“Sceilig Mhichíl,” he breathed, drawing out the Irish pronunciation with a hiss. “If he c-could…k-kill the d-devil, why…c-can’t…I?”

  “Mr.…”

  “Burrrrrr,” he murmured, and this time Tierney realized that he wasn’t cold; he was telling her his name.

  “Mr. Burr—”

  “J-Just…Burrrrrr,” he said, his eyes closed, his hands on his chest, still tightly clenched around his gun and her phone.

  The adrenaline that had been pumping through her body had exhausted her, and as she realized that he was almost completely incapacitated, she relaxed a little, slumping against her bureau.

  With two brothers her age, Tierney Haven had more than a little bit of experience reading men, but this one was throwing her for a loop. A St. Michael medal sitting on top of a tattoo that read, “Destroyer.” Contradictions abounded.

  Although he’d forced his way into her home, and his language and manner were rough, she didn’t believe he’d come here to hurt her. In fact, since the moment he’d arrived, he’d been dogged in one pursuit: to use her phone.

  Yes, he’d grabbed her hair to get her out of the corner of her living room, but he hadn’t added a gratuitous slap or kick. Even when he’d touched her breast in an attempt to find her arm in the darkness, he hadn’t lingered on it, hadn’t copped an extra feel. And when he’d pushed her at the top of the stairs and she’d bumped her head, he’d apologized to her.

  He’s not here to hurt me, she quietly decided, relaxing a little more. But who was he? Where was he from? How did he get here? And why?

  His feet were still on the floor, though the rest of his body was lying across her bed. She stepped to the edge of the bed, leaning over him just a little.

  “Burr?”

  He groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. “D-Don’t…g-go.”

  She gulped. His voice sounded so much like Ian’s, she could almost close her eyes and believe he was her brother.

  “Me?”

  “You. D-Don’t…want…to…d-die…alonnnnnne,” he murmured, the last word drawn out like the word amen after the Our Father.

  It did something to her heart, that terrible and simple request, and she cocked her head to the side, watching as he remained motionless on her bed.

  After several minutes, she whispered his name again.

  “Burr?”

  He murmured in his sleep, groaning softly, but didn’t open his eyes.

  She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as the screen on her phone went dark. The rain was finally letting up a little, and a faint lavender glow—a mix of moonlight and dawn—filtered into the room.

  What do I do? What do I do now?

  She backed away from the bed, looking out the window, and that’s when she noticed his car. A little way down the road, outside the gate, the headlights and interior lights were on because the driver’s-side door had been left open.

  I should move his car, she thought, taking a concerned look at him before slipping quietly from the room.

  She headed downstairs, grabbing an umbrella from the antique bucket beside the front door, and headed out into the rain, grateful that the storm had subsided. It only took a few minutes to reach the gate and punch in the entry code. Luckily the gates opened inward, because his car would have been in the way had they opened out.

  It wasn’t a fancy car—a blue Honda Accord, your run-of-the-mill city vehicle. Where was he from? Concord? No. Even in Concord, you’d need four-wheel drive to get around from October to March. Hmm. Maybe Boston? Boston was the biggest big city within a couple hours’ drive.

  Peeking into the car, the first thing she noticed was a blackish stain on the driver’s seat where his shoulder would have rested. Oil? She leaned closer, pressing her finger against the moisture and drawing it away. It was dark red on the pads of her fingers. Blood? She didn’t remember seeing blood on his chest or arm, but there’d barely been enough light to get a good look at him, and frankly, an injury would explain his slurred speech and obvious fever.

  She slid into the car, leaning forward so she wouldn’t touch the upholstery with her white nightgown. Too far back for her to reach the pedals, she adjusted the seat forward, then pulled the door closed, driving through the gate and up the road a little ways to her cottage. Pulling the car into her driveway, she shifted it into park and turned on the interior lights. A pink bubblegum air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and an empty orange juice bottle sat in the center console. There was an open pack of wet wipes on the passenger seat, with several stained wipes littering the floor.

  She opened the glove compartment, searching for clues about who he was, and found a sippy cup, two sparkly hairbands, ketchup packets, tissues, and the car’s registration. The car was owned by someone named Suzanne Riley, whose address was in Dorchester, Massachusetts, a neighborhood located just south of Boston proper. Turning to look in the back seat, she found a balled-up leather jacket, a booster seat that had half a cup of Cheerios in the built-in cupholder, and a stuffed bunny slumped over beside it.

  Who was this Suzanne? Someone’s mother, obviously. But who was she to Burr? Wife? Girlfriend? Or was the car stolen? Maybe he had no connection to Suzanne at all. Had he hurt the mother and child taking their car? Whose blood was on the driver’s seat upholstery? She let the question sit for a moment, waiting for a feeling of dread to overwhelm her, but it didn’t. She didn’t know Burr at all, but something—intuition, surely—told her that he wasn’t a murderer. If he was, she’d already be dead.

  With far more questions than answers, she closed the glove compartment and withdrew the keys from the ignition. About to go back inside, her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, landing on the trunk. Hmmm. Scooting from the driver’s seat and rounding the car, she unlocked the trunk and looked inside. She found a half-opened black nylon duffel bag, which she hoisted onto her shoulder, and a brown Stop & Shop bag. Opening the paper sack, she looked inside to find neat stacks of money filling the lower fourth of the bag.

  It had to be thousands of dollars.

  Why would he be driving around with that? What was he into? Drugs? Weapons? Her mind flitted back to the tattoo on his chest. Was he a gang member? From Boston? If so, how in the world did he end up outside her door tonight?

  Shoving the paper bag back into the corner of the trunk, she slammed it shut and headed back into her cottage, closing the front door behind her. Motionless in the dark living room, she listened for a sound from upstairs but heard nothing. With his duffel bag still on her shoulder, Tierney made her way to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight, matches, and two candles from under the kitchen sink.

  She placed the candles on the kitchen table and lit them, then sat down with his bag before her. Curious to know what it contained, she gulped before unzipping it the rest of the way, then flicked on her flashlight, leaning forward to look inside.

  On top she found a white T-shirt that was clean except for some bloody fingerprints, a pair of jeans, socks, boxer shorts, and some beat-up sneakers. Underneath the clothes, she found a pistol, a box of ammunition, a knife, a small pair of binoculars, a first-aid kit, two Kind bars, a small bottle of orange juice, and a pair of handcuffs.

  Hmm.

  The money in the trunk looked shady, yes, but the contents of the bag, coupled with the St. Michael’s medal he was wearing, felt more like a cop’s, not a gang member’s.

  But why would a Boston cop bang on her door in Moultonborough, New Hampshire, at four thirty in the morning? And why did he have thousands of dollars in his trunk and look like a gangbanger, with his shaved head and tattoos?

  “Suze! Suzy!”

  The anguished cry came from her bedroom.

  Tierney zipped his bag shut, stood up, and turned to the stairs, knowing she had an important decision to make…

  Either she could walk back out her front door, get in her car, and drive to the Moultonborough Police Station, or she could go upstairs and check on her unexpected guest.

  What surprised Tierney the most was that her choice was already made, even before she’d laid it out for herself.

  Maybe it was the fact that tonight had been scary, yes, but also exciting, while life for Tierney, in general, had become fairly routine.

  Or maybe it was that she sensed he was in trouble and she wanted to help. Tierney had two brothers she loved more than anything—one of whom had been in trouble many times—and maybe once or twice, someone else’s sister had looked after Ian. Maybe this man, Burr, had a sister who loved him as much as Tierney loved Ian. Looked at in a cosmic context, this was her opportunity to pay back that kindness.

  Or maybe it was as simple as her own damned curiosity. Was he a destroyer or protector? A villain or hero? Tierney loved reading mysteries more than anything, poring over the ones on her Kindle night after night from the safety of her bed. But here was a real, live mystery on her doorstep. If she turned him in to the police, she might never find out where he came from and how he ended up finding his way to her.

  He still has a gun, she reminded herself.

  But if he was going to use it, she reasoned, he already would have.

  Clutching the flashlight to her chest, she turned away from the door and started back up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 2

  Declan Shanahan had the gun pointed at Suzanne.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Where is he?” demanded Declan’s brother, Sean Shanahan, who stood inches from Suzanne on her front stoop.

  “I haven’t seen him in years,” she said.

  “Who is it, Mommy?” asked Brigid, peeking out from behind Suzanne’s legs.

  Burr clenched his jaw, his heart thundering into overtime. Get back inside, baby girl. Please, God, get her back inside, Suzanne!

  Sean narrowed his eyes at Suzanne before squatting down before her daughter. “What’s yer name, now?”

  “Bridey Riley. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Mr. Shanahan.”

  “Shanahan. That’s a funny name.”

  “’Tis, isn’t it?”

  Brigid nodded, grinning at Sean Shanahan, one of the most dangerous criminals in Dorchester.

  “Hey, Bridey,” he said, “where’s yer Uncle Burr at, eh?”

  Brigid frowned at Sean, scrunching her little shoulders around her ears. “I dunno. I never seen him.”

  Sean grunted at her, then stood up, running one hand through his graying hair. “Where is he, Suzy?”

  “Please, Sean. We don’t know.”

  “He’s a fucking narc, ain’t he?”

  “I don’t—” Suzanne’s voice shook as she put her hands over Brigid’s ears, drawing her daughter closer. “I don’t know what he’s up to. But ‘narc’ feels pretty unlikely since he was busted for drugs and kicked off the force.”

  You’re doing good, thought Burr, who was hiding in the dark shadows next to Mrs. Murphy’s garage across the street. Sean Shanahan didn’t kill women and children. Maybe he’d grill her a bit, then leave her be.

  “Yer dad must’ve had a coronary over that one, eh?”

  Suzanne blinked at Sean, licking her lips nervously before shrugging. “My dad…he’s retired. We don’t—we don’t talk about Burr much anymore.”

  “Well, Declan,” said Sean, turning to the man standing on Suzanne’s small patch of lawn, who had a discreet pistol aimed at Burr’s sister, “I guess we got some bad information, eh?”

  “Looks like it, boss.”

  Sean turned back to Suzanne. “You see your brother around, you let me know, yeah?”

  “’Course, Sean,” she said, and Burr watched her face, the way her features relaxed just a touch.

  Burr relaxed a little too, holstering his sidearm as he watched Sean turn his back to Suzanne, heading to the stairs. Once Burr knew that Suzanne and Brigid were safe, he would deal with his own mess…and he’d start by figuring out which rat-bastard had revealed his true identity to Sean.

  He glanced back at Suzanne, a bolt of longing making him breathless as he stared at his sister and niece. It had been three long years since he’d made contact with them, and he missed them fiercely. Maybe it was okay that his cover had been blown—it meant that his life as an undercover cop was over. And God knew he was long past ready to leave this life behind.

  He watched as Sean lumbered down the four steps of the stoop, making eye contact with Declan, his lips thin, his eyes furious. The tip of his head was so subtle, anyone else would have missed it, but Burr had worked closely with Sean for years. Not only did he catch it, but he knew what it meant, and dread sluiced through his being.

  Shit, shit, shit! Suzanne, run!

  Thrump. The sound of a gun with a silencer being shot registered in Burr’s brain just as his sister stumbled back, falling in a heap on the floor of her open front door.

  “That’ll get his attention,” muttered Sean, opening the passenger side of the car as Declan turned back around and hustled over to the driver’s side.

  “Fuck! No!” yelled Burr, shaking himself from his shock and stupor to run down Mrs. Murphy’s driveway, grabbing the gun from his holster. He fired it at Declan, who whipped around in surprise, pointing his gun at Burr.

  A bullet smacked into his shoulder, and Burr distantly acknowledged the hot, tearing pain, but it didn’t stop him. He fired again, hitting Declan in the chest before he could open his door. He fell back against the car.

  Someone in the neighborhood must have called the cops, because the screech and cry of sirens split the night, drawing closer and closer.

  Declan slumped against the side of the car as Burr approached, wondering why Sean, who’d made it safely inside the car, hadn’t shot at him yet. But then he remembered, Sean Shanahan preferred fists to guns—he left the shooting to men like his brother, Declan.

  Within reach of the car, Burr made eye contact with Sean through the window and raised his gun, aiming at his head, but Sean slid across the front seat, shifted into drive, and hit the gas before Burr could pull the trigger. The tires shrieked, and Declan’s head hit the pavement as his brother’s car screeched away. Even though Burr shot twice at the bulletproof glass of the back windshield, Sean disappeared into the night just as Boston’s finest arrived on the scene. Their sirens didn’t drown out Brigid’s high-pitched screams as she knelt by her mother’s unresponsive body.

  “Shhh. Shhh. Stop thrashing now.”

  The voice was firm but gentle, just like his—“Mam?”

  “No. I’m not your mother. I disinfected it,” she continued, “but I should call a doctor. It needs stitches.”

  “Suzy?”

  “No. I’m not Suzy either.” She paused, then asked, “Is she your wife? Suzy?”

  “Where…am I?” he asked.

  His mouth was so dry, his lips stuck to each other when he made the “m” sound of “am.” She pressed a glass to his lips, and he took a small sip of water.

  “New Hampshire,” she said.

  New Hampshire? Why the fuck was he in New Hampshire? What the hell was going on?

  “You’re safe here,” she said, offering him the water again.

  He took another sip, but his eyes were still closed, too heavy to open.

  They’re at Suzy’s.

  They’re going after Suzy.

  He’d received the call last night around ten. He hadn’t known who was on the other side of the line, because the caller disguised his voice, and the line went dead before Burr could find out. On his way to drop off his daily collection to Sean, Burr had done a U-turn in the middle of Roxbury, racing to his sister’s Dorchester neighborhood and parking one street away. Cutting through the Koswalskis’ backyard and hiding against the Murphys’ garage, where he could see Sean talking to her. And then…And then…

  “Suzy!” he screamed, opening his eyes wide.

  The first thing he saw was…

  Her: a young woman, midtwenties, dark hair, green eyes, glasses. Her face was close. She sat in a chair beside the bed where he was lying. Placing a glass of water on the bedside table, she looked into his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Calm down. You’re safe here,” she said again.

  “Where the fuck am I?”

  “My house.”

  “Where?”

  “I already told you: New Hampshire.”

  My wife’s family has a place on Lake Ossipee. Twelve Carlson Road in Freedom, New Hampshire. Go there. Stay out of sight. I’ll be in touch.

  “O-Ossipee?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Where?”

  “Moultonborough,” she said.

  “Where the fuck is that?”

  “About thirty miles away.”

  “East or west?”

  “West.”

  He clenched his jaw, staring at her. “Who are you?”

  “Tierney.”

  Her answers were maddeningly brief, telling him nothing.

  “Tierney what?”

  “Haven.”

  “Where’s my gun, Tierney Haven?”

  She dropped his eyes for a moment, then looked up again. “Safe.”

  Goddamn it. He took a shaking breath. “Get it.”

  “No.”

  “Now!”

  “I can’t do that,” she said. She went to reach into her pocket, and he flinched, jerking back from her. She froze, looking at him curiously, then nodded in understanding. “I’m only reaching into my pocket for your keys.” Moving slowly, she pulled Suzanne’s keys from her pocket and placed them on the bedside table. “You’re not a hostage here. You can go whenever you like.”

  He snatched the keys and fisted them, still staring at her.

  “How did I get here?”

  “You drove here.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. Your car is in my driveway. I moved it from the road.”

  His memories of his drive north were spotty, at best. Before he left Dorchester in Suzy’s car, his partner, Ray, had grabbed some painkillers from the paramedics who came to take Suzy to the hospital. They must have been pretty strong.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “You woke me up, banging on my door at four o’clock in the morning. You wanted my phone.”