Read Chapter 4: THE RULES OF SEARCHING

They made rules.

Julian insisted.

Rule one: no publishing or sharing the letters.

Rule two: no approaching family members without first contacting Thomas or Evelyn, if either could be found.

Rule three: no assumptions presented as fact.

Rule four: if either person asked them to stop, they stopped.

Maeve added rule five: Julian was not allowed to say “methodology” in the shop.

He agreed under protest.

Their search settled into the rhythm of Bellwether’s working day. Maeve opened at ten. Julian came by after lectures three afternoons a week, sometimes with sandwiches, sometimes with photocopies, once with a bag of clementines because “archives cause scurvy.”

They built a timeline on brown wrapping paper taped behind the counter.

1987: first surviving letter.

1988: reference to “the night at Bewley’s.”

1989: Eileen’s photograph.

1990: “You chose certainty. I said I understood.”

1992: “Anna has your eyes.”

1994: The Third Policeman returned to Bellwether.

1997: “I will not come to the hospital unless you ask.”

2001: “After Liam’s funeral…”

2006: “The city is changing faster than we are.”

2009: “I saw your name in the programme.”

2013: “If I do not write again, it is not because I stopped.”

The gaps bothered Maeve.

“There should be more,” she said one evening.

“Why?”

“Because twenty-six years is a long time for forty-three letters.”

“Perhaps he wrote only when something happened.”

“Or some are missing.”

Julian looked at the dates. “The paper changes after 1997. Different stationery.”

“So?”

“So maybe earlier letters were stored somewhere else.”

Maeve crouched behind the poetry shelves and examined the cavity again.

Nothing.

Bellwether itself offered clues. Nora’s customer ledgers went back decades. They were chaotic but precise in odd ways. She recorded special orders, unpaid tabs, people who had moved abroad and asked her to hold books until Christmas.

Thomas Mullen appeared repeatedly.

T. Mullen — printing.

Tom — owes £6, forgiven after shelf repair.

Mullen — ask about E.B. score.

Then, after 2001, almost nothing.

Evelyn Byrne appeared only twice.

1986: E. Byrne — Mahler biography.

1990: Evelyn B. — collected Neruda, paid cash.

“Poetry,” Maeve said. “Of course.”

“People in love are statistically vulnerable to Neruda.”

“You made that up.”

“Completely.”

She found herself enjoying him.

That was inconvenient.

Julian was divorced, she learned accidentally when his phone lit with a message from someone named Sarah: YOU HAVE LUCY SATURDAY, YES?

Maeve looked away immediately.

Later, while he was making tea, he said, “Lucy’s my daughter. She’s nine.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

He considered. “Because you looked like you were carefully not asking.”

Maeve bristled. “I wasn’t.”

“All right.”

“Is Sarah your—”

“Ex-wife.”

Maeve hated that she had completed the question.

“Friendly?”

“Mostly. We were better at being parents than being married.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, which Maeve did not know what to do with.

She had built her adult understanding of relationships from two categories: those still intact and those that had failed. Julian seemed to be describing something broken that had not become worthless.

He handed her tea.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do I get to ask one invasive question now?”

“No.”

“Fair.”

She took the mug.

After closing, they walked to a pub on Parliament Street because the shop had become too cold to work in. Maeve brought photocopies of three letters. Julian ordered stout; Maeve ordered wine.

At a corner table, they focused on a 1997 letter.

Dear E,

Nora says I am a coward because I keep confusing restraint with goodness. She is wrong in the way people are wrong when they know you too well.

I heard about the operation. I nearly came. I stood outside St Vincent’s for forty minutes like an eejit and then went home because I had promised you I would not interfere with your life.

If you wanted me there, you would have asked.

I repeat that sentence because it is the only wall I have left.

T.

Maeve traced the photocopied line.

“He went to the hospital.”

“But didn’t go in.”

“Coward.”

Julian looked at her. “Maybe.”

“You disagree.”

“I think promises can trap people long after the conditions that created them have changed.”

“So you break them?”

“Sometimes you ask whether they’re still wanted.”

Maeve took a drink.

“You sound like someone who’s spent a lot of money on therapy.”

“An insulting amount.”

She laughed.

His smile stayed a moment too long.

Maeve looked back at the page.

Something shifted—not dramatic, not cinematic. Just awareness. The table seemed smaller. His hand rested beside hers, close enough that she noticed the pale scar across his knuckle.

She moved her hand to her glass.

Immediately, his attention returned to the letter.

No pressure. No joke.

Relief arrived first.

Then, unexpectedly, disappointment.