Beaufort, South Carolina
January 2
Twitch pulled her Mini into the driveway and made her way up the short brick path to her bungalow. With the small brown bag in one hand, she paused at the front door to dig her keys out of the pocket of her jeans. She could have made any number of high-tech security enhancements to the house, but something about the charming neighborhood and the quaint gray clapboard exterior made a palm print scanner and motion sensors seem ridiculous, like a lock on a fairytale cottage. The house had an alarm and a small wall safe where she stored the jewelry from her parents that she rarely wore. She had installed exterior lighting and upgraded the locks but saw no need for more extreme measures. Most of her neighbors left their doors unlocked, if not open. The neighborhood was safe.
The smack of a screen door had Twitch turning her head to the left. Her neighbor, Mrs. Critchfield, came out on her porch with a stack of mail.
“Hi, Mrs. C.”
“Oh, hello dear. You’re back.”
“Yep. Glad to be home.”
“Did you have a nice Christmas?” Mrs. Critchfield asked.
“It was great. I went home to New York to see my parents.”
“Oh, how lovely. I visited my son and his family in Charleston. I love those grandbabies, but a week of commotion is about all I can take.” Mrs. Critchfield waved the envelopes she held. “I gotta get these letters in the box, or the next time I’ll remember is when Cleo is driving away in her mail truck.”
Twitch set her belongings on the stoop and hopped down the stairs. “I’ll pop them in for you.” She took the stack and jogged to the end of the walk. Placing the letters in the mailbox, she flipped up the little flag. “All set.”
“Thank you, dear. Oh, I left a casserole in your fridge. Got the alarm code right on the first try.” Mrs. Critchfield locked her fingers and shook her arms like a victorious fighter.
Twitch laughed. “I’m sure the sheriff is happy about that. Thank you for the food. I’ll have it for dinner tonight.”
“No hot date?”
Twitch blew an exasperated breath. “No hot date. Not even a lukewarm date.”
“Well, you’ve got enough burly men-friends from your work to help you lift heavy things and open jars.” The older woman shook out her welcome mat as she spoke. “Get yourself a good vibrator and a gun and call it a day.”
Twitch felt her face heat and fumbled with her keys. “G’night.”
“Sleep tight, dear.”
Inside, Twitch set down her messenger bag and the package and shed her coat. To the left was a seating area with an overstuffed loveseat upholstered in a bold sunflower fabric and two butter-yellow easy chairs. A glass-topped coffee table sat in the middle. A retractable panel painting of a seascape artfully concealed the television above the fireplace. Hungry and out of sorts, she wandered across the open plan living space into her kitchen.
Twitch opened the stainless steel fridge door and slammed it so quickly the condiments rattled. What was that smell? With a hand over her nose, she checked again. She loved Mrs. Critchfield’s cooking, but the aroma of chicken was flooding her mouth. Scanning the shelves, she searched for something appetizing.
After settling on a jar of olives and a mixed berry yogurt cup, she wandered over to the couch. Trading the food for the package from the pharmacy, she then took care of business in the bathroom.
Returning a moment later, Twitch set the pregnancy test on a paper towel and pulled her slim laptop from the messenger bag at her feet. She powered it on and brought up the tracking program. She knew it was wrong, but Finn should really be here for this.
The day after Finn had left, her closest friends—Emily Bishop, whose husband, Nathan, ran Bishop Security, and Calliope Buchanon, who was married to Finn’s best friend, Tox—had flanked her on her couch. They had given her The Talk, sympathetic but firm, kind yet insistent. Finn McIntyre would never be the man she wanted him to be. Whatever had been between them was from a past life. She needed to let him go.
But they didn’t know him. The old him. They only saw the bitter, angry asshole whose friends could barely tolerate him. The Finn McIntyre of now was a rude, hurtful misanthrope who didn’t just burn bridges; he blew them up.
The old Finn McIntyre was someone else entirely. And maybe, maybe she could have let Finn go. Maybe Twitch could have cut ties and accepted the fact that the Finn she had loved no longer existed. She was on the verge of doing just that when the old Finn McIntrye had shown up at her door.
Beaufort, South Carolina
Three Weeks Ago
Twitch was usually a sound sleeper—the sleep of the innocent—but the blustery December night had tree branches demanding entry at her window. More than that, though, the air stirred, a silent disruption in the quiet.
She sat up in bed. She should have screamed. Pulled the gun from the nightstand. Hit the security panic button. She didn’t. And she knew why.
The silhouette moved closer and, as it passed the window, the intermittent moonlight illuminated his scars.