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town—rained out by now, I’m sure. I imagine traffic’s a nightmare.”
    “Can you call her?”
    “She doesn’t own a cell phone. No phone upstairs in her apartment, either.”
    “Why not?”
    “Just the way she is.”
    A flake , Simon thought. He’d learned, not that he was interested, that Keira was renting a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of the Garrison house until she figured out whether she wanted to stay in Boston. He understood wanting to keep moving—he lived on a boat himself and not by accident.
    “Abigail’s bidding on one of Keira’s pieces,” Owen said.
    “The fairies or the Irish cottage?”
    “The cottage, I think.”
    They were imaginative, cheerful pieces. Keira had a flare
    THE ANGEL
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    for capturing and creating a mood—a part-real, part
    imagined place where people wanted to be. Her work wasn’t sentimental, but it wasn’t edgy and self-involved, either. Simon didn’t have much use for a painting of fairies or an Irish cottage in his life. No house to hang it in, for one thing. Irish music kicked up, and he noticed an ensemble of young musicians in the far corner, obviously enjoying themselves on their mix of traditional instruments. He picked out a tin whistle, Irish harp, bodhran, mandolin, fiddle and guitar.
    Not bad, Simon thought. But then, he liked Irish music.
    “The girl on the harp is Fiona O’Reilly,” Owen said.
    “Bob’s oldest daughter.”
    Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more about Owen’s friends in Boston, especially ones in, or related to, people in law enforcement. It was all too tricky. Too damn dangerous. But here he was, playing with fire. Owen’s gaze drifted back to his fiancée, who wore a simple black dress and was laughing and half dancing to the spirited music. Abigail caught his eye and waved, her smile broadening. They were working on setting a date for their wedding. Whenever it was, Simon planned to be out of the country.
    “You can’t tell her about me, Owen.”
    “I know.” He broke his eye contact with Abigail and sighed at Simon. “She’ll find out you’re not just another Fast Rescue volunteer on her own. One way or the other, she’ll figure out your relationship with her father—she’ll figure out that I knew and didn’t tell her. Then she’ll hang us both by our thumbs.”
    “We’ll deserve it, but you still can’t tell her. My asso
    ciation with March is classified. We shouldn’t even be talking about it now.”
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    CARLA NEGGERS
    Owen gave a curt nod.
    Simon felt a measure of sympathy for his friend. “I’m sorry I put you in this position.”
    “You didn’t. It just happened.”
    “I should have lied.”
    “You did lie. You just didn’t get away with it.”
    The song ended, and the band transitioned right into the
    “The Rising of the Moon,” a song Simon knew well enough from his days in Dublin pubs to hum. But he didn’t hum, because if he’d been mistaken for an art critic—or at least an art snob—already tonight, next he’d be mistaken for a music critic. Then he’d have to rethink his entire approach to his life, or at least start a brawl.
    “In some ways,” he said, “my lie was more true than the truth.”
    Owen grabbed a glass of champagne. “Only you could come up with a statement like that, Simon.”
    “There are facts, and there’s truth. They’re not always the same thing.”
    A whirl of movement by the entry drew Simon’s atten
    tion, and he gave up on trying to explain himself. A woman stood in the doorway, soaking wet, water dripping off the ends of her long, blond hair.
    “The missing artist, I presume.”
    Even as he spoke, Simon saw that something was wrong. He heard Owen’s breath catch and knew he saw it, too. The woman—she had to be Keira Sullivan—was unnaturally pale and unsteady on her feet, her eyes wide as she seemed to search the crowd for someone.
    Simon surged forward, Owen right with him, and they reached her just as she rallied, straightening