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they still might. I’m not sure. I’m in town to see some friends, and I thought I’d drop by and find out if my relatives were here or not.”
    “You’re related to Annie?” the woman asked, and I shivered at the mention of the name.
    “Yes,” I said, fighting hard to keep my voice steady. “And Dermot and Angela.” My parents. “Do they still live here?”
    “Dermot and Angela moved away three or four years ago,” the woman said. She stepped up beside me, at ease now, and squinted at the house. “They should have left sooner. That was never a happy house, not since their boy died.” The woman looked sideways at me. “You know about that?”
    “I remember my dad saying something,” I muttered, ears turning red.
    “I wasn’t living here then,” the woman said. “But I’ve heard all about it. He fell out of a window. The family stayed on, but it was a miserable place after that. I don’t know why they stuck around so long. You can’t enjoy yourself in a house of bitter memories.”
    “But they did stay,” I said, “until three or four years ago? And then moved on?”
    “Yes. Dermot had a mild heart attack. He had to retire early.”
    “Heart attack!” I gasped. “Is he OK?”
    “Yes.” The woman smiled at me. “I said it was mild, didn’t I? But they decided to move when he retired. Left for the coast. Angela often said she’d like to live by the sea.”
    “What about Annie?” I asked. “Did she go with them?”
    “No. Annie stayed. She still lives here — her and her boy.”
    “Boy?”
I blinked.
    “Her son.” The woman frowned. “Are you sure you’re a relative? You don’t seem to know much about your own family.”
    “I’ve lived abroad most of my life,” I said truthfully.
    “Oh.” The woman lowered her voice. “Actually, I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you talk about in front of children. How old are you, Derek?”
    “Sixteen,” I lied.
    “Then I guess you’re old enough. My name’s Bridget, by the way.”
    “Hello, Bridget.” I forced a smile, silently willing her to get on with the story.
    “The boy’s a nice enough child, but he’s not really a Shan.”
    “What do you mean?” I frowned.
    “He was born out of wedlock. Annie never married. I’m not even sure anyone except her knows who the father is. Angela claimed they knew, but she never told us his name.”
    “I guess lots of women choose not to marry these days,” I sniffed, not liking the way Bridget was talking about Annie.
    “True.” Bridget nodded. “Nothing wrong with wanting the child but not the husband. But Annie was on the young side. She was just sweet sixteen when the baby was born.”
    Bridget was glowing, the way gossips do when they’re telling a juicy story. I wanted to snap at her, but it was better to hold my tongue.
    “Dermot and Angela helped raise the baby,” Bridget continued. “He was a blessing in some ways. He became a replacement for their lost son. He brought some joy back into the house.”
    “And now Annie looks after him by herself?” I asked.
    “Yes. Angela came back a lot during the first year, for weekends and holidays. But now the boy’s more independent, Annie can cope by herself. They get along as well as most, I guess.” Bridget glanced at the house and sniffed. “But they could do with giving that old wreck a slap of paint.”
    “I think the house looks fine,” I said stiffly. “What do sixteen-year-old boys know about houses?” Bridget laughed. Then she bid me good day and went about her business. I was going to call her back, to ask when Annie would be home. But then I decided not to. Just as easy — and more exciting — to wait out here and watch for her.
    There was a small tree on the other side of the road. I stood by it, hood up over my head, checking my watch every few minutes as though I was waiting to meet somebody. The street was quiet and not many people passed.
    The day darkened and dusk set upon the town. There was a bite in