About the book
Every Quiet Thing
The sea had a way of pretending it was innocent. From the lane above the cliffs it looked almost gentle — slate-grey, flecked with pale foam, breathing in and out like something asleep. The wind did the loud work, flinging rain sideways, rattling the gorse, making a song of the wire fences. Down below, the tide kept its own counsel. Nora Fallon walked that path with her coat pulled tight and her hair half loose, as if she’d forgotten she was meant to be careful.