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So she knows already, he thought. Knows her sister’s long dead. “I know it now. He killed her. I don’t know what to say to you.”

She set her cup down, very carefully. “Tell me the story as you know it now. That’s what I want to hear.”

He told her, while she sat in silence, watching him. And when he’d told her all he knew, she rose, filled a kettle, put it on the stove.

“I’ve known it, all these years. We could never prove it, of course. The police, they didn’t help, didn’t seem to care. She was just one more girl gone astray.”

“He had a few cops in his pocket back then. One or two is all it takes when you want something covered. You could never have proved it, however you tried.”

Her shoulders trembled once on a long breath, then she turned. “We tried to find you, at first. For her sake. For Siobhan. My brother, Ned, nearly died trying. They beat him half to death, left him in a Dublin alley. He had a wife, and a babe of his own. Much as it pained us, we had to let you go. I’m sorry.”

He only stared, and said, very slowly. “My father killed her.”

“Yes.” Tears swam into her eyes. “And I hope the murdering son of a whore’s burning in hell. I won’t ask God to forgive me for saying it, for hoping it.” Carefully, she folded the red-and-white dishcloth, then sat back down while the kettle heated for more tea.

“I felt, when I learned all this, what had happened to her, I felt you—her family—deserved to be told. That it was only right that I tell you, face-to-face. I realize it’s no easier hearing it from me, maybe harder at that, but it was the only way I knew.”

Watching his face, she leaned back. “Come from America, did you, for this?”

“I did, yes.”

“We heard of you—your exploits, young Roarke. His father’s son, I thought. An operator, a dangerous man. Heartless man. I think you may be a dangerous man, but it’s not a heartless one sitting in my kitchen waiting for me to slap him for something he had no part in.”

“I didn’t look for her, never thought of her. I did nothing to put it right.”

“What are you doing now? Sitting here with me while your tea goes cold?”

“I don’t know. Christ Jesus, I don’t know. Because there’s nothing I can do.”

“She loved you. We didn’t hear from her much. I think he wouldn’t let her, and she only managed to sneak a few calls or letters off now and then. But she loved you, heart and soul. It’s right that you should grieve for her, but not that you should pay.”

She rose when the kettle sputtered. “She was my twin.”

“I know.”

“I’d be your aunt. You have two uncles, grandparents, any number of cousins if you’re interested.”

“I . . . it’s difficult to take it in.”

“I imagine it is. Aye, I imagine it is. You have her eyes,” she said quietly.

Baffled, he shook his head. “Hers were green. Her eyes were green, like yours. I saw her picture.”

“Not the color, but the shape.” She turned around. “The shape of your eyes is hers. And like mine, don’t you see?” She stepped to him, laid a hand over his. “It seems to me that the shape of something is important, more important than the color.”

When emotion stormed through him, Sinead did what came naturally. She drew his head to her breast, stroked his hair. “There now,” she murmured, holding her sister’s boy. “There now. She’d be glad you’ve come. She’d be happy you’re here, at last.”

Later, she took him out to where the edge of the yard met the first field. “We planted that for her.” She gestured to a tall, many-branched tree. “We made no grave for her. I knew she was gone, but it didn’t seem right to make a grave for her. So we planted a cherry tree. It blooms fine every spring. And when I see it bloom, it gives me some comfort.”

“It’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Your people are farmers, Roarke, generations back.” She smiled when he looked at her. “We held on to the land, no matter what. We’re stubborn, hotheaded, and we’ll work till we drop. You come from that.”

“I’ve spent years trying to shake off where I came from. Not looking back.”

“You can look back on this with pride. He couldn