Detective O’Halloran’s morning began with a call from Faye O’Keefe. She said a lot of words, but all Shane could hear was an unpleasant crackling in his ear. He glanced at the clock. It was already past nine. He had overslept.

  His bare feet touched the floor as he stood up and walked to the window. Strong gusts of wind bent the treetops. He pressed his eyelids with two fingers, blinked a few times, then asked in a calm but very hoarse voice,

  “Faye, where the hell are you? What is all that noise?”

  “I’m at the lake,” he heard her shout this time.

  “In Cloraine? Hello, Faye?”

  The noise suddenly stopped.

  “I got into the car. Can you hear me now?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “The wind is crazy. It’s cold.”

  “Now explain what you’re doing in Cloraine.” He turned on the coffee maker. “Everything you said before was carried away by the wind.”

  “Callum Brannigan, the fisherman from house number eight, decided to do some fishing at five in the morning. The wind pushed his boat a bit to the left, toward the Daniels’ house. The old man didn’t even realize it, can you imagine? He cast his net and waited. In short, he pulled up human bones. Come over, Shane, if you want to question the widower yourself.”

  Faye did not go into details, and Shane did not ask. The fact alone was enough. He would learn the rest on site. As he left the house, he took the teddy bear with him to give it to Angela.

  First, Shane stopped by the station. But bad news awaited him there as well. Gallagher caught him in the hallway.

  “We found Stan Dillan,” he said with concern.

  Shane furrowed his brow, waiting for more, and Evan did not keep him waiting.

  “Unfortunately, we couldn’t speak with him. He’s in the hospital. After a stroke.” A pause. “Paralyzed.”

  “And he can’t speak, right?”

  “He’s basically a vegetable.”

  Shane drew in a deep breath. This case refused to move forward. Sometimes O’Halloran had thoughts of dropping the investigation, handing it over to Gallagher, and doing something routine. But each time, something stopped him. At that moment, he felt a wave of indignation rising inside him. He had to clench his teeth to avoid snapping at his partner and friend for no reason.

  “We tried to talk to his wife, but she knew nothing about the deed and had never even heard of the cottage in Cloraine.”

  “Maybe she’s in shock and doesn’t remember?”

  “Quite possible,” Evan replied. “She’s devastated right now. Stan is neither alive nor dead. We’ll wait a bit and try again later.”

  “How did this even happen? He sold that cottage to the Daniels just a few weeks ago.”

  “The stroke happened two days ago.”

  “All right, Evan. Work on this angle. We need to track down the O’Flahertys. By the way, do we have any information on them?”

  Gallagher shrugged.

  “Faye was handling that. She hasn’t told me anything personally.”

  O’Halloran asked his partner a few more questions, then stopped by the chief of police, who kept pushing him to move the investigation along. With his mood completely ruined, Shane headed to Cloraine.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Leaving his car by the driveway of house number eight, Shane stepped toward the lake. He allowed himself a glance at the Daniels’ house, then struggled with the temptation to go there and ask how Angela was doing. The teddy bear remained in the car. The detective set his priorities, which meant work came first.

  Faye stood on the shore, wrapped in a black coat. The wind seemed to whip at her head from every direction. Her hair stuck to her forehead, then flew back again. With Shane’s curly hair, it was much the same, though it didn’t bother him the way it bothered Faye. People were working near the lake and in the water itself. Shane glanced at them, then approached Sergeant O’Keefe.

  “Did you find the skeleton?”

  “Not all the parts yet. The divers are still underwater. The experts say the old man pulled up bones from two different people.”

  “Oh? So we’re dealing with two bodies, not one?”

  “I already checked. There were never any burials here. According to the experts, the bones are no more than a year old. Of course, they’ll say for sure after a full analysis.”

  O’Halloran shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were cold, so he shoved them into his coat pockets as well.

  “Did Brannigan call the police himself?”

  “Not right away. At first, he thought the bones belonged to an animal. Then he pulled a human hand out of the net, along with part of a woman’s dress, or rather what was left of it. After that, he decided it was best to call the police. The call came through the local office.”

  “If there are two skeletons, then one of them is a woman.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “In a year, fabric in water should disintegrate into fibers.”

  “Must have been a good dress,” O’Keefe said jokingly, but O’Halloran’s serious expression made her straighten up and hide her smile. “The dress could have entered the water at a different time. Personally, I wouldn’t connect the clothing to the bones.” She thought for a moment. “Brannigan said the piece of fabric was wrapped around the bone.”

  O’Halloran turned toward the Daniels’ house. His gaze lingered on the fence and part of the shed. And on the hole from which Angela had crawled outside.

  “What do you think about the O’Flahertys?”

  “There’s a snag, boss. I’m still checking the data. I’m afraid it’s too early to say anything definite.”

  Shane became alert.

  “What kind of snag?”

  They walked toward the road, deciding not to interfere with the professionals at work. Faye was troubled by the fact that the O’Flahertys, Judith and Greg, were still listed as registered at that address. Yet the house had somehow been sold.

  “Something doesn’t add up. It’s as if the O’Flahertys vanished. If only we knew who signed the deed for the house…”

  “Who else had the right to it?”

  “Their son, Timothy O’Flaherty. Do you think he gave the house to Stan Dillan? But where did he put his parents?”

  “At the very least, Timothy had the same right to the house as his elderly parents,” Shane deliberately stressed the word “elderly” so that Faye would grasp his meaning. Then he said, “Check nursing homes. If there was no malicious intent, we should be able to find them. Take Anita Foley and talk to the neighbors again about this Tim O’Flaherty.”

  Callum Brannigan approached them. Faye returned to the lake, and Shane stayed behind to speak with the old widower who had found the human bones.

  The wind grew stronger, dark clouds thickened, threatening rain. Without hesitation, Callum invited the detective into the house and hospitably offered tea with lingonberry jam. Shane felt neither hungry nor thirsty, but he did not refuse the old man. They sat at a round table covered with a white oilcloth scarred by knife marks. While Brannigan set the table, O’Halloran questioned him about the bones. Callum repeated O’Keefe’s words.

  “I’ve never pulled up even old boots in my life. And then human bones.”

  “Mr. Brannigan, may I ask you a few questions about the girl from the cellar? About your neighbors?”

  “I already spoke with your people, Detective. I doubt I’ll say anything new. My wife knew everything about our neighbors, but she’s gone.”

  “What did your wife die of?”

  “She fell asleep and never woke up,” the old man answered sadly, sitting down on the creaky chair opposite Shane.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Ask your questions, Detective.”

  “All right. You said you didn’t know your neighbors’ names, but during questioning you said you had seen them. Who exactly did you encounter?”

  “Well, an elderly husband and wife often walked past our house. We have a shop at the end of the street. Day after day, they walked there and back. The woman limped, and the man held her by the hand. My wife once said she should be taken to a hospital, but no one cared. They were religious, you see, so they put their hope in their God. Drink your tea, Detective.”

  “Thank you.” Shane looked at the jam, took a spoonful, and put it in his mouth. It tasted sour, so he quickly washed it down with tea to avoid grimacing. “Did you ever notice a young man?”

  Callum thought carefully. He searched his memory honestly, trying to find even a trace. But no, nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I only know that on Sundays they gathered people by the lake. Young folks came there too…”

  “No, I meant their son, Timothy. We have information that he lived separately but visited his parents often.”

  “A son?” Callum was surprised.

  “Yes. Timothy O’Flaherty.”

  The old man thought again, then lifted his head and asked,

  “Didn’t they have a daughter?”