Not in Dublin, not in Ireland, not on the entire continent.

I was as alone as alone could be.

I'd had a major blowout fight with Mom and Dad before I'd left, and they weren't speaking to me. Then again, they weren't speaking to each other, either, so I was trying not to take it too personally. I'd quit my job and withdrawn from school. I'd drained my checking and savings accounts. I was a twenty-two-year-old single white female alone in a strange country where my sister had been killed.

Gripping a suitcase in each hand, I spun in a circle on the sidewalk. What in God's name did I think I was doing? Before I could entertain that thought long enough to go tearing off in a panic-stricken dash after my departing cab, I squared my shoulders, turned, and marched into The Clarin House.

I'd chosen this bed-and-breakfast for two reasons: It was close to where Alina had kept a small, noisy apartment over one of the many Dublin pubs, and it was one of the least expensive in the area. I had no idea how long I would be staying, so I'd booked the cheapest one-way flight I'd been able to find. I had limited funds and needed to watch every penny, or I could end up stuck abroad without enough money to make it home. Only when I was convinced the police—or An Garda Síochána, the Guardians of the Peace, as they were called over here—were doing the best job possible would I begin to even consider leaving Ireland again.

On the trip over, I'd devoured two slightly outdated guidebooks I'd found the day before at The Book Nook, Ashford's only used-book store. I'd pored over maps, trying to bone up on Ireland's history and acquaint myself with local customs. I'd passed a three-hour layover in Boston with my eyes closed, trying to recall every detail about Dublin I'd ever picked up from Alina in our phone calls and e-mails. I was afraid I was still as green as an unripe Georgia peach, but hopefully I wouldn't be the gauche tourist, stepping on toes every time I turned around.