Page 106 of Soft Flannel Hank

Nat stood slowly. He scratched at his bare stomach, at the lean muscles that marked it. And then he stretched, reaching his arms up high, clasping his elbows and leaning side to side. Hank rolled his eyes at the obvious peacocking.

But Niamh did not roll her eyes. She watched the display with an almost carnivorous hunger on her face. Hank suddenly felt very much like he was interrupting something.

Nat doffed an imaginary cap and said, “As the lady wishes,” before disappearing down the short hall and into the bedroom.

“Insufferable man,” Niamh muttered, crossing her arms on the table and dropping her forehead onto them.

In a moment, Nat returned wearing a knit sweater. It was hunter green and looked worn and mended. He slid back into his seat, looking wary and folding his hands on the tabletop. Hank watched as Niamh slowly lifted her head, her mouth falling open as she looked at the sweater, at Nat.

“You kept it,” she whispered.

Nat nodded.

Hank saw the ghost of a smile on Niamh’s face, which was wet with the ever-present tears that never seemed to stop falling. But they were falling faster now, and she seemed more distressed.

Nat turned to him. “So what happened?”

Hank told him everything that he knew, including summarizing Esther’s goodbye note.

“Do you know where she might have gone?” Nat asked.

“The only people she knows in town besides you and me are Magda and Jory. And Magda would have told me.”

“Would she have?” Nat asked.

“No. But if I’d asked, she would have. And I did ask.”

“So we go to Jory and see if she’s seen Esther.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“She lives in the apartment above her shop.”

“That’s conven—”

Hank was cut off by a stifled cry from across the table. Niamh clapped both hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

Nat whipped his head around to look at Niamh, and within the span of a blink, he was on the floor in front of her, kneeling and turning her to face him.

“How long has it been going on?” Nat asked tenderly.

Niamh sobbed. “About a week. He’ll be gone soon. I can feel it.”

Nat smoothed her hair behind her ear and crooned, “It’ll be over soon. You’ll be okay, mhuirnín. It’ll be over soon.”

The sob turned into a wail. Niamh keened as if she was in intense pain. Hank shot to his feet. “What’s wrong with her? Should we call an ambulance?”

Nat just kept stroking Niamh’s hair softly. “There’s nothing anyone can do for her.”

Niamh leaned forward and rested her forehead against Nat’s. She draped her arms around his neck and wailed again.

“What’s happening?” Hank whispered.

Niamh keened loudly, burying her face in the crook of Nat’s neck.

“Someone’s dying,” Nat said flatly, stroking Niamh’s back in long, slow swipes of his hand.

“Who’s dying?”