Hobbs’s hesitation was brief, but she caught it. And her heart began to drum. “It concerns your family, yes. If we could make an appointment to meet, I’ll inform my clients of Mrs. Bodine’s death.”

“Who are your clients, Mr. Hobbs? No, don’t tell me it’s confidential,” she snapped. “You come to my door on the day of my mother’s funeral looking for her to discuss something that concerns my family. I’m my only family now, Mr. Hobbs, so your information obviously concerns me. Who are your clients?”

“I need to make a phone call—from my car. Would you mind waiting a few moments?”

“All right,” she agreed, more on impulse than with a sense of patience. “I’ll wait.”

But she closed the door when he walked toward the dark sedan at the curb. She had a feeling she was going to need that coffee.

It didn’t take him long. The bell rang again when she was taking her first sip. Carrying the mug with her, she went back to answer.

“Ms. Bodine, my client has authorized me to handle this matter at my own discretion.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out a business card, offered it.

“Doubleday Investigations,” she read. “New York.” Shannon lifted a brow. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Hobbs.”

“My business keeps me on the road quite a bit. This particular case has kept me there. I’d like to come in, Ms. Bodine. Or if you’d be more comfortable, I could meet you wherever you like.”

She had an urge to close the door in his face. Not that she was afraid of him physically. The cowardice came from something deeper, and because she recognized it, she ignored it.

“Come in. I’ve just made coffee.”

“I appreciate it.” As was his habit, long ingrained, Hobbs scanned the house as he followed Shannon, took in the subtle wealth, the quiet good taste. Everything he’d learned about the Bodines in the last few months was reflected in the house. They were—had been—a nice, closely knit upper-income family without pretensions.

“This is a difficult time for you, Ms. Bodine,” Hobbs began when he took the chair at the table Shannon gestured toward. “I hope I won’t add to it.”

“My mother died two days ago, Mr. Hobbs. I don’t think you can make it more difficult than it already is. Cream, sugar?”

“Just black, thanks.” He studied her as she prepared his coffee. Self-possessed, he mused. That would make his job easier. “Was your mother ill, Ms. Bodine?”

“It was cancer,” she said shortly.

No sympathy wanted, he judged, and offered none. “I represent Rogan Sweeney,” Hobbs began, “his wife and her family.”

“Rogan Sweeney?” Cautious, Shannon joined him at the table. “I know the name, of course. Worldwide Galleries has a branch in New York. They’re based in . . .” She trailed off, setting down her mug before her hands could shake. Ireland, she thought. In Ireland.

“You know, then.” Hobbs read the knowledge in her eyes. That, too, would make his job easier. “My clients were concerned that the circumstances might be unknown to you.”

Determined not to falter, Shannon lifted her cup again. “What does Rogan Sweeney have to do with me?”

“Mr. Sweeney is married to Margaret Mary Concannon, the oldest daughter of the late Thomas Concannon, of Clare County, Ireland.”

“Concannon.” Shannon closed her eyes until the need to shudder had passed. “I see.” When she opened her eyes again, they were bitterly amused. “I assume they hired you to find me. I find it odd that there would be an interest after all these years.”

“I was hired, initially, to find your mother, Ms. Bodine. I can tell you that my clients only learned of her, and your existence, last year. The investigation was initiated at that time. However, there was some difficulty in locating Amanda Dougherty. As you may know, she left her home in New York suddenly and without giving her family indication of her destination.”

“I suppose she might not have known it, as she’d been tossed out of the house for being pregnant.” Pushing her coffee aside, Shannon folded her hands. “What do your clients want?”

“The primary goal was to contact your mother, and to let her know that Mr. Concannon’s surviving children had discovered letters she had written to him, and with her permission, to make contact with you.”

“Surviving children. He’s dead then.” She rubbed a hand to her temple. “Yes, you told me that already. He’s dead. So are they all. Well, you found me, Mr. Hobbs, so your job’s done. You can inform your clients that I’ve been contacted and have no interest in anything further.”

“Your sisters—”

Her eyes went cold. “I don’t consider them my sisters.”

Hobbs merely inclined his head. “Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Thane may wish to contact you personally.”

“I can’t stop them, can I? But you can forward the fact that I’m not interested in reunions with women I don’t know. What happened between their father and my mother some twenty-eight years ago doesn’t change the status quo. So—” She broke off, eyes sharpening again. “Margaret Mary Concannon, you said? The artist?”

“Yes, she is known for her glass work.”

“That’s an understatement,” Shannon murmured. She’d been to one of M. M. Concannon’s showings at Worldwide New York herself. And had been considering investing in a piece. The idea was almost laughable. “Well, that’s amusing, isn’t it? You can tell Margaret Mary Concannon and her sister—”

“Brianna. Brianna Concannon Thane. She runs a B and B in Clare. You may have heard of her husband as well. He’s a successful mystery writer.”

“Grayson Thane?” At Hobbs’s nod, Shannon did nearly laugh. “They married well, it seems. Good for them. Tell them they can get on with their lives, as I intend to do.” She rose. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Hobbs?”

“I’m to ask if you’d like to have your mother’s letters, and if so, if you would object to my clients making copies for themselves.”

“I don’t want them. I don’t want anything.” She bit back on a sudden spurt of venom, letting out a sigh as it drained. “What happened is no more their fault than mine. I don’t know how they feel about all of this, Mr. Hobbs, and don’t care to. If it’s curiosity, misplaced guilt, a sense of family obligation, you can tell them to let it go.”