Page 6 of The Scald Crow

“Aren’t you the curious one? You know what they say…curiosity killed the cat.” She clenched her fingers, then released them. “I inherited a property outside of town from a relative I didn’t know I had.”

“Here in Ireland?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. I had so many questions. I sensed she would shut me down if I pushed too hard.

She reminded me of a hummingbird––her movements were quick yet fluid. The melodic hum of her voice awakened every nerve in my icy heart. My sweating palms made holding the steering wheel difficult. Those physical reactions were unfamiliar to me. Long ago moments flashed through my mind, happy times when love mattered. Life changed me into something else, someone I didn’t recognize.

“Abracadabra, right? It's one of those Faerie tale kinds of things. What brings you back to Ireland?” She shifted in the bucket seat. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them.

Her every action spelled trouble.

“The ould one turned seventy last week. My father,” I said, answering her curious gaze. “Tell me, who was your relative? If you don’t mind me asking?”

My fingers itched to tame that glossy mane, to smooth the cowlick swirling the crown of her head. Her high cheekbones, elegant jawline, and pointed chin were testaments to the remarkable features of a people who once called Ireland their own—a people who prized physical strength and revered intelligence—an ancient civilization that battled for our homelands. Those memories had long since faded into the mists of time.

“Dermot Sweet of the Glengesh Pass, an older man who passed last year.” She shrugged, lifting her palm in explanation.

“Hmm, I can’t say I’ve heard of a Dermot Sweet, but I could ask around.” My pulse hammered, and cold sweat collected beneath my collar. From the way her lips curved up, I had the distinct impression she found me amusing. And too pushy. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it.

“Why?” Her piercing gaze read me like a book. “We have the same last name. Maybe he’s my biological father. It is odd, though.” She surprised me by sharing more. “Here’s a clue. I was born in Ireland and then adopted. There’s no record of my birth. I arrived in Canada with a name—already labeled. Calla Rioghain Sweet.” She moistened her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

“So, you’re an Irish lass.” I turned my gaze back to the winding road.

“Technically speaking.” She gazed out the passenger window, lost in the rolling hills.

I wanted those soft eyes to melt into mine.

“Makes sense.” I nodded, multiple scenarios buzzing in my head.

“What do you mean?” She rewarded me with another version of Calla Sweet—the look she would flash toward the television cameras. Her face revealed a myriad of emotions, reminding me of a storm cell swirling through winter clouds. There was a presence about her, something dark, something magical. The mystery intrigued me.

“You look Irish. Pale skin. Black hair. Ree-en is an Irish name. And your adoptive parents had no other information?” I tapped the steering wheel, my hunger rising. I told myself I was not one of those crazed stalkers star personalities protected themselves against.

“They died last year in a house fire. The records were burned.” Her voice didn’t waver. Her poker face hid all emotion.

“My condolences.” The need to comfort her overwhelmed me. Indecision filled my mind, and doubt filled my heart. Her plight called to the hero in me, if one ever existed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze meeting mine.

“And you left Canada? Just like that? I’m badgering, aren’t I?” I accepted one thing. She could out-stare me any day of the week.

“There’s nothing left for me there. I lost my job.” She shrugged, yet her bottom lip quivered. “I got fired.”

“Fired? From the network?” I gaped at her. I tuned in, captivated by her candid humor and her empathy. How often did she report tragedy after tragedy, with tears falling from her eyes? “Good evening, this is Calla Sweet on location.” Her throaty voice flying through my surround sound system would stop me in my tracks. She mesmerized the world. What army of eejits fired a girl like her? “You were grand, Calla. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, but I’m fine. It was a job. Besides, it’s time for a fresh start.” She swept her tongue across her lower lip.

“That’s quite a start, moving to another continent, a place you’ve never been. All on your own.” Making conversation with her came easily. I admitted, not one of my strong suits.

“Yes, well…no reason to stay is a reason to go.” She pressed her lips together and then looked away.

“Well said.” I gripped the wheel, hoping she would return to me.

“Hmm, thanks. I read that somewhere.” Her voice faded, lost in the wind’s sigh.

My blood chilled. The terror filled my mind as it so often had. Ciarán, my brother, the youngest O’Donnell, disappeared from the world of the living seven years ago. I found it impossible to let him go, to let his memory rest in peace.

My superior officer questioned my stability. I could not deny the charge. But did I need to leave? They offered help. Help, I refused. I sought solace in a bottle. I became someone else. I walked away from everyone and everything I loved.

“Hey? Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?” Her voice brought me back from the dead.

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