‘I know, Mother,’ Lottie said. ‘You told me numerous times.’
Before this she couldn’t get her mother to talk about her brother or her father. Now, she couldn’t shut her up. Rose had explained to Lottie that Eddie was an awful handful after their father committed suicide. She had despaired of what to do about him until, on the advice of the parish priest, she placed him in the care of St Angela’s for six months. And then he disappeared.
‘And poor Eddie, we called him after—’
‘Edward Rochester. Jane Eyre,’ Lottie said. ‘I know.’
But she didn’t know anything any more.
The digger operator held up his hand and switched off the machine. It was getting dark and Lottie didn’t know if he’d found something or was quitting for the night.
She moved away from her mother, leaving her standing with Chloe. Katie was at home minding Sean. They were not doing too well, either of them. The Rickards had buried Jason five days after he died, in a private ceremony. None of Lottie’s family were there. The Rickards didn’t want to see Katie. The girl couldn’t understand it. Lottie could. Boyd had bought Sean a PlayStation 4. It was still in its box, unopened. She’d got him a new hurling kit; he’d thrown it under his bed.
Now she was struggling to keep her family intact. Her children needed her more than at any time since they’d buried their father. They were son and daughters, sisters and brother. Lottie knew how the hasty action of a mother could change that dynamic for ever, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not where her children were concerned.
In her job, she still didn’t know if there would be any disciplinary action regarding her flight to Rome and her handling of the murder investigations. Superintendent Corrigan was reluctant to apologise for his actions in shielding the bishop and was avoiding her. But for now she was on paid leave. Work could wait.
The sky leached grey into black, and night was descending before the day had succeeded in fulfilling itself. Lottie felt the same.
A spotlight directed a shaft of light into the three-foot-deep hole. She knew it was time.
The new moon glinted in the dark.
The Black Moon.
Maybe the bad omens were behind them. Maybe not.
She stood on the edge of an abyss wondering where she would find the inner strength to walk away. But Lottie Parker never walked away.
She noticed Father Joe standing at the wall, by the archway. Jeans and black polo-neck sweater under his big jacket. He was taking a sabbatical. His whole life, he had unknowingly lived a lie, and now he grieved for his dead birth mother, whom he had never known. He looked lost, a deep sadness shading his eyes. Lottie waved, then dropped her hand as he walked away. Suffering for the secrets of others.
This reminded her again of her own family secret which this case had awakened. Her brother’s yellowing missing person’s file in her drawer; she could never again deny it. And she was proud of his heroism. O’Malley had told the story, painting Fitzy’s – her own brother’s – time in St Angela’s in big bold colours. Her mother had cried for days.
Lottie sensed Boyd falling into step beside her. She felt his hand resting on the small of her back, soft and comforting.
‘It will only be bones. You don’t have to look, Lottie.’
She glanced up at the dark windows, then she walked closer to the unmarked grave beneath the bare apple tree, highlighted by the radiance of the crescent moon.
‘Oh, but I do,’ Lottie said, peering over the mound of clay. ‘I do.’