That made sense. He had given his burner phone to Ray so his whereabouts couldn’t be traced, but finding out what happened to his sister would have been a priority. Was she alive? Dead? He inhaled sharply at the terrible thought.

  “Did I call anyone last night?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops once I passed out?”

  “No service,” she said, reaching into her back pocket and holding up a phone. “They’re restoring it now.”

  “They?”

  “AT&T.”

  He stared at her, still trying to determine if he was safe here or not, despite her reassurances. “You could have driven to the local police department when I passed out.”

  “Yes.” She stood up and nodded, stepping away from him to lean against her bureau, her clear green eyes still fixed on his face. “I could’ve.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Her lips twitched and she pushed her glasses up her nose. “You asked me not to involve the police.”

  “I broke into your house at four in the morning waving a gun around—no doubt scared the shit out of you—and you didn’t call the police or run to them the second you could?”

  “You didn’t break in. I opened the door.”

  “Do you always open the door to strangers?”

  “I thought you were my brother.”

  Burr sighed. “And when you realized I wasn’t…?”

  “You were already inside,” she said.

  He shook his head, deeply annoyed with her. She was going to get herself killed behaving like this. “Stupid.”

  She blinked at him, cocking her head to the side. “You’re calling me stupid?”

  “You shouldn’t have let me in. You shouldn’t have opened the goddamned door! Didn’t anyone ever teach you anything about strangers?” he demanded.

  “I guess they were too busy teaching me how to say thank you,” she said tartly. She took a deep breath, her unsettling green eyes still trained on his. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly.

  You should be. I’ve been living with animals for three years.

  She reached up and pushed a lock of dark hair from her forehead, which revealed a fresh bruise. Burr grimaced. “Did I do that?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  Fuck! He’d hurt her?

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” he yelled, furious at her for putting herself in danger. How the hell had she made it to adulthood acting like this? “You should have gotten help!”

  “It’s not too late,” she snapped. “I’ll get in my car right now and tell the whole county you’re here. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll stop by the hospital on the way. Make it a real fine field trip.”

  Fuck it all, but she was sassy.

  The reality was that he didn’t know who in the Boston Police Department had betrayed his identity to Sean, but he couldn’t risk seeing if Sean’s tendrils reached as far as New Hampshire. Not to mention, Sean would be combing reports of emergency room patients from Portland to Providence.

  “Is that what you want?” she prodded, schoolmarm tone on point.

  “No. I don’t want the police involved,” he muttered, looking away from her. “I’m just saying…you should be more careful.”

  Until he knew what was going on or could get to Ray’s house on Lake Ossipee, he couldn’t risk letting anyone else know where he was, and that included local police and emergency rooms.

  He shifted his gaze back to the woman, letting his eyes trail down her body and back up again. She was a sweet little package—rounded hips, small waist, big tits, long, dark hair and a pretty, if way too serious, face.

  “Smile,” he said, as surprised by the word as she seemed to be.

  She flinched, narrowing her eyes with undiluted anger. “Téigh dtí diabhail.”

  Fuck off.

  He couldn’t help the chortle of laughter that lifted from his belly. She looked like a goddamn librarian but swore as neatly as any of Sean’s thugs.

  “Ha! Damn.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said again. She turned toward the door, then glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll bring up some soup. Stay in bed. Your shoulder’s bad.”

  “Where’s the john?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “The restroom?”

  It had been a while since Burr had needed his Catholic school manners. But duly chagrined, he nodded. “Yes, please. The restroom.”

  She hooked a thumb to the left. “Down the hallway.”

  And then she was gone.

  He listened to the sound of her steps fade until he couldn’t hear her anymore. What did she say her name was? Tierney? Irish, he thought. Well, of course she’s Irish. She curses like she was born there.

  Loosening his grip on Suzy’s keys, he placed them on the bedside table beside the glass of water, his memories of last night starting to return—and with them, a wave of fear and sorrow.

  Hiding in the blue-and-red tinged shadows behind Suzanne’s garage, he’d learned from Ray that his sister had been shot in the hip, though the paramedics who arrived at the scene said they doubted, based on the way she was bleeding, that her artery had been hit. Suzy’s husband, Connor, had been called home from his shift at the Dorchester Fire Department to take care of Bridey. Burr and Suzy’s parents, Sheila and Frank (a retired Boston cop), had also been contacted, and were on the way to the Miami Airport.

  After sharing this news, Ray had grabbed some gauze and painkillers from the ambulance, bandaged up Burr’s shoulder best he could and told his partner it was time to go.

  “I’m not fucking leaving, Ray. They shot my fucking sister! They could’ve hit Bridey too. Fuck, they could have—”

  “You don’t leave now,” said Ray, grabbing Burr firmly by his uninjured shoulder, “and I give you less than twenty-four hours to live.”

  Fuck, but it had killed Burr to leave.

  Suzy was shot because of him—or, more accurately, because of the person who’d sold him out to Sean and the rest of the New Killeens, where Burr had been undercover for almost three years—and if he wasn’t by her bedside, the only place he wanted to be was hunting down the motherfucking traitor who’d put Suzanne O’Leary Riley in danger.

  “Where’s your car?” asked Ray.

  “Over on Mulberry,” Burr said, hooking his thumb toward the Koswalskis’ house.

  “Good. Leave it there. Take Suzy’s,” he’d said, gesturing to the garage. “My wife’s family has a place on Lake Ossipee. Twelve Carlson Road in Freedom, New Hampshire. Go there and hide. Take care of that shoulder when you can. Stay out of sight. I’ll be in touch.”

  Except Burr hadn’t made it to Freedom. He’d gotten lost in the storm—the painkillers muddling his head, the hammering rain making it impossible to read highway signs—and somehow, he’d ended up thirty miles off course in…where was he? Oh, yeah. Moultonborough. Wherever the fuck that was.

  He heard Tierney’s footsteps approaching, and he took a deep breath, sitting up. He instantly regretted the movement, dizzy from the sharp and intense burst of pain it caused to move. She was right—his shoulder was bad.

  “Soup,” she said, stepping into the room with a tray. She crossed over to him, placing it carefully on his lap. “Split pea and ham.”

  Burr looked down at the lumpy green muck. He hated pea soup with a fiery passion. “Thanks.”

  “I made it myself,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose, “with a leftover ham bone.”

  For the first time, it occurred to him that she might have a husband. None of the single girls he knew baked hams or made soup from scratch. That was a married-lady skill.

  “You married?” he asked, taking a spoonful of the soup and finding it not as horrible as he remembered from his childhood.

  “No.”

  “Who’d you make the ham for, then?”

  “Me and my brothers.”

  Brothers could be trouble.

  “They live here too?”

  “Not right here. Nearby.”

  Relieved, he nodded, taking another bite of soup. “This is good. I don’t like peas. Usually.”

  “You’ve probably had them from a can. They’re not very tasty that way,” she commented, hovering by the foot of her bed.

  “You can sit down if you want,” he said, gesturing to the chair by the bed with a flick of his chin.

  She obviously thought it over for a minute before accepting his invitation, but her back was rigid when she sat down, her unsmiling face quietly disapproving.

  “Why do you have a gun?” she asked.

  “Protection.”

  “From whom?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  She pursed her lips. “How about the money in the back of your car? What’s that for?”

  The spoon froze halfway between the bowl and his mouth. He turned to her. “What do you know about that?”

  “You left your car on the road. I pulled it into my driveway and found money in the—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, giving her a hard look before drawing the spoon to his lips.

  “Well, I am…worried about it,” she said. “I’m also worried about Suzanne Riley. The car’s registered to her. Did you hurt her? How’d you get her car? You called out for her a lot last night.”

  Burr dropped the spoon into his bowl with a clatter and clenched his jaw. Her questions were hitting him in soft places, and he didn’t like it, though he guessed she was entitled to some answers.

  “I didn’t hurt her…” he muttered, “but she got hurt.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, pushing the tray away. Enough. He looked up at her. “I need to go to the…restroom.”

  “Didn’t you go before?”

  He shook his head. “Hurt too much to sit up.”

  “I’ll get you some more Advil,” she said, standing from the chair and holding out her hand. “Want help?”

  He stared at her for a minute, baffled by the fact that she was helping him, a frightening stranger who’d arrived at her door in the middle of a dark and stormy night. He couldn’t think of another woman he knew who would act as she had, and he didn’t know whether she was the stupidest or bravest woman he’d ever known.

  “You’re really not afraid of me, are you?”

  She shrugged. “I told you…I have two brothers.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Same age,” she said.

  “You’re triplets?”

  She nodded as he took her hand, groaning as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up. “You and two brothers, huh?”

  “Yes. Me and two brothers. That’s how triplets work,” she said, leading him out of the bedroom and down a short hallway. She dropped his hand to push open the bathroom door. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” he said, offering her a brief, miserable grimace that would have to pass as a smile. “You’ve been…” His words drifted off. She was allowing him to stay here and feeding him, and she hadn’t called the police yet. For that, she deserved his gratitude. “…helpful.”

  “Who is Suzanne?” she asked again, hands on her hips.

  “My sister,” he said, figuring he owed her one true answer.

  “Oh,” she murmured, her face relaxing, her lips parting, her green eyes all the wider behind her glasses. “Your sister. You’re someone’s brother.”

  You’re someone’s brother.

  The words hit him square in the chest and stole his breath for a moment, because he’d missed his family so damned much over the past three years, it ached. Someone’s brother.

  “Yes. I am,” he murmured.

  “And she’s hurt?” Tierney’s brows furrowed together. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s not dead,” said Burr quickly, his voice harsher than he intended.

  “No. Of course not,” said Tierney. “I…that’s good. I hope she…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she turned around without another word, heading down the stairs and leaving Burr alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  His sister.

  He’d been calling for his sister, not his girlfriend, not his wife.

  Why this information made her whole being relax, followed by an unaccountable feeling of relief in the general vicinity of her heart, wasn’t something Tierney cared to explore. In fact, it was something best left ignored…forever. What mattered was that someone in the world—Suzanne Riley—certainly loved this man as much as Tierney loved Rory and Ian, and Tierney would do what she could, on Suzanne’s behalf, to keep her brother safe.

  Tierney stood at the kitchen sink, washing out the soup pan she’d used to heat up Burr’s lunch. Overhead she heard the toilet flush, followed by his footsteps and the creak of her bed.

  Out the window, on the top of the hill, she could see the towers of Moonstone Manor, the historic Gish estate, known locally as “The Palace in the Sky.” The electric company had already restored power, but the AT&T crew was still up at the barn working on the antenna concealed in the lookout tower. For that reason, among others—especially her rogue houseguest—Tierney had made an executive decision to keep the estate closed for today and was confident it was the right decision. As caretaker of Moonstone Manor, such choices were under her exclusive purview.

  She liked being in charge of the historic landmark—being the official caretaker of the great house, outbuildings, and property—though she’d stumbled into the position in sort of an unconventional way.

  Two weeks before graduating with honors from Dartmouth College six years ago, Tierney’s mother had suffered from a debilitating stroke and been rushed from Summerhaven to the nearest trauma center in New Hampshire: the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center.

  For the following two years, Tierney had remained in Hanover with her parents, helping her father care for her mother, shuttling her mother to therapy and doctor appointments, and willingly putting her own future on hold. Although she’d double-majored in classics and fine art as an undergraduate, hoping to parlay her education into museum work, she’d done little more during those two years than occasionally volunteer over at the local Shaker Museum in Enfield.

  Tierney didn’t mind putting her life on hold for her family. If anything, she looked at caring for her mother as a sacred responsibility and being useful to her parents as an honor. So it came as a surprise, after those two years, when her parents and Rory had staged a mini-intervention, the intent of which, more or less, was to tell her it was time for her to leave Hanover.

  “Darlin’,” started her mother, her speech still stilted by the effects of the stroke, “you’ve been…the best daughter…I could ask for.” She’d paused. “But I’m gonna…get right to the point. Some baby birds…spread their wings one day…and fly away…because it’s time. And others…”

  Tierney had searched her mother’s face, trying to figure out what she was saying.

  “…need a push,” finished Rory.

  “A push?” Tierney had repeated, glaring at her brother before sliding her gaze to her father’s ruddy, bearded face.

  “…Out of the nest,” added her father, laying a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Tierney, it’s time for you to go live your life. You can’t hide here forever.”

  “Hide?” she’d protested, feeling immediately defensive.

  She’d spent two years driving her mother to medical appointments, in addition to handling all of the shopping, cooking, and housekeeping. How was that hiding?

  “I’m so sorry that my services aren’t needed anymore,” she’d huffed, blinking back the unexpected sting of tears.

  “Tierney Eileen…don’t be like that,” said her mother from her wheelchair. “You know…how much…we’ve appreciated you…bein’ here.”

  “Being here? Or hiding here?”

  “Tier,” said Rory, pressing on with the tough love, “don’t act like you have no idea what we’re talking about. Remember when we were kids at Summerhaven? After all of our chores were done, Ian and I would go spy on the girls at the lake or head down to the Weirs Beach boardwalk to rustle up some fun. You’d…”

  I’d go escape to the hammock at the far side of the lake and read, she’d finished for herself.

  With a grim but knowing smile, Rory had nodded, watching as she put the pieces together.

  But what was wrong with that? Was it so bad that she preferred her own company? Or that she wanted to be of service to her family? Why was it bad for her to want to be with them? Couldn’t they see that, barring time alone, she was most comfortable in their company? Wasn’t that okay?

  Apparently not.

  With a heavy heart, she’d gotten her meager resume together and looked online to make a list of all the museums in New Hampshire that might be seeking a docent.

  The day she’d stopped by Moonstone Manor to drop off her resume also happened to be the day after the previous on-site caretaker and lead docent had decided to quit. The preservation committee was convening in the visitor’s center, trying to figure out if they should advertise for a new caretaker/docent in the Boston newspapers or online. In the meantime, they’d have to schedule round-the-clock shifts to man the ticket booth and tours, or they’d lose the valuable summer tourist traffic that made future improvements possible.

  Smack in the middle of their meeting, Tierney had walked in, asking if they had any positions open. She’d never seen eight strangers smile with such identical combinations of surprise, relief, and warmth.

  After they perused her resume—impressed that she’d attended Dartmouth and had volunteered regularly at the Shaker Museum—they’d offered her the job on the spot.

  The rest was history.

  Along with the fact that the tiny caretaker’s cottage where she lived came with the job (and was a large part of the position’s benefits), Tierney was her own boss. She managed all repairs on the estate, hired docent interns from area colleges to lead tours every summer, and—from October 30 until March 30 every year when the estate was closed to the public—hid out in her tiny cottage reading mysteries on her Kindle and readying the house or grounds for the occasional seasonal event.