Now You See Her Page 0,40

as see one curl on your head.”

“Shit,” Marcy exclaimed, doubling over when she reached the bottom of the steep hill, her breath coming in sharp painful stabs. “Damn hair,” she muttered, pushing a few perspiration-soaked ringlets away from her forehead. “What am I going to do now?” she asked the ground at her feet.

Get the hell out of here, she heard Judith say. Come home right now. Before you get yourself arrested.

“No way,” Marcy told her, turning around in a helpless circle, like a dog looking for a comfortable place to settle. She remembered seeing a small park a few blocks away. Surely inside that tiny square was a bench on which she could sit down, regroup, rethink her strategy.

You’re gonna get yourself killed, Judith warned her as Marcy marched toward the impressive hedgerows of blood-red fuchsias in the distance.

Marcy dismissed her sister’s nagging voice with a shake of her head, deliberately picking up her pace. Minutes later, she was sitting on a green wooden bench, surrounded by pink and blue hydrangea bushes, large patches of lacy white cow parsley, and rows of mauve foxglove spires. It really is a beautiful country, she was thinking, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Maybe once she found Devon, they could tour the rest of Ireland together, take the trip Devon had always dreamed of taking with her father, visiting Limerick, maybe even finding the house in which Devon’s grandmother had grown up. Perhaps they’d travel to Killarney and Kilkenny, maybe even visit the famed limestone Cliffs of Moher in remote county Clare. Wherever Devon wanted to go. Whatever she wanted to do. Whatever Devon wanted, Marcy repeated silently, hearing a baby’s distant cries mingling with the drone of nearby traffic.

Marcy opened her eyes to see a skinny young woman with fair skin and strawberry-blond hair pushing a baby carriage in her direction. The girl was wearing tight blue jeans and a loose white T-shirt, and her ponytail swung from side to side as she walked. Shannon, Marcy realized immediately, then immediately after that, No, it can’t be. She must have fallen asleep. She was only dreaming this was happening.

“Do you mind if I have a seat?” the young woman asked shyly, waiting until Marcy nodded her consent before sitting down on the opposite end of the bench.

Marcy tried hard not to stare. Was this really Shannon?

The girl quickly removed the rubber band from around her ponytail, freeing her thick hair to fall around her shoulders. “There. That’s much better. I tied it too tight. It was giving me a headache,” she said, a hint of apology in her voice, as if she was afraid of offending Marcy with her unsolicited comments. She blushed, a surprisingly delicate shade of crimson. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not. It’s lovely hair.” Marcy studied the girl’s face, noting her almost translucent skin, her small green eyes and long, narrow nose. One of those girls who had no idea how pretty she was, probably because her mother had never told her.

Marcy immediately pictured Devon, who’d stubbornly insisted on hiding her natural beauty behind layers of concealer and heavy black eye shadow.

“Thank you,” the girl said, tucking her hair behind one ear self-consciously. Inside the carriage, the baby continued to cry. “Sorry for the racket. If she doesn’t settle down soon, I’ll take off again.” She reached out and began pushing the carriage back and forth, back and forth.

“No, that’s all right. I don’t mind.” Marcy stood up to glance inside the carriage. “A little girl, you said?”

“A very colicky little girl, I’m afraid. She’s been crying since midnight. We’re half out of our minds.”

“Is she your first?” Marcy asked, hoping the slight quiver in her voice wouldn’t betray her.

“Oh, she’s not my baby.” The girl’s blush deepened. “I’m just her nanny.”

Marcy took a deep breath, trying to still her growing excitement. “What’s her name?”

“Caitlin. Caitlin Danielle O’Connor.”

Marcy’s breath formed a small fist inside her chest, began pummeling her rib cage. “Pretty name.”

“ ’Tis, isn’t it?”

“How old is she?”

“Almost five months.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yes, she is. Even more beautiful when she’s not crying.”

Marcy extended her hand. “I’m Marilyn,” she said, wondering if the lie was really necessary but not confident she could trust Shannon with the truth.

“Shannon,” the girl said, shaking Marcy’s hand and leaning back on the bench. “Are you American?”

Marcy nodded. Sometimes it was just easier to lie.

Caitlin’s cries grew louder, as if protesting the deceit.

“Oh, dear.” Shannon sighed, defeated.

“I could hold her for