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Mrs. Buckley did have nice jewelry. Kyle’s exact type. Did age matter to him? Not if some easy money was involved. But Mrs. Buckley was married… or was that a lie all along?

She’d liked Mrs. Buckley. They’d sat together, had tea. Mrs. Buckley had brought her those novels. If the woman had been sleeping with her brother this whole time… Addy couldn’t think about it. She’d get sick.

“Can you call her?” Roman asked Oliver.

“And confront her by phone? No. If she’s been lying to me for the last three months, I want to see her face when I call her out on it.”

Was Kyle aware they were looking for him and deliberately staying away? Was Mrs. Buckley the spy he’d sent into Oliver’s home?

Oh God. Was Mrs. Buckley his wife number three?

No. Impossible. He’d dated Daisy. He’d not date Daisy’s mother too… Or would he?

“We can meet her wherever she wants.” Addison needed answers before her mind filled in the gaps.

Oliver tossed his mobile from hand to hand, as if deliberating. Finally, he dialed.

He didn’t put the cell on speaker. To Addison’s annoyance, he stepped away before he started to say something into the phone. Fine, he didn’t want anyone else in the group to hear the conversation. She got that. But it was a reminder that he didn’t trust her either.

Not that he had much reason for it.

When Oliver returned, he slid the cell into his pocket. “She happens to also be in Dublin. She said she’ll meet us within the hour. I gave her the name of a breakfast place.”

“Why a breakfast place?” asked Mandy.

“Because I’m hungry. Addy and I’ll meet her there.”

Well, at least he trusted her enough to bring her.

Addison turned to her brother’s friend. “Brendan, keep looking for him. I’ll double what Patty is paying you if you bring him to me first.”

“I know all about Netta’s mother,” said Brendan. “I’ll bring him to you first for free.”

“Keep us updated. We’ll be around.” Roman extended a hand to Oliver.

Oliver didn’t shake it right away—two beats ticked by, three. But Roman never faltered, waiting patiently for Oliver to decide.

Finally, Oliver clasped Roman’s hand. “Will do.”

The breakfast place was a short walk from the Molly Malone statue, a bronze sculpture of a seventeenth-century fishmonger whose chest had been polished gold by tourists groping her for luck.

Addy and Oliver pushed through clusters of tour groups, guides herding them toward waiting buses. A delivery truck idled nearby, a worker rolling kegs across the cobblestones—the sound like gunfire.

Her steps faltered. Despite the relatively warm day, she felt cold and shivery, like she was coming down with something again. Only this time she knew it was nerves.

“If Mrs. Buckley is married to Kyle, I won’t be able to handle it,” she said as they walked.

“Addy, I’ve no doubt in my mind that you can handle anything. But let’s hope they’re not married. The very idea…” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

The thought disturbed her too. But she’d learned long ago that when it came to her brother, nothing was a surprise. “She is his type. She has nice jewelry. Fancy clothes. Can probably afford his lifestyle.”

Oliver considered her. “That ad was left in my door right after I moved in. She knew what she was doing.”

Addison didn’t want to be right. Mrs. Buckley seemed so nice. Would the woman have burrowed her way into Oliver’s home to keep tabs on him?

Her PI hadn’t brought up Miriam or Daisy’s names. Had Oliver’s?

“Did your investigator mention a Daisy or Miriam Buckley?”