• Breakfast: one bite fish, 3 calories
• 2 Diet Cokes to chase down fish, 0 calories
• Exercise: running, 3 trips to bathroom to pee
The planet would have to explode for this day to get any worse. Mrs. O’Callaghan fixed us fish for breakfast, my socks were two different shades of blue, and I accidentally walked in on Liam in the shower, seeing enough to scar me for the rest of the year. I just wanted to get through this Friday and get to the weekend.
When we finally arrived at school, Erin stopped at her locker, but I continued walking down the hall until I got to number 328. The one that belonged to Beatrice.
I didn’t even bother with a hello as she twisted her combination. “You totally framed me for cheating.”
She took her time looking up, her bored expression only adding kindling to the fire of my temper. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Seriously?” I laughed. “Could you be any more immature? I mean, sticking your pencil in my back so I’d turn around? And then copying my paper? Could you truly not do any better than that?”
Her eyes widened in feigned shock. “I’m hurt, Finley. That you would accuse me of such a thing. Maybe you can go cry on Beckett’s shoulder. You know, the one that belongs to Taylor.”
I stared her down. I’d been the cheerleading cocaptain, so I could do intimidation and a perfect back handspring. “I want you to back off Erin. Bullying is so out of style.”
“Who are you to come in here to my school and tell me what to do? You walk onto this campus like you rule the place. The little heiress crooked her finger and chased after Beckett Rush until he started paying her some attention.” Her singsong voice pressed on my temples. “And that wasn’t good enough. Then you got jealous.”
“I want you to tell Mrs. Campbell the truth.”
“Truth is so subjective. I know my truth. You know yours.
Who’s to say who’s right? Oh, I know. My father. The principal.”
“What do you gain from this? Does it make you feel better about yourself?”
“Yes, actually. It does. Have a nice day now.” She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. “And don’t get in any more trouble. I’d hate for you to get sent home.” She walked away, leaving me in the dust of her snark and venom.
With ten minutes left until the first bell, I headed in the direction of the library, my face aflame from the confrontation. After giving a quiet hello to the librarian, I slipped past the row of fiction and sat down at one of the computers.
First I e-mailed my mom and dad and told them how wonderful everything was going and how nice the people of Ireland truly were. Apparently Beatrice Plummer was their national letdown.
Not wanting to go back into that hallway and stalling for time, I did a quick search under Cathleen Sweeney’s name.
I scanned through an entire page of useless results. But it was page two that had my full attention.
Abbeyglen Public Library archives.
Sitting up straighter, I clicked on the link, and it took me to an index of the library, a collection of scanned copies of the Abbeyglen newspaper.
What did we have here?
Typing in a few more keywords, I waited for the database to do its search. Two minutes later I found Mrs. Sweeney’s marriage announcement.
I scribbled down the date on my notebook, then continued my perusal.
Scrolling through the listing, I stopped at another mention of her last name.
An obituary. Three years later.
For Charles Sweeney. The man Mr. Murphy had said died of loneliness when his wife left him.
I leaned up closer to the monitor and reread the next find, three months after Mr. Sweeney’s death.
Another obituary.
John David Sweeney, son of Charles and Cathleen Sweeney, died April 23. He’d only been two.
My gosh. The loss. No wonder Mrs. Sweeney was so cranky.
“Reading anything good?”
I snapped my head toward the familiar voice and clicked on a different page. “Hi, Sister Maria.”
She logged onto a computer beside me and smiled. “Doing some homework?”
“Something like that.” I glanced at her computer and saw a familiar screen. “What about you?”
She wiggled her mouse. “Changing my Facebook status.”
I squinted to get a better look. “From married to it’s complicated?”
“Just waiting to see how long it takes Father Tom to notice.”
“But you’re married to God.”
“And that’s not complicated?” She laughed, then noticed the rushed scribblings on my paper. “Research?”
I hesitated to tell her. But one look from the woman and it was like downing a bottle of truth serum. “I was investigating Cathleen Sweeney. She’s had a really rough life, I think.”
“What did you find?” Sister Maria sat back in her chair and gave me her full attention.
I quickly caught her up. “Time’s running out. Mrs. Sweeney’s going downhill fast. It’s like she’s willing it to happen.”
“And this is your problem now?”
“I have to help her. She can’t die without her sister’s forgiveness.” I told her about the letters in the drawer. “I haven’t read them, but I know they’re probably pleas to Fiona Doyle.”
Sister Maria considered this. “Perhaps.”
“Did you know Charles Sweeney?”
“Knew of him, yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Ask his widow.”
“She won’t talk about him.”
“I don’t recall what happened. You should talk to the MacNamara sisters.”
“They come highly recommended.” I smiled. “Erin says they’re the town gossips.”
“I prefer town historians,” the nun said. “Past McGann’s pub, over the bridge, second house on the left. They’ve been there for eighty-five years.” She typed something on her computer. “So tell me, Finley. Why do you care?”
“Because . . .” I wasn’t even sure I could explain it. “I don’t want her to die without having her say. Judging from all the letters, it looks like Mrs. Sweeney has spent years reaching out to her sister. And to die without being heard? Without forgiveness or peace?” I pointed to the notes. “I think she’s lived most of her life tormented. Took her sister’s fiancé. Shunned by the town. And then lost a child.” I knew a little bit about that type of loss, having watched my own mother grieve.
“I’m pretty sure no one asked her to steal her sister’s intended.”
“Mistakes happen. We all get in situations where we do things we regret. But she’s more than those mistakes.” My voice elevated in the small lab. “Mrs. Sweeney wants to be remembered for something besides the wrong she did and the people she hurt.”
Sister Maria’s smile was slow as it tugged up her cheeks. She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “God would want her to know she isn’t defined by her mistakes.” Her cornflower-blue eyes bored into mine. “He would want her to know he loves her and forgives her. And she doesn’t have to be who she once was. She just needs to reach out to him.”
“Maybe she wants to,” I whispered. “Maybe she has.”
The nun nodded. “Then she needs to believe he heard her and is on the job. And listen with her heart.” Sister Maria shut down her Facebook page and logged off. “Instead of her head.”
“I was referring to Cathleen Sweeney,” I said as she walked away.
“Me too, dear.” She strolled off with a grin. “Me too.”