The heavy blackness that blankets the sky isn’t helping, the headlights fogged and barely lighting the road ahead.
I have to be crazy.
Other than the sheer lunacy that got me on a plane to Ireland, I have to be certifiable for trying to track down Grayson’s mother. What do I expect to find?
I check the time on the burner phone. It’s nearing 5:00 a.m. A last-minute search into Rebecca Sullivan gave me her last known address. I can only hope she’s still there, and that knocking on her door at this hour won’t get a door slammed in my face.
I’ve come too far.
Literally.
I spot a small street sign ahead and slow to a rolling crawl before I make the turn. Street lamps illuminate the way through a string of identical brick townhomes. I locate the unit that was Rebecca’s most recent address and park alongside the driveway.
Taking measured breaths, I keep ahold of the wheel. Then I pry my fingers free and leave the warmth of the car. The slam of the car door bounces around the quaint neighborhood. I shake out my hands, thinking of the string in my jacket pocket, as I move up the driveway.
I’m almost to the door when a dog bark makes me flinch, and the porch light flicks on. “Shit.”
I stay right where I am, frozen. Unsure of what happens now, or of my next move.
The front door opens. “Who are you?”
The female voice is rough, like the woman has smoked most of her life. She has a thick Northern Ireland accent, reminding me of the lilt I occasionally hear in Grayson’s deep voice. A pang ricochets through me.
I take a step forward, lift my chin. “Hi. My name is—” I stop myself short of giving her my name out of habit. “Sadie Bonds. I’m with American law enforcement—”
She scoffs. “Aye, I can see that. What do you want this bloody early?”
In the dim light, I can barely make out her face, but she’s dressed in a pale-pink robe, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun. She aggressively tries to quiet the black lab at her side, and finally claps her hands to send the whining dog back inside.
I stuff my hands into my jacket, the cold morning and my nerves causing me to shiver. “Are you Rebecca Sullivan?”
“For Christ’s sake,” she mutters, shutting the door. When she looks up, I can clearly discern a white scar running the length of her cheek. She quickly brushes a loose hank of hair forward to cover her face. “I thought you people were done with all that. He’s not here. Hasn’t had anything to do with his mother in ages.” She scoffs again. “A damn sight longer than that.”
My shoulders drop, tension deflating from my body. This is not Grayson’s mother. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”
“Now wait.” She tugs her robe together, cinching the belt tight. “Just what do you want with Becky, anyhow?”
She’s not his mother, but she does know where she is. “I have questions. Things only she knows that could help authorities—”
“You won’t be getting any answers from Becky, I tell ya. Might as well go on back to the US of A. The boy won’t be coming here again. Not after what was done to him.”
I squint, trying to follow along with her quick, accented words. “Do you know where I can find Rebecca?”
She waves a hand through the air. “That slag is gone in the head.” When I raise an eyebrow, she clarifies. “Becky’s in the madhouse. Good riddance.”
* * *
As it turns out, the woman currently living in Rebecca’s townhome is her only living relative, who cared for her up until the disability checks stopped. From what I could gather, Becky became a burden, and her sister let the hospital have her. Good riddance was her final avow before she slammed the door in my face.
Another hour of braving the roadways, and I pull into Meadow Health Services, a psychiatric institute seated on the outskirts of Dublin. I drive around the parking lot until I find a spot, then I try to pull up the ward’s information on my phone.
According to the website, the facility isn’t open yet. I release a breathy curse, frustrated. I sl
ept on the plane, so I’m too wired, too out of my element, to rest. “What the hell am I doing here…”
I spend the next hour reading updates online, and as I’m browsing my local news station, my heart cinches. The FBI procured a search warrant for my office. The report states that Agent Nelson is heading up the search.
Of course he is.