Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Driving over the pass, the world looked washed clean from the storm. Pines glistened with drops of water, and the river below rushed high and loud from the rainfall. My mind wouldn’t stop circling back to Aiden—his voice, the way his hand had felt in mine, how his eyes had opened and found me first.
By the time I reached the town with its overabundance of green and gold decorations, the streets were quiet, with only a few early risers out sweeping porches or fetching coffee.
I drove along the river for a while, trying to calm the restless energy pushing through me. Finally, I pulled into the gravel drive of Brannigan’s Bed and Breakfast.
The place sat nestled beside the water, a white clapboard house framed by trees and wild rosebushes. The rocks behind it were pale and glittering, like quartz or marble, catching the morning light. The river rushed past them in a steady roar. Somehow, the house didn’t look out of place here. It looked like it belonged, fading naturally into the light rocks. What mineral kept the stones white?
I killed the engine, my pulse steadying.
It was time for Cormac Coretti to tell me everything.
Chapter 27
I climbed the perfectly painted steps and knocked, careful of my bruised hand. I hadn’t even noticed the large contusion near my thumb. Stupid explosion.
Mrs. Brannigan stood there, smaller and smelling of cookies, green eyes clear and a crown of gray hair piled high. She pulled me inside in one swift motion and hugged me until I could feel the thump of her heart. “Anna, you sweet girl. How’s Aiden Devlin doing?”
“He’s going to be okay,” I said, patting her petite back carefully. “A stomach wound and a concussion, but he’s already feeling better. He wants to get out of the hospital and right now.”
“Yes. Well, you know men.” Mrs. Brannigan tutted. “My George would be the same way. He’s probably out gardening, though he did put his back out last month.”
I shared her frown. “I hope he’s okay.”
“Of course. I bought some of your Nana’s healing balm for him.” She shut the door behind us with a soft click. “What are you doing here, darling girl?”
My gaze flicked from the polished entryway to the old fashioned living room, where Cormac sat with the Timber City Gazette splayed across his knees.
He wore jeans and a brown cable-knit sweater that somehow fit him. I could see this guy looking at home in everything from an expensive tux to a flannel. He lifted his head and smiled when he saw me, an easy tilt to the expression that never reached his eyes. “I believe Miss Albertini is here to see me.”
“I am.” My chin lowered.
Mrs. B patted my arm and leaned in. “Oh, my. Is this about a case, Anna? You’re always having such grand adventures.”
I forced a smile. “It is for a case, Mrs. B. Right, Cormac?”
“I said to call me Mac. Would you like to go for a walk?” He gestured toward the door.
“Yes. I could use some air.” The room smelled faintly of lemon oil and old paper. Outside, the sky was clearing, but the ground still steamed where the rain had hit. I zipped my coat higher and shoved my hands into my pockets.
Mrs. Brannigan fussed. “Do you need a scarf?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” I walked out the door and he followed, the wooden steps creaking under our weight. I led him around the side of the house to the walkway of decorative rocks that followed the river.
“I asked your sister Donna out three times,” he said as the river rushed by next to us. “She said no all three times.”
“My sister has impeccable taste.” I kept my voice light. The river shoved itself past the bank, swollen and fast, pulling everything along with it. The trees along the walkway dripped, and a bitter fresh scent rode the air.
He glanced sideways at me. “I’ve found no evidence that she’s dating anybody.”
“Well, then. Either you’re not as plugged-in as you think, or maybe she just doesn’t like you.”
His smile seemed easy. “You don’t find me charming?”
“Nope.” Charming. Smooth. Safe. None of that fit him in the way I wanted. “You’re something,” I said instead. “Are you with the CIA?”
He shrugged. “I’m freelance these days. Not with the Agency.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because you’re naturally suspicious,” he said, easy, like he’d known me long enough to read my face. The wind pushed at our coats and flung a handful of wet leaves into the path ahead. I wrapped my fingers tighter inside my pockets.
“Am I? Why am I here, then?” I felt like we were playing chess, but I’d only had enough sleep to play Go Fish. Would he tell me the truth?
He watched the river a moment. “I think you want to know how I found out about the tunnels.”