One Autumn Night

Chapter One

Abigail wondered if there was an unspoken rule about not murdering people before the sun came up. Sort of like the small town mores of not using power tools outside before 8 a.m., etiquette that she'd learned the hard way. The knock on her door sounded again and she grumbled an incoherent response.

The wooden steps let out hollow squeaks under her bare feet as she made her way down to the door where the potential victim of murder waited—impatiently, she concluded, hearing more knocks—for his or her demise. Why anyone would think to wake the proprietor of a pub before the sun came up wasn't something she had any interest in considering. Kill was what she considered and figured it was unfortunate that there was a ninety percent chance she'd be killing one of her brothers. At least she had two so there'd be one left after the massacre.

Clad in a T-shirt that read, "Women belong in the House...and the Senate," the October chill bit at her but she was ready to bite back.

Seeing the male silhouette through her foggy eyes and sheer curtains, she set her teeth and hissed through the clench. Probably Beckett having lost his keys and phone at some girl's place—which happened too often to be amused by—unable to wake up Ben to get inside the apartment they shared on the outskirts of Stonebridge. One brother or the other tended to crash at her place when they stayed for drinks after the pub closed or when they went out after their shift. The joy and hazard of living above her pub was that she was smack in the center of town and within walking distance of almost anywhere.

Missing the last step, she skid and tumbled to the landing.

Thankfully still on her feet, she grumbled again as she opened the door, letting in lights from the small New England town along with a waft of nippy air.

She should've been cold, but as she stared into the eyes of a man she hadn't seen since high school graduation, she forgot the season, the temperature, the time of day or night. And after a few suspended moments, her mind grinded into gear. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What kind of greeting is that?"

"It's the middle of the night, come back later if you want pleasantries. Or just don't come back at all. That works too."

"It's six a.m.," Declan pointed out. "And I'm here because it's an emergency."

The tense hold between her eyebrows turned into an alert lift of panic. "Ben or Beckett?"

"Your brothers are fine as far as I know."

She let out a low breath of relief then narrowed her shadowy gold eyes that glimmered bronze in the town's nightlights. "You don't look like you're bleeding."

"I'm not. I'm here for my mother."

Her gaze flattened. "You just missed her. Left with Channing Tatum after he gave her a lap dance. Goodnight." She pushed at the door then started back up the stairs, but he'd been quick to catch it before it latched and trailed behind her.

"Do men give women lap dances?"

"Ask your mother. And you shouldn't be here." She rounded into the kitchen and filled her old coffee pot with water, poured it into the machine, tossed grounds from a can into the thing, then slapped it around until she heard the coffee drizzle down. The merciful, merciful coffee.

Her stomach was unsettled at the presence of Declan Fitzgerald and coffee would settle it. Or would wake her enough to pack more of a punch when she kicked him out, she decided, noting that he'd followed her all the way upstairs.

Instead of joining her in the kitchen, the man with classic good looks that edged up against arrogant unpredictability and sure-footed rebellion—something she'd admired throughout high school—made himself at home on a stool at the eating bar that faced into her kitchen.