“Adam’s people?” he asked. “Well, technically the head of his main special unit—”
“Jackson and Angela, sir. Of course, we’re here to do anything we can.”
“You mean that youwillfind my granddaughter,” Donegal said desperately.
Jackson glanced at Angela. Age-old situation within law enforcement, one that came up time and time again. You never promised a happy conclusion to a case.
“Sir, I can promise you this,” Jackson told the man. “We will not stop; we will see that every possible angle is investigated; and that, sir, is why we need to start with you and the house.”
“The house!” Donegal moaned. “The very day security would have been top of the line, cameras here, there, and everywhere, and . . . “
“Shall we sit?” Detective Murphy suggested.
“Of course. I have lost my manners,” Donegal said. “Loveseat by the coffee table has two armchairs . . . best place, I guess. Or the dining room table if . . .”
“Actually,” Angela suggested, “gentlemen, please, take a seat. We want to see the area where the so-called leprechaun left the note and all the shamrocks and so on.”
“I can show you—” Murphy began.
“It’s best if we look first!” Angela said. “Then ask for your help.”
“Sure,” Murphy said. “But you know that the note and the shamrocks all went into our forensic department.”
“Right. And they tried the door for fingerprints and any clues, yes. Sometimes, when you walk into a room . . .”
“Indeed, I know,” Murphy told them. “Sir,” he said then, turning to address the home’s owner. “Mr. Donegal, please, we’ll take a seat and let them see what they can see with fresh eyes.”
“Thanks, Detective,” Jackson said. “Naturally—”
“We’ve had someone on the phone lines,” Conor assured them.
“And at the office,” Sean Donegal said, his tone so sadly desperate, “Elizabeth and her crew have been manning the phone lines constantly.”
“And all prepared,” Conor added quietly.
“Thank you,” Jackson told him.
Jackson and Angela walked through the dining room and into the kitchen.
“It will be nice when Zach and Skye get here,” Angela murmured. She fell silent and then she lifted her head, indicating that Jackson should look where she was looking.
There was a woman across the room. Or the spirit of a woman, Jackson thought. She was dressed in garments that would have been worn centuries ago, her face and head draped in sheer fabric as if she was . . .
In mourning.
And he saw that Angela knew right away what the presence of the spirit meant.
“No!” she whispered softly.
The spirit saw her distress and hurried over to her. “Please . . . aye, lass! I am a banshee, but I came years ago withthe previous owners. And you know, of course, that . . . that I experienced my own mourning over so many and came to know how to allow those who have lost loved ones to feel their pain and then come to terms with it that they might live out the rest of their own lives. You’ve not heard me because—”
“Because Colleen Donegal isn’t dead?” Angela asked softly.
“She is not dead,” the banshee said. “Not . . .”
“Yet?” Jackson asked.
“I wasn’t here when the kidnapping occurred,” the banshee explained. “I was, um, hitchhiking to that meeting Mr. Donegal had. I worry about the man; he is brilliant and kind and . . . I worry about him, and I suppose I believed that I might be here to help those left behind and care for Sean when the time came for him to enter the next world. I never suspected . . .”
