Chapter 1

Empty House Rain came in sideways, as if the sky had decided to be personal about it. Fiona woke to the sound of her phone vibrating itself into a little panic on the bedside table. She lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the buzzes stack up like unpaid bills, until her brain finally remembered the night before. Parish hall. Aunties. A notebook with tabs like it was running the county. Tomás Scully walking in as if he’d been born under fluorescent lighting and gossip. And that WhatsApp group. She reached over, grabbed the phone, and immediately regretted it. The screen lit up with a flood of messages, the kind of relentless group-chat enthusiasm that felt like being cornered by a choir. AUNTIE COUNCIL—PREPAREDNESS (7) Eileen: Morning all. Signs in the sky last night. Red sunrise. Mary: That’s called weather, Eileen. Máiréad: Fiona, you ate nothing. I’m not having it. You’ll be at my house for dinner. Niamh: She ate. I witnessed it. (Also I hate you all.)Unknown Number: Who added Tom Scully? 😂Máiréad: I did. Mind your business. Tomás Scully: Morning. I’m a doctor, not a prophet. But I do have biscuits. Fiona stared at that last line as if it might start moving. Biscuits. Of course he had biscuits. Of course he’d leaned into it like he’d had decades of practice surviving auntie energy, which, now she thought about it, he probably had. Her thumb hovered over the group info. Leave group. Leave group. Leave group. She tapped. A pop-up appeared: Are you sure you want to exit? Yes, she was sure. She was sure the way she’d been sure the day she’d packed a bag and walked out of her marriage without looking back. Sure the way you were when you’d already mourned something while you were still inside it. She hit Exit. The chat vanished. Relief went through her so clean and bright it was almost funny. Then the phone buzzed again, like the universe was laughing at her. You were added to AUNTIE COUNCIL—PREPAREDNESS by Máiréad D. Fiona’s jaw clenched. She typed before she could stop herself. Fiona: Please remove me. Mary: Morning, pet. Eileen: It’s safer if we’re all together. Niamh: Fiona’s going to set herself on fire. Let her go. Máiréad: Absolutely not. Máiréad: Also, Fiona, you’re on teas and tickets for Saturday. Fiona sat up so fast her head spun. Fiona: What Saturday. Máiréad: Fundraiser. Parish hall. Roof fund. Also preparedness. Eileen: If the grid goes we need the hall. Mary: The roof goes before the grid does, Eileen. Tomás Scully: For clarity: does “preparedness” include first aid? Because I can bring supplies. Máiréad: It includes everything, Tom. Máiréad: Fiona, don’t start. I’m not debating by text. Get up. Open your curtains. Let the day in. You’re not a mushroom. Fiona stared at the screen until her vision blurred at the edges. She didn’t reply. She threw the phone onto the duvet like it had insulted her, swung her legs out of bed, and stood in the cold. The house was quiet in that way that still sometimes startled her—no other breathing, no other movement, no other small noises that belonged to someone else’s mood. Empty, yes. But also… hers. She went downstairs on autopilot, flicked on the kettle, and watched it come to life. The click of the switch was a small comfort. A ritual. A thing that listened and obeyed. When the kettle began to hiss, she noticed her hands were shaking. Not with fear. Not really. With anger. Because she had fought for this peace. She had bled for it in private, in the quiet hours when people assumed she was fine because she still turned up to work with her hair brushed and her face composed. And now a WhatsApp group was trying to colonise her life like it was public land. The kettle clicked off. Fiona poured the tea. The steam rose. The rain tapped the window. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and a voice laughed, bright and careless. She took her mug to the table and sat, staring at the chair opposite. Empty. She didn’t miss him. Not really. She missed the idea of companionship—the version she’d thought she had when she was younger and softer and believed that love meant enduring. She missed being able to come home and not feel like she was holding her own ribs in place. But she didn’t miss the man. She took a sip, grimaced. Too strong. She’d left the bag in too long. Story of her life. Her phone buzzed again. She glared at it, as if glaring could kill technology. This time it wasn’t the group. It was a private message from an unknown number. She opened it, suspicion already alive in her throat. Tomás Scully: Morning, Fiona. Sorry. Máiréad has my number in her phone the way she has everyone’s blood type. Tomás Scully: You look like you’d rather eat nails than be in that group. Tomás Scully: I’d offer to remove you, but I’m fairly sure she’d just add you back and then send me to confession. Fiona stared at the message, heat creeping up her neck. He’d noticed. Of course he had. Doctors noticed things. Doctors noticed your skin tone, your posture, the way your eyes flicked away from the room when it got too loud. She typed carefully. Fiona: Please don’t message me. The reply came almost instantly. Tomás Scully: Fair. Tomás Scully: Last thing then: if you want out of Saturday, tell Máiréad you’ve a migraine. She believes migraines. Tomás Scully: If you tell her you’re tired, she’ll feed you and call it a cure. Fiona should have been annoyed. Instead, a small, unwilling laugh broke out of her, short and sharp, surprising her enough that she covered her mouth with her hand like a child caught doing something rude. She typed before she could overthink it. Fiona: Why are you helping. There was a pause long enough that she imagined him standing somewhere with his phone, considering his words like he was about to prescribe something. Then: Tomás Scully: Because you looked trapped. Tomás Scully: And because everyone deserves a way out that doesn’t involve a scene. Fiona’s throat tightened. He’d said it simply. No pity. No melodrama. Just a statement like: you’re not mad, and I saw it, and I’m not going to weaponise it. She didn’t know what to do with that. She set the phone down, stared at the rain again, and tried to breathe like she hadn’t just been handed something dangerous: kindness without strings. *** Work saved her. Work always saved her, and she hated that about herself, hated how easily she could hide inside other people’s needs. The youth centre sat behind the library in a squat, practical building that smelled of old carpet, disinfectant, and the kind of hopeful chaos that came from letting teenagers exist indoors without immediately telling them off. Fiona unlocked the door with the big ring of keys clipped to her lanyard—keys that always dug into her hip, leaving bruises she never mentioned. A daily reminder that she was responsible for opening places and keeping them safe. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered like they were tired too. She hung up her coat, dumped her bag in her office, and went to make another tea because caffeine was cheaper than therapy. She hadn’t even taken her first sip when Deirdre—her colleague, her ally, the only person at work who saw past Fiona’s “grand” and didn’t let her get away with it—appeared in the doorway. Deirdre had the kind of face that could be kind and furious in the same breath, and she used both like tools. “You look like death,” Deirdre said. “Morning to you too.” Deirdre leaned on the doorframe, eyes sharp. “You were at the hall last night.” Fiona froze, mug halfway to her mouth. “How do you know that.” Deirdre’s mouth twitched. “Because Máiréad sent me a message at nine twenty-three saying, ‘We have her. She ate. She’s being difficult.’ Like you’re a stray cat.” Fiona closed her eyes. “Jesus,” she muttered. “They’ve started a WhatsApp group.” Deirdre laughed once, humourless. “Of course they have.” Fiona took a sip. “They’ve put me on teas and tickets for Saturday.” Deirdre’s brows lifted. “And what did you say.” Fiona opened her mouth, then shut it. Deirdre nodded slowly. “Right. So we’re doing that thing where you go quiet and hope the problem gets bored and leaves.” Fiona’s stomach tightened. “I’m busy, Dee.” “Being busy is not a boundary,” Deirdre said. “It’s avoidance wearing a high-vis vest.” Fiona stared at her, irritation flaring. “You sound like a podcast.” Deirdre smiled sweetly. “And you sound like a woman who hasn’t slept properly in a year.” Fiona set her mug down a little too hard. “I slept.” “You passed out,” Deirdre corrected. “Different thing.” Fiona’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. Deirdre’s gaze flicked to the pocket anyway. “If that’s Máiréad, block her.” “I can’t.” Deirdre’s eyes narrowed. “Why.” Because in this town you didn’t block aunties. You didn’t block people who’d known your mother since she was a girl, people who’d brought casserole when your father died, people who’d stitched the social fabric so tight you couldn’t pull one thread without the whole thing shifting. Fiona shrugged. “It’ll cause a fuss.” Deirdre’s expression softened, just slightly. “You’re allowed to cause a fuss.” Fiona laughed bitterly. “Not here.” Deirdre held her gaze. “Here especially.” Before Fiona could answer, the front door banged open and the centre filled with noise: trainers squeaking, loud voices, the thud of backpacks, the particular energy of teenagers arriving like a weather front. Fiona inhaled, put on her work face, and went out to greet them. “Alright, lads,” she called, aiming for cheerful. “Shoes off if you’re muddy. I’m not cleaning that floor twice.” “Miss Hayes!” one of the girls yelled, grinning. “You’re in a bad mood!” “I’m always in a bad mood,” Fiona shot back. “It’s my charm.” They laughed. The sound loosened something in her chest. For an hour, she moved through the centre like she belonged in motion: signing kids in, mediating petty arguments, handing out snacks, listening to too-loud stories about too-small dramas as if they mattered, because to them they did. And then, of course, something real happened. It was always something real. A boy called Liam—fifteen, too thin, always pretending he wasn’t hungry—stumbled in late, hood up, eyes red. He headed for the toilets without looking at anyone. Fiona noticed anyway. “Dee,” she murmured, low. “Liam’s in.” Deirdre’s face tightened. “Again.” Fiona wiped her hands on her jeans and followed. She found him in the corridor, shoulders pressed to the wall like he was trying to merge with it. His breath was fast. His hands were shaking. There was a smear of blood on the cuff of his hoodie. Fiona stopped a pace away, kept her voice gentle. “Liam. Love. What happened.” He didn’t look at her. “Nothing.” “Blood is usually something,” Fiona said softly. He swallowed. “It’s not mine.” Fiona’s stomach dropped. “Okay,” she said, careful. “Whose is it.” His eyes flicked up then, wild. “Don’t. Don’t ring anyone.” Fiona held up her hands, palms open. “I’m not ringing anyone yet. I’m just talking.” He shook his head, breathing harder. “You’ll ring the Gardaí. Everyone does.” “I’m not everyone,” Fiona said, and hated how true it felt—how she knew exactly what it was to be treated like a problem instead of a person. He blinked fast, like he was trying not to cry. “It was my ma. She fell. She was raging. She hit the table. There was blood. She’s fine. She’s fine.” Fiona’s throat tightened. “Is she hurt.” “She said she’s fine,” he repeated, like it was a spell. “She told me to get out, so I did. I came here.” Fiona’s brain moved quickly, professional and calm, even as something in her wanted to reach out and pull him into a hug. Consent. Space. Safety. “Alright,” she said. “You did the right thing coming here.” He laughed bitterly. “Did I.” “Yes,” Fiona said firmly. “Now. I need to see your hands.” He stared at her, suspicious. “Why.” “Because you’re shaking and you’ve blood on you and I’m responsible for you while you’re in this building,” Fiona said. “And because I don’t want you going into shock like a hero in a film.” He hesitated. Then, slowly, he held his hands out. No cuts. Just trembling. Fiona exhaled. “Okay. Sit down.” He didn’t move. Fiona softened her voice again. “Liam. Sit. We’ll figure it out.” He dragged his feet but followed her into the small office off the corridor. He perched on the edge of a chair like he might bolt any second. Fiona crouched in front of him, keeping distance. “Tell me what you need right now.” He blinked at her as if the question was a foreign language. “I don’t know.” “That’s alright,” Fiona said. “Then I’ll tell you what I need. I need to know if your mum needs medical help.” His jaw clenched. “She won’t go.” “Okay,” Fiona said. “Is there someone else in the house.” He shook his head. Fiona’s stomach clenched tighter. She’d seen this before. Not dramatic bruises in the street. Just a kid carrying a whole house on his back. She stood, reached for her phone, and felt him flinch. “Not Gardaí,” she said quickly. “I’m not calling the Gardaí. I’m calling a doctor.” His eyes narrowed. “Why.” “Because blood and head injuries can be serious, and I’m not guessing,” Fiona said. “And because if your mum is fine, great, we’ll confirm it. If she’s not, we’ll help her without making a show.” He swallowed, fear softening into something like hope. “A doctor won’t… won’t tell everyone.” “A doctor is bound by confidentiality,” Fiona said. “And I’ll make sure nobody is turned into a story.” His breath shuddered out. Fiona stepped into the corridor, thumb hovering over her contacts. She didn’t have the number of every GP in town. But she had Tomás Scully in her recent messages. Her chest tightened at the thought of involving him. It felt like crossing a line. Like letting the aunties win, somehow, even though that was irrational. This wasn’t matchmaking. This was… necessity. She hit call. It rang twice before he answered. “Tomás Scully,” he said, voice low and steady, professional already. “You’re up early.” Fiona swallowed. “It’s Fiona Hayes. I’m at the youth centre.” A pause. “Alright.” Something about the way he said it—like her name was information he’d file safely, not a joke—made her shoulders loosen a fraction. “I’ve a situation,” she said. “A teen. There’s… blood. His mum fell, possibly hit her head. He’s panicking. He won’t let me call Gardaí. He’ll run if I do.” Tom didn’t hesitate. “Is the mother conscious.” “He says she is. Says she’s fine. But he’s—” “Shaking,” Tom finished, voice calm. “Right. I can come. Give me the address.” Fiona blinked. “You’ll come here.” “Yes,” he said, as if that was normal. “If it keeps the kid calm and gets me closer to the patient, yes.” Fiona’s throat tightened. “Thank you.” A pause, softer. “You did the right thing calling.” It landed in her chest like a weight and a balm at once. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Keep the boy seated. No hot drinks if he’s nauseous. Water is fine. And Fiona—” “Yes.” “If at any point you feel unsafe, you call the Gardaí. Understood.” Her spine straightened, anger flaring again because she hated being told what to do—until she realised he wasn’t controlling her. He was protecting her. “Understood,” she said. He hung up. Fiona stood for a beat in the corridor, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the dead line. Then she exhaled, hard, and went back into the office. *** Tom arrived in twelve minutes. Fiona knew because she kept checking the clock like she could bully time into moving faster. When the centre door opened, she heard his voice first—calm, direct, carrying that doctor tone that made people straighten without feeling ordered. “Alright there. I’m Dr Scully. Where’s Fiona.” Fiona stepped out of the corridor and saw him fully for the first time in daylight, not under parish hall lighting and auntie scrutiny. He was taller than she’d remembered. Broad-shouldered, coat damp with rain, hair dark and slightly mussed from the weather. His eyes flicked to her face immediately, quick and assessing, then softened. “Hi,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private even with teenagers milling around behind him. “Hi,” Fiona replied, too aware of her own voice. He nodded once, business-like. “Show me.” Fiona led him down the corridor to the office. Her heart beat faster with every step, though she didn’t know if it was adrenaline from the situation or something else—something annoyingly human. Liam looked up when Tom entered and immediately tensed, ready to run. Tom didn’t rush him. He didn’t crowd him. He moved slowly, hands visible, voice gentle. “Liam, yeah?” Tom said. Liam blinked. “How do you know my name.” Tom’s mouth twitched. “You’re famous. I’m joking. Fiona told me.” He crouched—not looming, not towering—bringing himself to Liam’s level. “I’m Tom. I’m a GP. I’m here to make sure your mam is alright. That’s all.” Liam’s eyes darted to Fiona. “You won’t call the Gardaí.” Tom glanced at Fiona, then back to Liam. “I won’t call them unless someone is in danger and needs immediate help. Right now, I’m only trying to figure out if your mam needs medical care.” Liam swallowed, throat bobbing. “She’ll be raging.” Tom nodded slowly. “She might. People get angry when they’re scared or sore. Doesn’t mean we don’t look after them.” The boy’s shoulders sagged a fraction. Fiona watched, something in her chest tightening—this quiet competence, this ability to walk into chaos and steady it without making it about himself. Tom’s gaze flicked to Fiona again, quick. A silent question: are you okay. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Can you tell me what happened,” Tom asked Liam. Liam’s words came out in a rush. “She tripped. The table corner. There was blood. She was shouting. She said she’s fine. She told me to get out. I didn’t mean—” Tom held up a hand gently. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You did the right thing coming here.” Fiona’s throat tightened again. Tom continued, calm. “Is she still bleeding.” “I don’t know,” Liam whispered. “I left.” Tom nodded. “Okay. We go to her, then. Fiona, do you have someone to cover you here.” Fiona blinked. “Deirdre’s here.” Tom glanced out into the main room, spotted Deirdre instantly as if he’d been trained to locate the person holding the building together. He lifted his chin at her, a small greeting, and Deirdre’s eyes widened in recognition—then narrowed at Fiona as if to say *You called Tom Scully? Interesting.* Fiona ignored that. She had more urgent problems than her best friend’s eyebrow gymnastics. Tom stood. “Right. Liam, you and I are going to your house. Fiona will come too, if you’re alright with that.” Liam’s eyes flicked to Fiona, then back. “Yeah.” Tom nodded. “Good. Let’s go.” *** The rain had eased into a fine mist by the time they reached the estate—a cluster of houses that always looked slightly tired, like they’d been built with hope and maintained with resignation. Liam walked ahead of them, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. Tom walked beside him, talking softly—not interrogating, not probing, just filling the silence with calm facts about head wounds and why you didn’t mess around with them. Fiona followed half a step behind, feeling like an intruder in a life she’d seen too many versions of. When Liam pushed the front door open, the smell hit her immediately: damp clothes, old smoke, stale anger. A woman’s voice, sharp, from the kitchen. “Where the hell were you.” Liam flinched. Tom stepped forward first, voice steady. “Hello. Mrs—” “Who are you,” the woman snapped, appearing in the doorway. She was in her forties, hair pulled back too tightly, face pale, a strip of tissue pressed to her forehead with blood seeping through. Her eyes were bright with humiliation and fury. “I’m Dr Scully,” Tom said calmly. “Liam was worried. I’m here to check your head.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine.” Tom nodded, as if she’d said something reasonable. “Grand. Then it’ll take me two minutes to confirm it and I’ll be out of your hair.” Her gaze flicked to Fiona. “And who’s she.” Fiona forced her voice steady. “Fiona. Youth centre.” The woman’s jaw tightened. “He told you.” “He came to us because he was scared,” Fiona said softly. The woman’s face twisted—anger, shame, something close to grief. “He’s always… dramatic.” Tom didn’t rise to it. He stepped closer, still giving space. “May I see the wound.” The woman hesitated, then jerked her chin. “Fine. Look. Then leave.” Tom moved in, gentle, professional. “Alright. Sit down for me.” “I’m not—” “Sit,” Tom repeated, still calm, but with that doctor firmness that didn’t argue. “Please.” She sat, muttering. Tom examined the cut, asked questions. He checked her pupils with a small torch. He asked about nausea, dizziness. Fiona watched the woman’s shoulders slowly unclench as Tom treated her like a person, not a problem. When he finished, he straightened. “It’s not deep, but it’ll need proper cleaning. You’ve no signs of concussion right now, but head injuries can be sneaky. If you develop vomiting, confusion, severe headache—” “I know,” she snapped. Tom nodded, unfazed. “Good. Then you’ll take it seriously. I’m going to clean it and dress it properly. And I’d like Liam to stay with someone tonight if you’re feeling unsteady.” The woman’s face hardened. “He’s staying here.” Liam’s shoulders tensed. Fiona’s stomach knotted. Tom’s gaze met the woman’s, steady as a wall. “He’s fifteen. He’s scared. He did the right thing. If you punish him for that, he won’t come for help next time.” The woman’s mouth opened, then shut. Colour rose in her cheeks. “He embarrassed me.” Tom nodded slowly. “I understand. But your pride isn’t worth his safety.” Silence. The woman’s eyes flicked to Liam. Something in them softened, just a fraction. “I… fell,” she muttered, as if confession tasted bitter. “I was angry. I didn’t mean to—” Liam swallowed, eyes shiny. Fiona stepped forward, voice gentle. “Nobody’s here to shame you. We’re here to keep you both safe.” The woman’s shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she said, voice rough. “He can… go to his auntie’s if he wants.” Liam blinked, stunned by the permission. Tom nodded once. “Good.” He finished dressing the wound, then turned to Fiona, quiet. “Can you organise the auntie.” Fiona blinked. “The auntie.” Tom’s mouth twitched. “Not yours. Liam’s.” Fiona exhaled, a laugh threatening again. “Yes. I can.” As she stepped into the hall to make the call, Tom followed her, keeping his voice low. “You alright,” he asked. Fiona’s breath caught. “Yes.” He didn’t look convinced. “You handled that well.” Fiona swallowed. “It’s my job.” Tom’s gaze held hers. “It shouldn’t always have to be.” The words were quiet, but they hit hard. Fiona looked away first, because if she didn’t, she might do something reckless like let him see the truth on her face. *** By the time Fiona got back to the youth centre, it was late afternoon. The teenagers were mostly gone. Deirdre was stacking chairs with aggressive energy. When she saw Fiona walk in—with Tom behind her, carrying his medical bag like it weighed nothing—Deirdre froze, eyes wide. “Well,” Deirdre said slowly. “This is new.” Tom nodded politely. “Deirdre.” Deirdre’s brows shot up. “You know my name.” Tom’s mouth twitched. “Máiréad’s phone has more information than the HSE.” Deirdre barked a laugh, then looked at Fiona. “You called him.” Fiona shrugged, trying for casual. “Medical situation.” Deirdre’s gaze slid over Tom, then back to Fiona, sharp. “Mhmm.” Tom glanced between them, clocking the dynamic instantly. “Right. I’ll leave you to it.” Fiona’s chest tightened unexpectedly at the thought of him walking out. He shifted his bag, then paused. “Fiona.” “Yes.” His eyes held hers. “Saturday. The fundraiser.” Fiona’s stomach sank. “Don’t.” “I’m not here to draft you,” he said quietly. “I’m here to tell you something useful.” Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Go on.” Tom’s voice stayed calm. “Máiréad will put you on the door. If you stand by the door, you can step outside whenever you need. It’s the only escape route she can’t block without looking like a tyrant.” Deirdre made a soft sound of appreciation. “He’s clever.” Fiona glared at Deirdre. Then back at Tom. “I don’t want to go.” Tom nodded once. “Then don’t.” Fiona blinked. “What.” Tom’s expression was steady. “If you truly don’t want to go, don’t. Let them be annoyed. Let them gossip. It won’t kill you.” Fiona stared at him, thrown. He continued, softer. “But if you don’t go because you’re afraid of the fuss, then they win, and you stay small. And I don’t think you’re small.” Fiona’s throat tightened. She didn’t know how he’d nailed it so cleanly. Deirdre muttered under her breath, “Jesus. He’s annoyingly right.” Fiona swallowed. “You don’t know me.” Tom’s eyes softened. “I know enough. And I saw you today. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t make it about yourself. You just… held the line.” Fiona’s pulse thudded. Held the line. She looked down, too aware of her own hands, of the slight tremor still there from adrenaline. Tom added, gentle, “I’ll see you around.” He turned to go. And Fiona—before she could stop herself—said, “Tom.” He paused, looked back. Fiona’s mouth was dry. “Thank you.” Tom’s gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. “Any time,” he said. “I mean that.” Then he left. Fiona stood there, staring at the door as if it had swallowed something important. Deirdre set a chair down with a thump. “So.” Fiona didn’t look at her. “Don’t.” Deirdre’s voice was a little too innocent. “What. I didn’t say anything.” Fiona rubbed her forehead. “Please. I’m exhausted.” Deirdre’s tone softened. “Fi.” Fiona finally looked at her. Deirdre’s eyes were kind but firm. “You don’t have to do it all alone.” Fiona laughed bitterly. “Apparently I do. Or the aunties move in.” Deirdre smiled faintly. “Let them. If it means you don’t drown.” Fiona swallowed, throat tight. “I’m not drowning.” Deirdre’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re treading water so hard you’re bruising your own ribs.” Fiona looked away, because she couldn’t argue with that without breaking. Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. It buzzed again. She sighed, pulled it out, and glanced at the screen. AUNTIE COUNCIL—PREPAREDNESS Máiréad: Fiona, I’m after leaving the parish hall keys in your porch. Don’t lose them. You’re on set-up Saturday morning. Mary: Tell her she’s not on set-up, Máiréad. We’ll do it. Máiréad: She is. She needs purpose. Eileen: Purpose keeps you alive. Niamh: Fiona has a job, Eileen. She’s not a Victorian orphan. Máiréad: Enough. Fiona, check your porch. Fiona stared. Her porch. Deirdre watched her face change. “What.” Fiona’s voice came out flat. “Máiréad says she left parish hall keys in my porch.” Deirdre’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s… unhinged.” Fiona shoved her phone into her pocket, grabbed her coat. “I’m going home.” Deirdre followed her to the door. “Do you want me to come.” “No,” Fiona said, because she meant it and because she was still learning the difference between help and intrusion. Deirdre hesitated. “Text me when you’re in.” Fiona nodded once, then stepped out into the rain again. *** Her street looked exactly the same as it had that morning: wet, quiet, ordinary. That was the problem with small towns. The world could tilt on its axis and the houses would still sit there, smug and unmoved. Fiona walked up her path and froze. There was a key ring hanging from her door handle. A big brass ring, heavy with metal. Parish hall keys. The kind of keys you couldn’t copy at the local hardware shop because they were old and awkward and stubborn—like the aunties themselves. Attached to it with a bit of string was a note written on the back of a receipt. Fiona, Don’t be losing these or I’ll haunt you while I’m alive. —M Fiona stared until she felt slightly deranged. She snatched the keys, shoved them into her pocket, and opened the door with more force than necessary. Inside, the house was warm from the heating she’d left on low. The smell of last night’s tea still lingered faintly. Her coat was damp. Her hair was damp. Everything felt damp. Even her mood. She kicked off her shoes, threw her bag on the chair, and went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on again because if she didn’t make tea she might scream. The kettle click sounded a bit like a gun being cocked. She stared at it as it boiled, fingers tight around her mug, and tried to calm her nervous system the way Deirdre would say. The way Instagram therapists would say. Breathe in for four. Out for six. Name five things you can see. She could see: her mug, her kettle, the rain, the keys in her pocket making a heavy lump against her hip, and the shadow of herself in the window. She could hear: the kettle, the rain, her own breath, and— A knock. Sharp. Confident. Not a neighbourly tap. Not a delivery. Fiona froze, mug halfway to her mouth. The knock came again. Her stomach dropped. Who knew she had keys. Who knew she was home. Her phone buzzed in her pocket like a warning. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She knew it was Máiréad. Fiona set the mug down, heart thudding, and walked to the front door on legs that felt suddenly too light. She opened it. And stopped dead. Because there, on her doorstep, stood Máiréad, Mary, Eileen, and Niamh—arms full of bags like they were moving in. And behind them, taller, damp-haired, holding a very familiar packet of biscuits in one hand and a folded chair in the other, stood Tomás Scully. He looked at Fiona over the aunties’ shoulders, one brow lifting, expression dry as dust. “Well,” he said quietly, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Apparently we’re having a preparedness meeting.”