yes, yes. My apologies. Miss Quinn, this is Marlena Jenner from Back Bay Productions in Boston. She’s the producer I told you about. The one who wants to make a documentary about your life.”
Aileen chuckled softly. “I see. Well, Mr. Stephens, I admire your persistence. But as I said before, I’m not certain my life would be so interesting on film.”
“Oh, but I disagree,” Marlena said. “Yours is a rags-to-riches story. And your books are so popular worldwide that I’m sure all your fans would want to get to know you better. You’ve done so few interviews over the years, Miss Quinn.” She drew a quick breath, then quickly continued on. “And Ian has told me about your search for your brothers. Perhaps this documentary could help to find Conal.” She turned to Ian. “It is Conal, right?”
He nodded and forced a smile as she started to continue with her plea. But Aileen jumped in. “Miss Jenner, I—”
“Please, call me Marlie. We’re going to be working closely over the next few months, after all. At least I hope we are. I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read all your books. Some of them three or four times. They got me through a very difficult point in my life.”
Aileen glanced back and forth between Ian and Marlie. “Well, I suppose if you’re that determined, then we ought to sit down and talk. Sally, would you get us tea? We’ll have it in the library.”
Aileen started off in the direction of the library, then looked over her shoulder to find Marlie standing mute in the hallway, an expression of shock on her face. Starstruck—because she’d invited her to tea? “Come along, then.”
Maybe the pretty young woman was right. This might be the only way to find Conal and his heirs. A film about her life and her search for Conal and her other lost siblings would go much further than her autobiography ever would.
She didn’t have much time left to finish her search. At ninety-seven, she was grateful for every sunrise she saw. And she was busy planning a huge family reunion over the Christmas holidays, renting a castle and making arrangements for a wonderful time for all.
But it wouldn’t be complete without knowing what had happened to Conal. The clues to his existence, and any possible heirs, were out there somewhere, waiting for her to find them. And if she wasn’t willing to do absolutely everything to make that happen, then why bother with her search at all?
She waited for Marlena to catch up to her, then slipped her hand around the younger woman’s arm. “So tell me, Miss Jenner. How will this all work? When will we begin?”
“Next week,” Marlie said. “We’ll begin filming interviews with you, and we’ll finish by filming your new family at your holiday celebration, if they agree.”
The young lady seemed quite invested in this project. And she was a fan, so Aileen could count on the film being complimentary. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Conal. He was the only one still missing.
“Lovely,” Aileen said. “And how quickly will your documentary be finished?”
1
HE WOKE in a cold sweat, the darkness in the room swallowing him like a giant black vortex. Dex Kennedy gasped for breath, sitting up and throwing aside the covers on the bed.
His bare chest was damp with perspiration, yet the room had a chill. Where was he? What time was it? He drew a deep breath, searching for a scent that might give him a clue. He wasn’t in the desert; he wasn’t in the jungle. The smell of lavender clung to the sheets, and he realized he was in Ireland, in his sister’s flat in Killarney. There was no danger. He was safe.
Dex turned on the bedside lamp, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When would the nightmares end? he wondered. It had been nearly a year now, and though his body had healed from the two gunshot wounds, his mind was still back on that landing strip cut out of the jungle in Colombia.
He and his filmmaking partner, writer and director, Matt Crenshaw, had gone there to get footage for a documentary about the drug wars that had plagued the country. With help from some locals, they had managed to film damning footage of one of the most powerful cartels. They were almost to the plane and to safety when the cartel’s thugs had pinned them down with automatic weapons fire from the surrounding bush.
Matt had been hit in the leg before they were able to get on the plane and make their escape. Hit in the femoral artery, Matt had bled out in front of Dex, a couple thousand feet above the jungles of southern Colombia.
It had all happened so fast. Matt had been alive and cracking jokes one moment and gone the next.
Dex drew another ragged breath and ran his fingers through his hair. A bottle of sleeping pills sat unopened on the bedside table. Maybe he ought to give in and take a few. The prospect of sleeping an entire night was almost too much to resist. He wanted to lose himself in that feeling of utter exhaustion again, to finally let his mind rest.
Dex reached for the bottle. Twisting open the cap, he dumped the pills into his hand and stared down at them. He could understand why someone might just toss back the whole lot of them. Sleep deprivation could do queer things to the mind, make you take desperate measures for just a few moments of peace.
Cursing beneath his breath, he hurled the pills at the wall and they scattered around the room.
“Dex?” The muffled sound of his sister’s voice came through the door. “Are you still awake?”
“Yeah,” he called.
“Are...are you all right, then?”
“Fine,” Dex said. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, searching for the battered trousers he’d discarded earlier. The bloodstains were still there, but they had faded over the past months. Dex pulled them on, leaving the top button undone.
He ought to have thrown the trousers out. They were a constant reminder of what had happened. But Dex wanted to be reminded. Matt had been his best friend and the only partner he ever wanted to work with. Running his palm over the stain, Dex felt emotion tighten his chest. He wasn’t going to forget.
His twin sister, Claire, was standing outside the bedroom door, a worried expression on her face. Her cropped dark hair was standing up in unruly spikes and her face, usually made up with red lips and dark eyeliner, was freshly scrubbed.
“You look feckin’ awful,” she murmured as he walked past her. “Really, Dex. How long are you going to carry on like this before you get some help?”
“I went round to the chemist and picked up some sleeping pills,” Dex muttered, heading for the kitchen.
“Didn’t they work?” Claire asked.
“I didn’t take them.”
She threw up her hands. “Well, that’s probably why they didn’t work, then. You just have to get back into a routine and a few good nights’ sleep.”
Dex grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and returned to the living room, snatching up the remote for the telly and switching on the twenty-four-hour sports station.
Claire plopped down beside him on the sofa, her hands folded on her lap. She stared at him silently, and when he glanced over at her, he saw tears of frustration
