Page 95 of Beneath the Quiet

ROÍSIN: You’ll have to tell me more about this man of yours the next time we meet up.

ME: As long as you don’t expect me to reveal who he is, then fine. And he’s not mine. Don’t forget that.

ROÍSIN: Grand. I have to get back to the café, but tell me one more thing: Did he know how to get you off, or did you have to show him?

A delicious warmth settles in my lower belly, and I lick my lips, remembering how good Aidan was.

ME: He absolutely knew what he was doing.

ROÍSIN: Again, wow. I really need more details, so I can live vicariously through you. I’ll speak with you later.

I leave the bathroom and hurry to get dressed for the day. Even though the warmer season is here, the Irish coast is fickle, and the last thing I need right now is to get sick. I pick a pair of dark-brown, corduroy trousers with a high waist and a white, feminine shirt with a high, lace neckline, and a deep purple knitted cardigan with a wrap-around belt that ties in a bow at the back. Images of the night before flash before me, never far away, even though I should be focused on my job. Not that I expect there’ll be more work to do today down at the station than on any other day.

There might be more to Cloonmara than meets the eye, but if that’s the case, I haven’t discovered it yet. I still don’t know what I’m doing here, and if someone were to ask me why I even agreed to transfer to the Garda station, I’m no closer to having the answer than when I arrived two months ago. I’ve no idea if I want to stay here for longer than a couple of months, but I do know that I have to learn the ways of the village if I want to really connect with the people living here.

And now the bull problem has disappeared–or at least I hope it has–I need to put more effort into learning all I can about the Cloonmara Garda station in general.

I can’t keep hiding away in the back office or I’ll die of boredom.

On my walk to work, the only sounds keeping me company are the soft notes of the breeze blowing, teasing tendrils of my hair loose from the low bun at the nape of my neck, and the crunch of gravel underneath the soles of my practical waterproof hiking shoes. An engine starts off in the distance and follows me gently for most of my walk until it stops, giving way to the optimistic chirping and trills from birds who evidently think it’s summer already, even though we’re only at the beginning of May. I come closer to the village bus stop and take in the small group of children of various ages waiting for a bus to Kinsale. Whereas they weren’t familiar to me a few weeks ago, I recognise some of them, and the soft murmurs of children are comforting to me.

Not as scary as they used to be.

I walk past the group and notice a flyer pinned to a lamppost next to the bus stop with the words Cloonmara Spring Rising Festival in bold, pink letters with a majestic wave painted in the background. I cock my head as I read the dates, wondering how I’ve missed that it’s only a couple of weeks away.

Maybe I just haven’t paid enough attention.

A sudden gust of wind pushes me in the back, and I pull my trenchcoat closer by cinching the belt tighter and pulling up the lapels to cover my neck.

It’s never warm for long in Ireland. Especially not in a village by the sea.

I round the bend in the road, and my eyes land on the stones forming half a circle before the church entrance. I smile at the vicar standing outside St. Brighid’s massive door. He waves to me, his usual mild smile in place, and then continues chatting with an elderly couple on the grounds.

It’s funny how I seem to notice so much more life in the village now that I’m not as preoccupied and lost inside my own head.

Not that I think having rough sex with Aidan is the whole reason, but it definitely helped.

I shake my head at my thoughts that, once again have veered back to him and his clever mouth and tongue…and his cock…and breathe deeply through my nose.

“Enough with the daydreaming, Maeve,” I mutter and take the three steps up to the Garda station. “Get your act together.”

My phone rings, and I stop inside the sliding doors to pull it out of my coat pocket. I step to the side to check the caller ID in private.

Unknown number.

Frowning, I swipe to answer it.

“Detective Sergeant Gallagher.”

“It’s me.”

A sharp pang lances through my chest from the sound of Dot’s voice. I close my eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Now, is that the way to greet your auntie, Maeve?” She makes a tutting sound, and it gets on my nerves. “Have you lost the manners Nellie and Jack taught you? That’s a shame.”

I curl my hand into a fist in my pocket but school my features so as not to alarm any of my colleagues passing me on the way to the office. I don’t know how I lost track of time like this when I should’ve known better. She hasn’t called in three months. Not since I was released from the hospital and she phoned, begging me to lie to the police about Joe.