Page 10 of Beneath the Quiet

“Sarah,” I call out to my partner. “Please make sure that Robert gets home safely.”

Sarah jabs her thumb behind her. “You don’t want me to drop you off at home first?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I think I’d rather walk home tonight.”

Without another word, she turns and walks back towards the car. She slides in and starts it, and then sets off at a slow pace. She’ll catch up with him in no time.

“We don’t make it a habit of tearing at each other’s throats like that, DS Gallagher.”

I glance at the now soft-spoken vicar next to me.

“Maeve,” I murmur.

He turns his head, eyes raised in a silent question, and I smile softly at him.

“My name’s Maeve.” I roll my neck, trying to force the tension away now that the confrontation is over. “Let’s give the formality a rest for the night, eh?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners and he sighs. “Thank you. I am sorry about this, Maeve. Please stop by the rectory soon and we’ll have a proper chat. Ah!” His lips stretch in a wide smile. “You’ve yet to meet my wife, haven’t you? She’s talked of little else since she heard the village was about to welcome a new resident.”

“I’ll stop by soon,” I reply vaguely. The exhausted part of me wants to refuse the warm invitation, but I manage to stop myself before the words tumble from my lips.

“That’s grand.”

I suppress a yawn, longing for some quiet reading time before I head to bed, and I give Simon my hand. “Goodnight.”

He gives my hand a firm but brief shake.

“Goodnight.”

I pull my hoodie up over my head and briskly walk away from the now jovial vicar.

Chapter Five

Maeve

Funny how people can change in the blink of an eye. I never would have suspected that the vicar had such a temper, but then again, it really shouldn’t surprise me after so many years working as a police officer. At least there’s no risk of having to deal with the worst kinds of mankind in Cloonmara.

Or I hope there won’t be.

The relentlessly brisk night air sets my teeth chattering, and I pull my jacket closer around me.

“Damn it,” I mutter. “Why didn’t I bring a scarf?”

My jacket and hoodie don't offer enough of a shield to provide me with the warmth I need, but it’ll have to do for the fifteen-minute walk to the cottage. As the wind sweeps through my hair, tossing the strands around my face, I set off in a half-run on the pavement and turn a corner, my feet slapping hard against the pavement. The soothing rhythm is mechanical, measured, focused on getting out of the cold and finding shelter. A sharp twinge in my side makes me gasp.

“Crap.”

Even though I’m alone, I keep my voice down. Just as I’m about to round another bend in the road, a shadow at the corner of my eye makes me jolt to a stop. I ball my hands into fists, ready to use them if I must. Old habits die hard, especially when you’re walking home alone on a dark road, even in small villages such as this one.

The mysterious figure leans against a tree trunk a few meters away. I breathe in, frowning when the same peppermint scent from Mrs. McCarthy’s tea earlier hits my nostrils. It doesn’t stop my heart from racing against my ribcage, though. My breaths fall out in laboured whooshes, but as the shadowy form comes quietly towards me, the light from the solitary lamppost beams down on them.

For a short moment, the adrenaline coursing through my veins spikes.

“Evening, Detective.”

“Aidan?” I yelp.

He raises a steaming mug in greeting. “The one and only.”