
Thackery’s mouth is a thin, tight line. “Not much of an investigation,” he says. “Poor boy killed by sirens like that. Not the first nor last, unfortunately.” Compared to his appearance on Jude’s doorstep, he looks less striking holed up in this cluttered office. His face is pale and drawn, and his hair is not as neat, dark strands falling into his eyes.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Are you positive it was sirens, sir?”
The lines across his forehead deepen. “What do you mean by that, Miss Alexander?”
“His wounds seem to suggest another cause.”
“Do they, now?” Thackery leans forward, hands clasped atop his desk. “I’m curious how you came to that conclusion. I was under the impression you were visiting Mr. Osric—and when we asked, you said you hadn’t been down to the beach. Has that fact changed? Should I be taking another look at Mr. Osric’s statement?”
I swallow hard, caught in the lie. “No, sir. I perhaps misspoke earlier. Mr. Osric took me down to see the body. I asked it of him.”
“I see.”
Undeterred, I say, “Connor’s injuries were much too clean for a siren’s claws, sir. I’ve seen survivors of their attacks—the cuts are ragged and not quite so deep.”
Thackery raises his eyebrows. “Do you consider us incompetent, Miss Alexander?” Without waiting for my answer, he goes on. “I know your late father was viewed as a fount of knowledge in regard to the sirens, but we’re all accustomed to their methods. I’m sure Mr. Osric can attest to that.”
My stomach churns. Thackery wields his words like he means to draw blood, and I feel the sting of every cut. “Sir,” I say, “I think you would do well to listen to me. You ought to be looking for a killer. A human one.”
He heaves a sigh. When he stands, making his way around the desk, I realize he’s about to see me out. “I assure you,” he says, opening the door, “we have considered Connor Sheahan’s death with as much thoroughness as any of our other cases. Now, if you please, I’ve a lot of work to be getting on with.”
“Detective,” I persist, “if you’ll just—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Alexander.”
I feel Catriona’s eyes on me as I head across the lobby. My jaw tightens, my hands turn to fists in my pockets, and I want to push my way back into Thackery’s office and shout at him that yes, I do think the whole lot of them are incompetent.
Rather than the usual path back home, I take the roundabout way along the cliffs. I see the lighthouse in the distance, and scuff at the damp grass with the toe of my boot. When my eyes shift to the beach, I catch sight of a pale figure at the shoreline.
A solitary siren rests in the shallows, her dark hair knotted, sleek with salt water, each wave rushing over the fold of her legs before retreating into the ocean. My pulse flutters as adrenaline floods my veins. I feel the all-too-familiar tug at my heart, the song of the whispering sea. She clutches a dying fish in her hands; its blood and oil trail over her skin as she tears into it, sharp teeth stained red.
It’s been said just the sight of a siren is enough to drag men into a watery grave. Children’s stories, for the most part. But in this moment I have little trouble believing them. I imagine her gaze flitting up the cliff—watchful and hungry and dark as the deep—to find me staring back.
I won’t let them blame you, I tell her silently.
Whoever killed Connor, for whatever purpose, I’ll track them down myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I TAKE COVER IN THE cliff’s crevice, hidden among the shadows. The cliff itself is a black looming wall in the twilight, and the sand shifts beneath my bare feet, the sea whispering music in my ears—but it’s not for the sea I wait.
My father’s hand on my arm. You must be patient, he says.
I make myself completely still. I feel the hard grit of the crag against my back, the taste of salt bitter on my tongue. My heart beats loud in the silence, a steady rhythm, and I wonder if that’s what calls the sirens to shore. A living composition, heartstrings sounding a promise of blood.
In the encroaching darkness, she rises from the water like a ghost. My father’s voice is a quiet breath at my ear.