“Not yet,” I said quickly. “I need to understand morefirst. I can’t just walk in there and announce that my family might be responsible for... whatever this is.”
Liora nodded slowly. “That’s fair. But we don’t know that they are responsible for anything. It could all just be bad luck, or whatever. Either way, you’re connected. I’m sure of it. And you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”
She gathered her things and headed for the door, Bracken riding on her shoulder. At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“That thread between you and Graham? The gold one, underneath all the darkness?” A small smile crossed her face. “It’s strong, Agnes. Exceptionally strong. Whatever’s trying to block it, it hasn’t succeeded. Not completely.”
She was gone before I could respond, the bell chiming softly behind her.
I stood alone in my shop, surrounded by my books—my first loves—and pressed a hand to my chest.
Maybe Liora was right. Maybe there was a way to break this.
Or maybe trying would only make things worse.
Either way, I couldn’t keep standing still. I couldn’t keep letting fear make my choices for me.
A holding pattern was a terrible place to reside.
I walked to the back of the shop, to the small storage room where I kept things I didn’t want customers to see. On the top shelf, behind a box of old receipts, was the wooden box I’d inherited from Gran.
I’d looked through it once, years ago, and had foundletters and photographs and small keepsakes that had made me cry but hadn’t given me any answers.
It was time to look again.
CHAPTER FIVE
GRAHAM
The lunch rush had finally cleared out, leaving the pub in that particular state of quiet that always felt like the eye of a storm. I usually closed for an hour or two in the afternoon and I liked the place empty—just me, a bar that needed wiping, and my own thoughts.
The Tipsy Thistle had been a dream of mine that Sophie’s uncle had helped me keep going when times hit hard. I hadn’t had much to call my own growing up. My dad had skipped town when I was a wee bairn, a wanderer of sorts, I was told, and my mum worked two jobs to make ends meet. More often than not, I’d taken my tea at the castle, under Hilda’s watchful eye, and had grown up craving a sense of home and community that I’d been missing in my own life. When the property had becomeavailable, and I’d been offered an interest-free loan to polish up the space and make it my own, I’d jumped at the chance.
No, going off to uni and moving away was never on my list. I was happy here, well, happy enough, and being close to home allowed me to keep an eye on my aging mum. I’d built something that I was proud of, and even in some of the recent lean years, I was making it work.
If only I could make my love life work, too.
Bloody Agnes.
It felt like all my thoughts were about Agnes these days. I tried, unsuccessfully, to rid her from my brain, but since that never worked, now I just let my brain obsess about her. Because pretending she didn’t matter wasn’t doing me any favors.
I’d barely slept after walking her home last night. Every time I’d closed my eyes, I’d seen her face in the streetlight—that look of longing and fear, of all things, like I was something she desperately wanted and couldn’t allow herself to have.
Or perhaps that was my hope projecting.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t.
What the hell did that even mean?
The door swung open and I looked up, ready to paste on my professional barman’s smile, only to find Lachlan and Munroe walking in like they owned the place.
“We’re closed between shifts,” I said, turning back to the glass I was polishing.
“Good thing we’re not customers then.” Lachlan slid onto a barstool, all easy confidence and knowing eyes. “We’re concerned mates.”
