The Whisper. Carla Neggers

hard for Taryn, and she for him, except she’d never admit as much, even to Sophie. An Irish fisherman didn’t fit into Taryn’s already complicated life.

      Just a touch of spring fever, she’d said, flushed as she’d headed to London.

      Tim had grumbled that he should have known better than to swoon over a woman who was an actress, an American and Sophie’s twin. Sophie had met him two years ago when she’d spent part of the winter in Kenmare, working on her dissertation. Right from the start, she and Tim had been more like brother and sister. Not the case, she thought, with him and her twin sister.

      Taryn peeled off her teal wool scarf; she’d wound it around her neck, making it look easy, sophisticated and sexy all at the same time. She had an unobstructed view of the small stage where Tim and his friends, who looked as if they’d just come from catching dinner, were setting up, but she carefully pretended not to notice them as she and Sophie each ordered a glass of Guinness.

      “I spoke to Damian just before I arrived in Kenmare,” Taryn said.

      “I’m sure he wishes he could be here.”

      “You’re not a credible liar, Sophie. I’m only slightly better because I’m an actor, but lying doesn’t come easily to either of us. Damian said he talked to you earlier today. He sounded put out with you. Are you mixed up in some top-secret FBI investigation?” Even as Sophie thought she was suppressing any visible reaction, her sister gasped. “Sophie! I was just kidding, but you are mixed up in something.”

      “No, I’m not. I asked Damian about what’s gone on in Boston this summer. That’s all. It’s natural I’d be curious.”

      Sophie had no intention of getting into her experience in the island cave a year ago. Taryn didn’t know—unless Damian had decided to call the guards himself and had found out about it and told Taryn. Which Sophie doubted. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her family, but they’d only worry if they knew, never mind that she’d promised the guards she wouldn’t tell anyone.

      “What did Damian tell you about Boston?”

      “Nothing much.”

      “Sophie—”

      Fortunately, their parents entered the pub and joined them at their table. They’d come straight from Dublin. James and Antonia Malone, Sophie thought with affection, were relishing their early retirement, diving into their love of storytelling, music, drama, art and exploring. Their twin daughters’ red hair came from their mother, although the shade was unreliable since she’d started using a near-orange dye now to cover any gray. She was as tall as Taryn but had Sophie’s sense of adventure. A lifelong New Englander, she’d met their father, the son of Irish immigrants, hiking on the Dingle Peninsula in college.

      They’d been home in western Massachusetts during her brush with death last year. There was nothing they could do if she’d told them but worry. She’d returned to her work on her dissertation and tried to put the incident behind her.

      Tim looked straight at Taryn and gave her a sexy smile as he put his fiddle to his chin. Then he and his friends launched into a rousing, pulse-pounding rendition of “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye.” Their music was lively and authentic, the perfect counter to a stress-filled day.

      Taryn sipped her Guinness, her attention riveted on the musicians. “They’re really good, aren’t they, Sophie?”

      “Fantastic.”

      The compliment was sincere, but she hoped Tim wouldn’t decide to join them on his break given their earlier talk on the pier. Of course he did, pulling over a low stool and plopping down. Sophie knew that was the risk she’d taken in choosing this particular pub. She trusted him not to tell her family about the island, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t blab about her excursion to the Beara Peninsula that morning.

      “The Malones return to our wee village,” he said, grinning.

      He obviously wasn’t going to bring up anything awkward. Sophie tried not to look too relieved. Taryn smiled, but she was unusually quiet, letting her sister and parents carry on the conversation with Tim. Their parents had met him on a visit to Kenmare months before he’d fallen hard for Taryn—before he’d let Sophie talk him into dropping her off on the island.

      They talked about music and hiking and weather, and he finally got up for his next set. His gaze settled briefly on Sophie, but it was enough. She got the message. He hated withholding information from her family, and he knew she was up to something.

      “I head to Boston tomorrow,” she said, pretending she hadn’t already told him. “I’m staying at Taryn’s apartment there.”

      He shifted to Taryn. “What about you? When do you go back to Boston?”

      “For good? Not for a while. My play in London runs through October. After that, who knows? I’m waiting for word about a trip to New York. It could come anytime. I’ll just be there for a few days, though.”

      “Do you have an audition?” he asked.

      She lowered her eyes. “Something like that.”

      “I’ve a distant cousin in Boston.” Tim gave Sophie a pointed look. “A firefighter.”

      His tone suggested he’d been doing some research of his own on the goings-on in Boston over the summer and the injured police detective staying on the Beara. Given their earlier conversation, Sophie wasn’t surprised or irritated. If she could do it all over again, she’d never have gone out to the island a year ago. She wasn’t even sure she’d have had lunch with Colm Dermott last week and listened to him relate what he knew about Keira Sullivan’s unsettling night alone in the Irish wilds.

      When Tim returned to the stage, James Malone eyed his two daughters with open skepticism. “When I was a working stiff in corporate America,” he said, “I learned about subtext. I would say there was an encyclopedia of subtext in that exchange. Either of you want to tell me what just went on?”

      Taryn, good actress though she was, floundered, but Sophie grinned at her father and held up her glass of Guinness. “You know these Irish men, Dad.”

      “That’s my point,” he muttered.

      His wife elbowed him before he could say more and raised her own glass. “And to us poor women who love them.”

      Sophie laughed, relishing her time with her family. Her parents were having a ball with their retirement. Let it be that way for a long time, she thought, just as, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a lone man enter the pub. As a waiter led him to a small table, she was surprised to recognize Percy Carlisle, a wealthy Bostonian she hadn’t seen in a year.

      Taryn leaned close to Sophie. “What’s he doing here?”

      “I have no idea,” Sophie said half under her breath. She left her drink on the table and quickly stood up, heading to his table. She dropped onto the chair across from him without waiting to be invited. “Hey, Percy. I didn’t know you were in Ireland.”

      “I only arrived last night. Helen and I were in London.”

      “Is she here with you?”

      He shook his head. “She’s gone back to Boston.”

      A waiter appeared, and Percy ordered coffee, nothing else. He was in his early forties, dressed in a heavy wool cardigan and wide-wale corduroys that bagged on his lanky frame. He had inherited a family fortune and spent most of his time pursuing his interests in travel, art, music, history and genealogy. Sophie had run into him on occasion when she was a student in Boston and had done research at the Carlisle Museum. They’d gotten along without becoming real friends or, certainly, romantically involved. She hadn’t seen him since she’d moved to Ireland to continue her studies—except briefly late last summer when he’d looked her up while he was visiting friends in Killarney.

      “I was in the area and remembered your family has a house here,” Percy said now. “I was on my way there when I saw you and your