I press my palms flat against the counter. Anger returns in a wave, rolling through me like the nausea I felt moments ago. “Sirens didn’t kill Connor Sheahan.”
Jude frowns. He says, “Of course they did.”
“No, Jude. Think on it.” I lower my voice. “Sirens wouldn’t have cut his throat so clean. They wouldn’t have left him on the beach.”
He stares at me, lips parted. “I don’t understand,” he says softly.
“I think—” I start, but cut myself off as my mother comes to stand at my elbow.
Glancing between the two of us, she smiles at Jude. “Hello there, Mr. Osric.”
“Morning, Mrs. Alexander.” His eyes slide away from mine to meet hers. “How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you. I’m much obliged to you—giving Moira a place to stay in that storm the other night.”
“Oh.” Jude’s earlier blush returns in an instant. “It was no trouble at all, ma’am. I was glad of the company.” He swallows visibly, looks to me, and adds, “I wish only that it were under better circumstances.”
I drop my gaze to the countertop. Jude sounds wistful, kind, but the words drive through me like a hot poker. My mother clucks her tongue in sympathy, pushing one of her cakes into his hand. When he tries to pay for it, she waves him off, and I fume silently at the whole exchange. My mother can be wonderful at public niceties when she chooses.
I tell her, “Jude was on his way to the hardware shop. May I go with him?”
She runs her fingers through her hair, seeming to consider the idea. “Very well,” she says. “But be back within the hour, Moira. I need you here.”
She doesn’t, really. Most days she manages selling pastries on her own. She only wants to keep me from doing anything useful with my time. I slip out from behind the counter, joining Jude on the cracked sidewalk.
Around the corner, I pull him to a stop. He looks back at me, and his eyes are troubled, nearly black. I take note of the dark circles beneath them, pressed into his skin like bruises. Keeping my voice quiet, I say, “I think someone murdered him, Jude. I think someone led him down to the sand and took a knife to him.”
Jude casts his eyes heavenward. “You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m making perfect sense.”
He lets out a little off-key laugh and looks in the direction of the street. “Someone murdered him. Right. Yes. Whatever were the police thinking? Of course he was—”
I give his sleeve a sharp tug, lifting my chin. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Help you?”
I swallow. My resolve crystalizes the longer I hold the image in my mind: Connor lying on the beach, blood seeping from the slash at his throat. “I’m going to find out what happened to him,” I say. “I’m going to find the killer.”
“Moira…”
“Don’t Moira me, Jude Osric. In fact, forget what I just said. I’ll manage fine on my own.” I turn back in the direction of the market, but Jude steps into my path.
“Wait.” He raises his hands, palms out. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to… I mean, you can’t really think—”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Lowering his hands, Jude bites his lip. He ducks his head to study the ground, and I cross my arms, waiting for his answer.
It comes out as a question. “You really believe he was murdered?”
Disquiet makes a home inside my heart. Connor’s obituary was written like so many other attacks, but I know—I know—it doesn’t belong among them.
“He was, Jude. I know it.”
His mouth thins, but he nods. “All right,” he says, voice quiet. “I’ll help.”
I sigh in genuine relief. Jude believes me, and it feels like the world will follow. It makes the task ahead seem possible, manageable, whatever the danger.
“Thank you,” I say.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, he starts down the cobbles toward the hardware shop on the opposite corner. I keep in step with him, eyeing him as we walk. He looks so tired, so pale. I wonder what it is that keeps him up at night, to put such shadows under his eyes.
I realize it’s perhaps ill-advised to enlist his help. I’m in no position to ask anything of Jude Osric. Truly, he would be better off staying away from me altogether. It’s selfish, cruel even, but I’ve not the time nor inclination to seek out anyone else. Jude is one of the few on this island I trust, one of the few I still hold in high regard.
The front windows of the hardware shop are large, clouded panes mirroring our reflections. Jude looks colorless within the glass, and for one vicious moment I want to know what his face looked like when he first found Connor.
Inside, he heads down one of the narrow aisles. I look about the space, at the dusty shelves, the boxes of nails, locks, door hinges. My nose wrinkles at the sharp odor of paint and varnish. Jude picks through the boxes before taking up a small bronze hinge. He inspects it as he says, “This isn’t just about Connor, is it?”
I hesitate. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Yes, I think it does. The Sheahans are a good family—they deserve closure.” The light in the shop glints off the surface of the hinge, shining copper like the color of Jude’s hair.
“And that’s what we’ll give them,” I say.
A pause. He turns the hinge around in his hands, not looking at me. “You care for the sirens, also,” he murmurs.
I stare at the shelves. Jude once cared for them, too, but I dare not mention so. That was another Jude, a younger Jude—one who skipped stones alongside me on the beach, who listened to the tales our fathers told with rapt attention. We’d sit on the lighthouse steps together, or take to the gallery deck, looking out to sea, watching for sirens.
Little is known about the sirens beyond the means of keeping them away, but during their lifetimes, Gavin Alexander and Llyr Osric set themselves to the task of learning. It was, by and large, my father’s idea. In the same way Jude became fearful of sirens after his father’s passing, my father became fascinated after sirens took his own when he was just a boy.
It was his efforts that led to the establishment of the hunting ban ten years ago.
Facing Jude, I say, “I can’t watch them be hunted down. I can’t. My father—” I stop short, lest the words unravel me. My heart hammers inside my rib cage.
Sunlight flashes across the sea the first time Jude clambers into my father’s rowboat. I am eight, he is ten, and he plunks down gracelessly beside me, rocking the boat as he does.
“Steady,” says my father. “Unless you fancy going overboard.”
Jude grins as if the notion entertains him. “No, sir.”
My father rows out until we are quite a ways from shore. It’s been a full week since a siren was last spotted around Dunmore, so this trip is likely to indulge us, but I dutifully survey the horizon, gripping an iron charm in a closed fist.
Jude looks back at the island, to his lighthouse perched at the edge. He shifts, turns to me, and lets out a gasp. “There!” he says, jumping to his feet.
“Jude,” my father snaps.
But it’s too late. The boat tips, unbalancing him. Jude yelps and goes straight over the side. I scramble to peer down into the water, even as my father catches hold of him, hauling him back in. Jude sprawls on the bottom of the boat, coughing and sputtering, soaked to the skin. I pat him soundly on the back, while my father says, “At least you managed to keep your boots on.”