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Two things stood out.
The deputy brought her work home.
He’d caught sight of a board in the one room, not unlike a murder board you’d see in a police station. Strings. Notes. Photos.
And the place was wired like a bunker.
Sensors and cameras in nearly every room. Even the bedrooms. The control panel in the hallway was top of the line.
Considering she’d only moved in a few days ago, it showed she took her security very seriously.
And it wasn’t to guard her belongings.
What are you hiding, Felicity Graham?
But he knew better than to pry.
Being in her kitchen was bonus enough for now.
22
Anniversaries
The call woke her. Bleary-eyed, she fumbled for her cellphone. “Graham,” she answered, voice rough with sleep.
“Deputy. Ian. From Fitzpatrick’s.”
She pushed upright, the fog clearing fast. “What is it?”
“It’s Murphy.” A beat. “I think it’d be best if you come.”
She was already out of bed, reaching for the pants she’d shed the night before. “On my way.”
Her mind raced as she sped through the empty streets. A midnight call about Ronan from a bar wasn’t something she’d ever expected. The flashing blue and red lights outside — two Sheriff’s Office vehicles and an EMT bus — hadn’t been part of the picture either.
Panic swept over her, sharp and sudden.
Please let him be okay.
Felicity hit the door at a near run and shoved it open hard enough that it banged against the wall.
Her gaze took in the room — quick, efficient, practiced.
Most of the patrons were gone, leaving the aftermath behind. Chairs sat knocked askew, a table tipped on its side, the sharp tang of spilled beer and sweat hanging heavy in the air. Blue and red lights strobed through the front windows, washing everything in cold, rhythmic pulses.
Her focus locked on Ronan.
He sat on a barstool, slouched but still upright, one hand braced on the counter as an EMT worked on him. Everything else fell away as she moved straight for him.
Her eyes tracked over him, assessing. A cut split his eyebrow. Blood had dried in a dark line along his jaw, one cheek already swelling.
Relief hit first, followed immediately by irritation.
“What the hell happened?” she demanded, recognizing the glassy edge to his eyes. Definitely a few drinks in.
“Hey, Lissy-love,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to get you involved.”
Not quite a slur — but close.
