I’m beginning to lose hope that we’ll ever find them.” Aileen Quinn stared out the window of her office at the slate-gray sky. Autumn was quickly turning to winter and she dreaded the damp cold that would settle into her bones. In her younger days, she’d traveled to the south of France during the worst of the Irish winter, soaking up the sun along the Mediterranean coast. But she hadn’t traveled for years, finding herself more comfortable in familiar surroundings. “I have one more lead to check on your brother Diarmuid,” Ian said, leafing through his notes. “But I’m sad to say that we’ve found nothing on Lochlan. I have researchers on four continents looking for him, but he just disappeared. Off the grid, they call it.” Aileen had hired Ian Stephens months ago to help her research the parents she’d never known for a chapter in her autobiography. She had grown up in an orphanage, believing that she’d been the only daughter of a destitute Irish widow who’d died of consumption—after her husband had been killed in the Easter Uprising.
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