Come Through Your Door

Book 4: County Kerry Novel

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Against the stark beauty of southwest Ireland, Carlene O’Connor’s atmospheric County Kerry mystery series continues, and this time veterinarian Dimpna Wilde must reckon with a stalker whose obsession has turned deadly . . .


“Isn’t this how every ghost story begins?”

The roads around Dingle are whisper-quiet in the small hours of a rainy night, empty of the tourists who throng the town by day. As she and her assistant, Patrick, drive home after an already traumatic day, Dimpna Wilde isn’t expecting to see anyone, let alone her employee, Niamh, standing in the road, dressed in a nightgown and soaked to the skin.

Dazed and distraught, Niamh passes out after muttering incoherently, and at her apartment, Dimpna and Patrick make a grisly discovery. There’s a dead woman in Niamh’s bed, shot in the head, a hunting rifle beside her. When Niamh comes to, she has no memory of the day’s events, and no idea of the woman’s identity. All she can tell Detective Inspector Cormac O’Brien with certainty is that for weeks, she’s felt like she was being watched.

Suspicion falls on Niamh’s new boyfriend, Mark Gallagher, who her friends have not yet met. But as Dimpna and Cormac try to track him down, they realize there’s no evidence Mark Gallagher ever even existed. All of Niamh’s texts and photos of him are missing or deleted, and he has no social media presence. What lingers is a nagging unease, especially when they learn of another, similar murder years ago—another woman found shot to death in her bed, a woman who had complained of being stalked, just like Niamh.

As Dimpna delves deeper into a twisting case, she feels someone watching her too, targeting her business, her animals, her family—even her sanity, willing to do anything to stop her from disclosing a terrifying truth . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

One year prior

Kilkenny, Ireland

I WAS FOLLOWING HER AND SHE KNEW IT. IT’S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY, YOU never forget your first. People try to weave complicated motives, but there was only one reason I was tracking her. She smelled delicious. Like a vanilla cupcake. Intoxicating. One does not go to all that trouble to smell like a birthday cake unless they want to be inhaled. And those wet, red lips. What a pouty little invitation. I can still see those lips whenever I think of her. Her long hair swung as she picked up her pace. How I wanted to tug on it. Softly at first, then harder, and harder, and harder, until I’d pull so hard I would take her to the ground. She’d be helpless. I could even stomp on her. The thought excited me. But I knew, even in those early stages, that when it was over, I would feel hollowed out and empty. Memories are no fun if the only person you share them with is dead.

It was an epiphany. I wasn’t a sprinter in it for a quick and cheap thrill, I was a long-distance runner, savoring every step of the chase. But all that analyzing came later. Back then I didn’t even know what I was doing had a name. That I had a name. Stalker. And I may have stopped there had it not been for that red rubber ball. I accidentally dropped it, and when it rolled toward her, she came to a dead stop. When she finally turned around, eyes wide, mouth open, chest heaving, those ragged little gasps—it was the best feeling in the world. I did that. My body vibrated with a sense of power I had never felt in my entire life. I had a place in the world after all. Or so I thought. Because in the next moment it was shattered. Her eyes softened, her red mouth closed, her breath normalized. She looked at me and in a split second determined I was not a threat.

“You put the heart in me crossways.” She laughed. Her eyes twinkled. She bent down as if I was a dog to pat. She waited as if she expected me to say something. And like a fool, I did.

“Sorry.”

She shook her head and laughed again. What a relief. She’d been afraid of nothing. Of no one. I was no one. I was nothing. Then and there I vowed never to let them see me. I was going to perfect this game. I was going to be an invisible threat raining white-hot terror down on the ones I chose. On that day it became my mission. I’ve always loved a good challenge. When society spits you out and throws away the key, you either succumb to their cruel punishments or you embrace the monster they’ve deemed you to be. I wholly and happily embraced it.

True to my word, after that I never let them see me. I began milking every bit of fear I could, leaving each victim a shell of the woman she once was. And when her fear no longer excited me, I moved on.

So far I have killed exactly none of them. That’s about to change.

Through the window, I see her bent over the table, writing something down, her hair a soft curtain around her face. Such a pretty face. I whisper her name. “Annabelle.” For whom the bell tolls … She cannot hear me, I’m on the outside looking in, but what a good girl; she finally senses me. That’s the kind of power I wield. And for a brief moment (too brief), that pretty head lifts and turns toward me. Beautiful, inquisitive eyes stare out the window. Unsettled. Let the games begin. Excitement thrums through me. Because this one will be different. I will take my time. But once I’ve drained her of every ounce of fear, this one is going to see me. Because this one I am going to kill.

ANNABELLE NOLAN NEEDED TO GET HOME, NEEDED TO WASH AWAY the horrific images that had been clawing at her mind ever since John Reardon thrust his creepy sketches in her face the moment she was trying to slip out the door.

“His son,” he repeated, his temper rising when she didn’t respond. “His son.” He had just returned from Mass. The small stone chapel was located only a few steps away from Saint Dymphna’s Ward, directly in the shadows of the old psychiatric hospital. John was able to attend church services once a week, and it was the only time he was able to sit still, apart from when he was heavily medicated, nearly catatonic. But in the hushed chapel he would perch on a wooden bench, his eyes glued to the depictions of saints rendered in stained glass. It was in those brief moments that he seemed like any other man on the street, taking time out of his hectic life for quiet reflection. But when he returned to the ward he was agitated and aggressive, and the mania could last for days. Sometimes the word du jour was sinner, sometimes it was Judas, sometimes it was Cain. His son was a new one. Perhaps it was better than my son, as many of their residents believed they were God. With John Reardon, the Devil was more appropriate.

Against her better judgment Annabelle glanced at the drawings.

This time it wasn’t a man falling from one of the watch towers, or a series of women tied up (rope wound tightly around their torsos, hands behind their back, eyes wide, mascara streaming down their cheeks), yet somehow this new batch disturbed her even more. Her training in social psychiatry, therapeutic interventions, and artistic therapy was extensive, but there were some things only real life could prepare you for.

Psychiatric care had a dark history in Ireland, as with most countries; in the past people were locked away in insane asylums (their words), never to see the light of day again. John had transferred from the old hospital, which is what folks called it around town, that or the mental hospital. Standing in its shadows every day, she couldn’t help but think of its long and storied history. Opened in 1852, the massive Elizabethan-style building was constructed of dark limestone and flanked by two Gothic and imposing watch towers, each adorned with a turret. When it opened it could accommodate 150 patients, but by 1939 it swelled to 550. In comparison, the newly constructed Saint Dymphna’s Ward could accommodate twenty-eight patients, housing those with the most severe diagnoses. Like John Reardon.

It didn’t help that after forcing her to see the disturbing sketches, he’d hovered way too close, his breath rancid and his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth while those wild eyes scoured her face for a reaction. His payoff. Was he hoping to see the same terror in her that was depicted in those sketches? Today there were three of them, all close-ups of women’s faces in various stages of fright. One of them wore a nurse’s cap. Was that supposed to be her? She wasn’t a nurse, but perhaps he thought of her as one. She wished they could go back to the days when John would painstakingly try writing out the alphabet, never getting past the letter B. His attempt would start all over again. A, B, A, B … Her heart squeezed for him. She returned to the sketch of the nurse. He’d darkened her lips, as if she was wearing lipstick. If these were the kinds of images that taunted him during the day, she could only imagine what went on in his head at night. And it wasn’t just speculation, John was infamous for his night terrors.

He repelled many of the staff due to his personal hygiene; it was a constant battle to get him to bathe, and those long nails he refused to cut now resembled claws. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and he was constantly moving, bouncing one knee, or both, sitting down and then springing up, pacing the small rooms like a predatory cat. But the female staff all agreed, the creepiest bit about John was his intense gaze, and he wasn’t shy to use it.

So as much as Annabelle empathized with the terrible hand he’d been dealt in life, she still avoided being alone with him, and as Dr. O’Buachalla constantly reminded her, she could never let down her guard when he was near. As far as his verbal communication, he had three gears: mute, mumbling to himself, or screaming, the latter, of course, being the worst. His pitch was so high and jarring the staff said it cleared the room faster than the fire alarm.

Annabelle didn’t want to have such harsh thoughts about him; he was a human being whose life had not been enviable. Somewhere in his thirties (no one could find his original admission forms), he was the only resident at the newer ward who had actually been a transfer from the old hospital after it closed its doors in 2006. People often said about the place—as if there was some kind of curse embedded in the walls—that even if one was sane going in, they wouldn’t be coming out. If they ever came out.

John Reardon had also suffered a brain injury from a fall down the stone steps of one of the hospital towers when he was around ten years of age. Annabelle wanted to know more about that incident, but she couldn’t find anything online. She was sure there must be old records somewhere, but it would be a challenge getting her hands on them. Did it feel like some sort of punishment to John, dwelling in the larger asylum’s shadow? Or did it feel like home? The building and its history fascinated Annabelle—and since working with John she’d had a growing desire not only to learn his story, but the stories of everyone who had ever lived there. She wasn’t sure what triggered her obsession; maybe it was some kind of festering guilt that, compared to these poor souls, her life had been blessed. There but for the grace of God go I. If she was honest with herself, her desire to unearth the buried stories of the psychiatric hospital had become a mission.

What was it they always said? Write the book you want to read? She could feel the energy of its past whenever she was near, as if the weight of a collective sadness had seeped into the grounds over its 154-year history. As a creative writing therapist, it was her job to encourage patients to express themselves and, if capable, to tell their stories. She could only imagine the stories John Reardon had locked inside him. But his preferred mode of communication was through drawing. If only he wasn’t so good at it, so realistic, if only everything he drew wasn’t so violent. But today’s sketches were sticking to her like a second skin. For behind every single woman in his sketches, an image of a man could be seen in the background, lurking and watching. Drawn as more of a shadow figure than a person, he appeared in various iterations. Peeking into a window, hiding in a dark corner, or following the woman down a deserted street. A stalker. He was the reason for the terrified look on these women’s faces, and it was rendered so realistically it gave Annabelle the chills.

By the time she exited the ward, she was on edge. The skies were just beginning to darken, and the dim bulbs around the exterior of the old hospital were casting elongated shadows on the grounds, as if the man lurking in John Reardon’s drawings had been sketched into life. Normally, Annabelle hugged the high walls surrounding the grounds, following them all the way to the old gatehouse and beyond it to the road to town, but today she skirted the side of the old hospital, running her fingers along the dark limestone, as if she could read its thoughts via her touch. Through one of the windows she caught sight of Margaret Kelly, who cleaned in the evenings. A bit of a strange bird, Margaret had worked there for ages. If Annabelle wanted to know more about its history, it was probably Margaret she should speak with. But she had a reputation of being prickly; some called her “the old nettle,” for just like the weed she was seen everywhere, and if you weren’t careful she could sting. So far Annabelle hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach her.

Understandably, the old psychiatric hospital had its share of ghosts. Like the young girl in the 1800s, who became pregnant while institutionalized and gave birth to a baby boy. He was immediately snatched from her arms never to be seen again. The young mother went straight to the River Nore, flung herself in, and drowned. They say if you stared into the river long enough, you would see her floating face up, her skin a ghoulish white, her lips purple, her long dark hair fanned out behind her, and her eyes wide with fright.

There wasn’t a day that Annabelle could pass the river without checking for her haunted reflection. So many anguished tales, so many human beings drowning in misery. Her best friend, Sloane, often chided Annabelle for her obsession with these lost souls. “Can’t we just have one day where we drink, and shop, and talk shite about our coworkers?” She was probably right, and Anabelle suspected that her obsession bordered on the unhealthy, but it was when she was chasing these stories that she felt most alive. Sometimes she wondered if Michael and Sloane talked about her when they were off at an art show in a what-are-we-going-to-do-about-Annabelle? type of way.

But there was no use worrying about that now; it was time to go home, soak in the bathtub with a glass of red wine, and call Michael. He was a fierce, talented sculptor, but in order to sell his pieces he had to do a lot of hustling, which meant constant art shows and travel. Tonight, she would be sleeping alone. She was already regretting taking the short cut through the field. The grass was slick from a recent rain, and her good shoes were sinking into the ground. Perhaps it was a leftover feeling of dread from viewing those sketches, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Yet every time she turned around there was no one to be seen. When she finally hit the footpath into town, the Heritage Lanterns brightened up her surroundings, helping her to feel more at ease.

By the time she reached Saint Canice’s Cathedral, a thirteenth-century delight (the second longest cathedral in Ireland, the first being Saint Patrick’s in Dublin), its pale blue lights were aglow, casting shadows on the nearby headstones. Standing proudly next to the cathedral was a ninth-century round tower, one of only three such medieval towers left in Ireland that could still be climbed to the very top. The view was supposed to be breathtaking, but Annabelle wasn’t one for heights. Maybe it had something to do with the other drawing often rendered by John Reardon, that of a man jumping from one of the hospital’s foreboding watch towers, frozen in midair, hurling toward his death. One of these days she was going to have to ask Dr. O’Buachalla what he thought of that drawing. Was it a figment of John’s imagination or something he’d witnessed?

Annabelle proceeded down the cobblestone path that would take her home via the Medieval Mile. The night was eerily quiet, her heels clicking on the slick pavement the only sound. The air smelled of rain and earth, both grounding and hopeful. She was approaching the underpass when from somewhere behind her came a second set of footsteps. Resisting the urge to glance behind her, she pulled her coat in tighter as a gust of wind shoved her along from behind. And then, someone whispered her name. “Annabelle.”

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. No normal person would whisper her name in the dark. If it was someone she knew, they would call out heartily to her. Either someone was taking the piss or she was in danger. If her heartbeat and pulse had anything to say about it, it was the latter. She’d lived here all her life, loved everything about Kilkenny and its rich history, and she knew most everyone she passed, or if she didn’t, they were tourists, and tourists in her city were always here for a good time. A sharp fear assaulted her, the kind that told you to run. It was those damned drawings. Would John Reardon be pleased if he could see her now?

She quickened her pace, chiding herself for being so paranoid. Then again, she’d rather be paranoid than raped or murdered. If you were a woman, this fear was always nestled inside you, but tonight it had awakened with a roar. The stranger’s footsteps kept pace with hers. Was she imagining it? No. They were too heavy to dismiss, and they had definitely sped up. Even if he wasn’t out to rob her, didn’t this stranger know that walking too close to a woman in the dark of night was an idiotic thing to do? She turned her head slightly, just long enough to catch a glimpse of a tall figure, dressed in dark clothing, face obscured by sunglasses and a hood pulled low. Was he wearing gloves? He was. He was wearing gloves. Winter was approaching, but apart from the wind, today was mild. No one should be wearing gloves. Was he going to grab her from behind, slap that gloved hand over her mouth, and drag her into a dark corner? It could happen to anyone; it could happen to her.

Adrenaline shot through her and she began to run. If only she’d switched into her runners, if only she was holding her mobile phone, or her keys. In university, whenever she walked campus alone she used to splay her keys between her knuckles like miniature weapons, and sometimes she snuck a tiny can of hair spray into her pocket, confident that a good shot to the eyes could do the trick. Once, when three different women had been raped on campus only weeks apart by an unknown assailant, the university had passed out whistles. Everyone joked they would be useless for everything but attracting a pack of stray dogs. Tonight, she would have given anything for one stray dog. But she had nothing at her disposal; her only option was to run and scream. And yet her instinct to scream was squashed by the potential humiliation that she had this all wrong. What a fool she would appear if it was just an innocent man in a hurry. But run? That she could do. She sprinted forward, propelled by fear.

She heard a grunt, as if she’d taken him by surprise. The uneven cobblestones worked against her; if she tripped and fell she had no doubt he would be upon her. Her lungs burned and her shoes slipped on the uneven surface. Focus. It felt as if every cell in her body was firing, acutely aware of the danger. She was nearly through the underpass that spilled out onto a busy pedestrian street, alive with shops, restaurants, bars, and people. Most importantly, people. At this hour the shops would all be closed, but the nightlife would be hopping. There were times when the constant stag and hen parties were annoying, but not tonight. Tonight she loved every single drunk one of them. Finally, she was out of the underpass, and there they were. All those beautiful people. Little by little she began to slow down until she was walking again, this time with a limp. But she did not stop until she crossed the bridge and reached a touristy pub, where a group milled outside, smoking fags, laughing it up, completely oblivious to her fear. She leaned against the wall, and only when her breath normalized did she turn to look in the direction from which she’d run. The hooded man was nowhere in sight.

“You alright, luv?” a lad next to her asked, his cigarette hovering near his mouth.

“I’m grand,” she said. From now on, she was going to carry her keys, or her phone, or hair spray, or a whistle, or a vicious dog. Now that she was safe, anger surged within her. How dare he? She hated feeling helpless and afraid. She vowed then and there. She was never going to leave herself that vulnerable again.

One year later

Inch, County Kerry

“STALKED. TERRORIZED. MURDERED. AND NO, I’M NOT TALKING about this morning’s Full Irish Breakfast, although one could make an argument. If you’re one of my regular listeners, you know I’m not usually one for celebrating anniversaries, especially macabre ones, but this year I’m marking one. And if you’re watching this podcast on YouTube later, you’ll see a yellow wall behind me instead of my usual green screen. Today I’m broadcasting from Foley’s Bar, just a short walk from Inch Beach. Last night we gathered on that beach and tossed red roses into the waves, renewing our promise that we have not forgotten. If you aren’t sure what I’m on about, you’re not from Kilkenny. It was one year ago today that our city was rocked by the horrific stalking and murder of Annabelle Nolan. She’s the entire reason I started the Killed in Kilkenny podcast, and I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I say that her death shocked me to life. You hear about these horrific things happening in the world all the time, but when it happens to someone you know? Scratch that—when it happens to the best person you ever knew? Well. It changes you. It changed me. There was no gentler soul on this earth than Annabelle. She was kind to everyone she ever came across, including yours truly. I’m not exaggerating when I say she would have given you the shirt off her back. In fact, last year I told the story about the time she stopped alongside the road one frigid winter when she saw a homeless man with no jacket. She literally stopped her car, took hers off, and gave it to him. That was the kind of person she was. Some might say that if she hadn’t been that kind, that trusting, she might still be with us. It’s a horrific thought. I for one don’t want to live in a world where kindness will get you killed. On this sobering anniversary I wish I could say that Annabelle’s stalker and killer has been caught and punished, but as my regular listeners know, he’s still out there somewhere, free as a lark. And if you think Annabelle was this sicko’s first, or last victim, I’ve got a rattlin’ bog to sell you. In fact, I’d bet that right now, someone, somewhere, is being stalked by this extremely sick individual. And most of you, like me, are thinking—what can I do about it? Believe me, I get it. I’m a fat dude who lives with his mother. And I may not be physically able to hunt this monster down, but you’d better believe I’m going to keep shouting her name until justice has been served. There’s power in numbers, folks, and I’m counting on you. If you know anything about the Annabelle Nolan case, even if you dismissed your little nugget of info as irrelevant—please email me at [email protected] and, of course, report it immediately to the Kilkenny Gardaí. I’m begging you. Help me find Annabelle’s killer. People ask me all the time if I fear the stalker might seek revenge on me for my humble little podcast. I admit, I do go around the house at night triple-checking that all the windows and doors are locked, and when I’m out and about I’m always watching my back, not to mention the mother’s. But fear be damned. If this perverted killer is listening, I promise you this: I will find you. And even though I still haven’t been able to get Dr. Tarman O’Buachalla to come on the show and talk to me about the profile of this killer that he wrote up for the guards, I’m hopeful that eventually I can persuade him. I’m a man with nothing to lose. This is Oscar Kelly, reaching out from the Dingle Peninsula. While I’m here, I’m going to reinterview everyone in our group, starting with Annabelle’s brother, Aaron Campbell. You may remember that he always suspected Michael Nolan, Annabelle’s husband, of being her stalker/killer. Has anything happened in the past year to change his mind? Tune in then and we’ll find out together. But today, on this horrific one-year anniversary, I just wanted to come on and say: Annabelle Nolan, you are gone, but you are not and will not be forgotten.”

THERE THEY SAT, FIVE OF THEM AND THE MOTHER, WITH THEIR toasts, and prayers, and roses, still here despite having already scattered the blood-red petals into the ocean, marking the one-year anniversary of her death. Her murder. Morbid. Oscar had detailed the entire trip on his podcast. It showed how little they knew about his Annabelle, for it was sunrise, with its clean slate and pink promises that she had loved. That is when he would be out there, walking Inch Beach with her ghost, aggrieved that only one pair of footprints would mar the white sand.

Shrouded in the dim light of the pub, he observed them from a corner table, punch-pleased that he was not recognized. Baggy clothing that hid his toned physique, the wig and mustache (couldn’t wait to get those off), the glasses, the hat pulled low. All that worry for nothing; not a single one of them had glanced in his direction, including the good doctor, the so-called expert on stalking. It could not be a coincidence that they were here. One of them had followed his breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, his plan had somewhat backfired. He’d been expecting one familiar face—not five. Had the one sensed a trap and decided to bring the rest along for collateral? Was this person onto him?

Sloane Barry’s boisterous laugh rang out, startling him from his increasingly paranoid thoughts. What would Annabelle think if she saw her best friend having such a good time? Then again, there would be much bigger betrayals she’d want to address, starting with him. He’d been a shite husband. With friends like these … Sloane had stopped speaking to him, just like the rest of them. Was it the guilt? Not surprising given what they’d done. Especially that last weekend. The last weekend of Annabelle’s life.

“I don’t know why people find him funny,” Margaret Kelly could be heard saying, her voice rising over the din of the pub. She was seemingly unconcerned that her son, the object of her ridicule, was sitting right there. Psychopath. “Somehow he has you all fooled.”

“Maybe you just don’t have a sense of humor, Mam,” Oscar replied. The rest of the group shut their gobs. Awkward. It was a good thing Oscar had the podcast going for him, otherwise what would stop him from snapping and wringing that turkey neck of hers? If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother. And if he did snap and she got what was coming to her, no jury in the world would convict him. Not if they’d met her.

Aaron, all bravado and testosterone, was smoking again, popping in and out of the bar. He was clearly visible through the window, releasing toxic puffs into the gray skies, and with each return, pulling in more of the bitter wind. Poor Annabelle. She’d not only deserved a much better husband and best friend, she’d also deserved a better brother. Traitors, the lot of them. Of all the members of the motley crew, perhaps Dr. Tarman O’Buachalla looked the most out of place. Michael had never seen him without his blazer and tie. Thirtysomething going on eighty. He had been nursing a single pint and constantly pushing up his black-framed glasses while incessantly checking his wristwatch, as if calculating the exact moment he could escape. Meanwhile, the rest of the sorry lot was on round four. Yes, he had been counting the rounds. And yet O’Buachalla dutifully headed for the bar, presumably to pay for round five.

“How ya keeping?” The voice startled him, and he jerked his head up to find Fidelus Foley standing in front of him, her brown eyes warm and attentive. It was her hospitality that kept people coming back. That and her beef stew. “Would you like dessert? It’s trifle, or toffee pudding with ice cream, or if you’re feeling like a bad boy then both.” He smiled, trying to figure out if she recognized him. It was hard to tell. It would be better for her if she didn’t.

“No thanks, I’m grand.”

“Another water?”

This could be a long night. On the other hand, he needed some liquid courage. “Whiskey. Neat. And the bill.” If she asked him if he wanted to bill it to his room, he would have his answer.

“Coming right up. And by the by, we’ll be closed soon for the rest of the day, so there will be no dinner service, although Judy will keep the pub open.”

He froze. She recognized him. Otherwise why tell him they were closed for dinner? Then again, maybe a lot of people ate all their meals here; maybe she was saying it to everyone. “On a Friday?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“We’re off to a funeral,” she said. “That’s the way we roll in County Kerry.”

The funeral. That’s right. He’d forgotten. The local veterinarian. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s the town’s loss, but thank you.” She flashed a sad smile and cleared his bowl. “Would you like the meal billed to your room?”

Shite. Shite, shite. If she recognized him, why didn’t the others? “Sure.” Fuck. He was going to have to disappear. Again. But now that his cover was blown he jerked his head to the group across the way. “Are they staying here?”

Fidelus nodded. “From Kilkenny. Checked in last night. Are you worried?”

“Worried?” What did she know?

“I know the walls are thin, but I don’t think they’re here to party.” Apart from retrieving the envelope his late wife (his murdered wife), had left for him, he had deliberately stayed away from the inn across the beach where he and Annabelle used to stay, so at least she couldn’t connect those dots. But now that they were here it was only a matter of time. Until he did what he came here to do, he could not risk being seen. The notebook she’d left him was dense; it was going to take a while to read through it to see why she’d left it for him. “I’m sure they’re fine. I’ll be checking out soon anyway.” Tonight. He would be gone tonight.

“One of them is a true crime podcaster, I believe, but if he does a show from here, it will be during waking hours.”

Oscar Kelly. “No worries.” The podcast infuriated him. Killed in Kilkenny. Turning Annabelle’s murder into some kind of sick entertainment. Who did he think he was? Annabelle’s knight in shining armor? Like she ever gave him a second thought.

The front door opened, ushering in a gust of wind and sending up a collective groan from the old men seated closest to it. From his vantage point he couldn’t see who had entered, but Tob