Now You See Her Page 0,43

take the day off work.…”

“No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“No,” Marcy had insisted. “It’s better if you stay at Grogan’s. In case Audrey walks by again.”

“Okay. Whatever you think is best,” he’d agreed. Then, “I could come over now.…”

“No,” Marcy said quickly. Much as she’d wanted to see him, much as she was attracted to him, much as she wanted to believe he might actually be attracted to her, she couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted. Not when she was so close to finding her daughter. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” she’d said.

“I’ll be here.”

Now Marcy watched as Shannon pushed Caitlin’s carriage across the footbridge over the South Channel and continued up Mary Street toward the busy main thoroughfare that was St. Patrick’s Street. Although it was overcast and familiar clouds were circling the horizon, it was actually warm, Marcy realized, feeling the weight of the trench coat she’d been carrying over her arm for the better part of an hour. Maybe tomorrow she’d actually be able to chance leaving her coat at the inn, she thought, glancing toward the weather vane on the top of St. Anne’s. “Let me guess,” she mumbled into the collar of her blue blouse. “Rain is in the forecast.”

It was at that moment she realized that Shannon had disappeared.

Marcy spun around, her head shooting in several different directions at once. All she saw were storefronts and pedestrians. Shannon was nowhere.

Where could she have gone?

“Okay, calm down,” Marcy told herself. “She’ll turn up.” After all, Shannon had vanished into the afternoon crowds before, only to reappear within seconds, her ponytail swinging rhythmically behind her. Now you see her, now you don’t.

Besides, so what if Marcy didn’t find her? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where the girl lived. It wasn’t as if Shannon was particularly adventurous, as if she didn’t adhere to a rather rigid routine. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t start again tomorrow.

Start from scratch, Marcy thought, trying not to cry.

“Have you thought of going to the police?” Liam had asked last night.

But Marcy didn’t want to involve the police. What if Devon were in some sort of trouble? What if by alerting them to her whereabouts, she drove her even farther underground? What if her desperate efforts to reunite with her daughter landed Devon behind bars? She couldn’t take that risk.

“I could hire a private detective,” she’d suggested in return.

Liam had agreed without much enthusiasm. “You could, I suppose. But it’s not like in the movies. At least not here in Cork. There’s not really a big demand for their services in these parts. You’re probably better off on your own. At least for the time being.”

Except she was as much a failure at playing detective as she’d been with most of the things in her life, Marcy was beginning to think, checking off each failing as if it were an item on a shopping list. Failure as a daughter—check. Failure as a sister—check. Failure as a wife—check. Failure as a mother—double, triple check.

She’d never even attempted a career. Yes, she’d worked in the marketing department of a small advertising agency when she first graduated college, but that job had always felt temporary and had dissolved several years later along with the company. By that time she was married and she and Peter were already planning a family. Pretty soon she was pregnant with Devon, and then with Darren, so what did she need a job for? She already had her hands full at home.

Devon’s voice wafted toward her, transported from the past by the laughter of a nearby cluster of teenage girls.

“What do I have to finish college for?” Devon was demanding. She’d just informed Marcy she was going to drop out of university one semester shy of her degree.

Marcy argued with her, despite the little voice in her head warning her to back off. “Because an education is important.”

“Why is it so damned important?”

“Because it is. And watch your language.”

“You’re upset because I said ‘damned’? What’s the problem with ‘damned,’ for fuck’s sake?”

“Devon …”

Devon began spouting off profanities. “Shit, fuck, cock, cunt, son of a bitch.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Prick, bastard, cocksucker, twat, motherfucker …”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“And I’m the one who’s ending it.” Marcy turned away before Devon could see her cry.

“Sure, Mommy. Walk away. That’s how you deal with everything.”

“This isn’t about me,” Marcy said, marveling at the fact that her daughter still called her “Mommy.”