Something about an artist who’d turned up missing in Ireland. Keira Sullivan. The flaxen-haired fairy princess with a penchant for trouble. “You met her the other night in Boston,” Owen said. “I remember.” Simon pictured her floating into the drawing room in her long skirt. “She was off to Ireland to look into an old story. What’s going on?” “She was supposed to call her uncle this morning from the pub in the village where she’s rented a cottage. When he didn’t hear from her, he checked with the pub. The barman said he’d expected her to stop in last night, but she didn’t, and no one’s seen her today. She doesn’t 102 CARLA NEGGERS have a cell phone, and there’s no phone at the cottage she rented.” Simon felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten. “Why doesn’t her uncle ask someone from the pub to go knock on her door?” “He did. She wasn’t there. Her rented car’s in the drive way.” “She’s an adult. She’s in Ireland on her own. How do we know she didn’t just jump on the bus and go to Dublin for a few days?”
