On Sundays, all normal people sleep until noon. But that rule did not apply to Shane. Apparently, he was not normal, considering that at eight in the morning he was already standing in the bathroom, brushing his teeth.

  He paused for a moment, stopped moving the toothbrush, leaned closer to the mirror, and ran his hand over his two-day stubble. He would not have time to shave, which meant he would spend the entire day feeling as if he had been drinking heavily in the bar around the corner the night before. Shane liked to look clean and well groomed, and a beard did not suit him. But there was nothing to be done. He had to make it to an important meeting.

  On London Street there was a very cozy business café called Hidden City, a place where Faye O’Keefe loved to hold meetings. They served vegetarian food, which suited her perfectly. It was to this popular spot that she had invited Shane early that morning.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed so early,” she apologized as soon as O’Halloran appeared in front of her.

  It was unusual for her to see him in jeans and a sweater, unshaven at that, but the sergeant chose not to comment on his appearance.

  “In a couple of hours I’m leaving town with friends. And tomorrow I have a day off, you know that. One has to take care of one’s health too.”

  “I’m used to it, Faye. Detectives rarely get weekends.” He sat down. “So, did you talk to that realtor?”

  “Yes. As you already know, he postponed the meeting several times…”

  Faye paused when the waiter placed a plate in front of Shane. The detective looked at the waiter in surprise, then at Faye.

  “I ordered sandwiches for you,” she said. “Just the way you like them.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  “Eat, eat. You need proper meals. Better yet, you should finally get married. Find yourself a suitable woman who will iron your shirts, keep the house clean, cook for you and… well, you know. For your health.”

  “Faye…”

  “I remember, I remember. The realtor.” She took her phone out of her worn leather handbag. “Long story short, I got tired of chasing him and begging for ‘dates,’ so I convinced him to give me some time and answer my questions over the phone. The realtor’s name is Joseph Big. Now listen, Chief Inspector.”

  Phone conversation with Joseph Big, real estate agent at Best Homes Realty

  April 16, 2025, 10:34 a.m.

  Interview conducted by Detective Sergeant Faye O’Keefe

  F.O.: Mr. Big, we need information about the former owners of the cottage in Clorraine, 6 Mayola Street.

  J.B.: All right. What exactly would you like to know?

  F.O.: The name of the owner of the cottage. And, if possible, the reason he decided to sell the house.

  J.B.: Mayola Street, you say?

  Sound of papers rustling

  F.O.: Yes, Mr. Big. Number six.

  J.B.: Oh, I remember now. Of course. The man who contacted me was Stan Dillan. But unfortunately, he was not the owner of the cottage.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  F.O.: Then who was he?

  J.B.: An intermediary. He came to me with a deed of gift.

  F.O.: But the deed was signed, correct? You concluded a sale contract, and I doubt the name on it was Stan Dillan.

  J.B.: It was exactly his name. The cottage was transferred to him. As a gift. And he sold it.

  F.O.: I see, Mr. Big. Thank you for the information. If we have any further questions, we will contact you.

  J.B.: You’re welcome, Sergeant O’Keefe. All the best.

  F.O.: All the best.

  Whispering: Idiot.

  “I think our next step is to track down Stan Dillan,” Faye concluded, putting her phone back into her bag.

  Shane finished his coffee.

  “I’ll assign this to Gallagher,” he said. “Thank you, Faye.”

  “For you, anything.”

  Shane stepped out of the café and let out a heavy sigh. Another dead end. It felt as if the case would never move forward. Yesterday, Clive Daniel had called to report that Angela had once again hidden under the stairs and refused to communicate with Molly. Back to the beginning. A closed circle.

  Shane was almost forty and had an excellent service record. Over the years in the police force, he had solved more than one crime. But he had never encountered anything like Angela’s case, a girl mysteriously hidden underground who had somehow survived there.

  If only they had found a body. It would have been sent for examination long ago, her identity established, time and cause of death determined, and everything would have gone smoothly. When the inspector first responded to the call, he thought the case would be simple, something he could solve in a snap. Who could have imagined he would be dealing with a feral girl who refused to leave that damn basement and could not speak?

  There was a gap in the case, something missing. But Shane could not grasp it. He could not understand what had caused the girl’s behavior. Sitting in his car, he stared at the notebook where he recorded his observations and realized with dread that it contained nothing but questions. And now there was one more: why had the owner of the cottage chosen to transfer it as a gift to Stan Dillan?

  All of this could, of course, have waited until tomorrow. But Shane was eager to take at least some action.

  Gallagher answered the call quickly, though his voice was sleepy and hoarse.

  “Shane? What time is it? Did I oversleep for work?” A pause. “Damn it, it’s Sunday. What’s going on, my friend?”

  “I found out something about the basement girl case,” O’Halloran said calmly. He did not even consider apologizing for disturbing his colleague on a Sunday.

  “Interesting. What exactly?”

  Shane imagined his friend sitting up in bed, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Evan was already almost gray, his hair beginning to turn at thirty five. Despite his outward cheerfulness and well developed sense of humor, the man had been through hard times. He had been widowed twice within a short span of four years. He lost his second wife at thirty one and never remarried. The women he loved left him two children who were in school, with their own needs and endless problems.

  At work, however, Gallagher never showed his true feelings. Only occasionally, sitting in some bar, would he share his fears and worries with Shane. And what could Shane offer in return? A lifelong bachelor who had never had a serious relationship. Nothing. Just listening.

  “The owner of the cottage transferred it as a gift to a man named Stan Dillan,” Shane said. His eyes were fixed on the last question written in his notebook. “Dillan then contacted a real estate agency. Joseph Big sold the house quickly, and here we are. I need you to look into this and find out who this Stan Dillan is.”

  “You do realize there are dozens of Stans in Londonderry?”

  “The sooner we get moving, Evan, the sooner we’ll close this case. It’s starting to irritate me.” Shane took a deep breath. “We have no solid leads yet. But I don’t believe the girl was locked in that basement for no reason. The owner knew exactly who he was leaving behind that locked door. He knew no one would move the old dresser and check whether there was a door behind it when selling the house. And he deliberately transferred the property as a gift to wash his hands of the cottage, or rather, of what he left there. So his name would never surface.”

  “Can’t Faye dig through the archives and find records of previous residents since the cottage was built?”

  “She’s working on that. But you still need to handle my request.”

  “You want me to start today?”

  “I want you to know today what awaits you tomorrow. How about a beer this evening at the sports bar?”

  Evan chuckled into the phone.

  “You know how to smooth things over, my friend. All right. Six o’clock, the usual place.”

  Shane lowered the phone and glanced at the dashboard. It was only ten o’clock. What was he supposed to do with the rest of the day?