confronted the killing partners hired to murder his father on Cameron Mountain.
Sean had never thought much about staying or leaving Vermont. He’d thought in terms of objectives. What did he want? What did he have to do to get it? He was thinking in those terms now. His main objective was to figure out what Hannah was up to before he left for California with her brothers.
“If Hannah is withholding information,” Jo said, “she needs to start talking. Now.”
Elijah walked across the lane to the edge of the woods. “If this network of hired killers is planning more murders and Hannah can help—”
“She’d want to,” Rose said, not letting him finish.
“Not me,” Ryan “Grit” Taylor said in his light Southern accent as he ambled up the lane. He had a small apple in one hand. He bit into it. “I’d keep my mouth shut and bake cookies. Stay the hell out of this mess.”
Sean had noticed the Navy SEAL arrive in a car he’d borrowed from A.J. at the lodge. Dark, wiry and ultrafit, Grit had lost his lower right leg in the same firefight that had nearly taken Elijah’s life in Afghanistan in April. A member of Grit’s team, another SEAL named Michael Ferrerra, had been killed. While in rehab in Washington, Grit had helped Elijah look into Alex Bruni’s hit-and-run death. He’d flown back and forth between Washington and Vermont in the past five weeks, but basically he’d been camped out in one of Jo’s run-down cabins on the frozen lake below the lodge.
Jo frowned at him. “Why?”
“Fear. No good options. Make a wrong move and end up a target of unknown killers. Make a wrong move and end up irritating a Cameron or Harper.” Grit pointed his apple in the general direction of Jo and the Camerons. “You people are scary.”
“You don’t know Hannah Shay,” Jo said.
“I’ve been to Three Sisters Café. Hannah wears a green apron and bakes cupcakes, and she’s studying to be a lawyer. Small. Prettier than she thinks she is.”
“And hard as nails,” Sean said. “She’s not afraid of us.”
“I am,” Grit said. “I’ve had quite the immersion into you hard-bitten Yankees since November. You don’t let up. Really scary.”
Elijah rolled his eyes. “Eat your apple, Grit.”
Myrtle Smith picked her way along the lane. She must have come with Grit. Her Washington home had caught fire a few hours after Kyle Rigby’s death on Cameron Mountain. It was an electrical fire that was contained to her homeoffice, but no one believed it had been an accident. Myrtle had been looking into the sudden death of a Russian diplomat in London—a former lover, from what Sean could gather—and had her suspicions about a network of killers. All her notes had been destroyed in the fire.
Grit Taylor had saved her life.
In his limited experience with Myrtle, Sean had learned she didn’t like the cold, never mind that she couldn’t seem to stay away from Vermont. She was fiftyish, tiny and black-haired, with perfectly manicured red nails and lavender eyes. She’d arrived in Black Falls with Grit in November, returned to Washington in early December, then came back before Christmas.
“They say you burn more calories in cold weather,” she said, eyes on the terrain as she carefully navigated icy patches. “I hope so, because I’m frozen.”
Rose’s mouth twitched, and Sean was relieved to see his sister display at least some hint of amusement.
Myrtle continued down the lane. “It’s too damn dark for me to be hanging out in a cemetery, but Grit and I saw all these cars and had to stop. Old reporter’s habit. Otherwise you wouldn’t catch me here except in broad daylight.”
Elijah turned to Jo, his mind clearly not on Myrtle’s complaints. “Can you give Sean and me a minute? Take Myrtle and Grit and check the crypt. Whatever.” Then he shifted to Rose. “You can go, too.”
Rose gave him a cool look. “As you wish.” She smiled at Grit and the other two women. “My brothers want to
Sean had never thought much about staying or leaving Vermont. He’d thought in terms of objectives. What did he want? What did he have to do to get it? He was thinking in those terms now. His main objective was to figure out what Hannah was up to before he left for California with her brothers.
“If Hannah is withholding information,” Jo said, “she needs to start talking. Now.”
Elijah walked across the lane to the edge of the woods. “If this network of hired killers is planning more murders and Hannah can help—”
“She’d want to,” Rose said, not letting him finish.
“Not me,” Ryan “Grit” Taylor said in his light Southern accent as he ambled up the lane. He had a small apple in one hand. He bit into it. “I’d keep my mouth shut and bake cookies. Stay the hell out of this mess.”
Sean had noticed the Navy SEAL arrive in a car he’d borrowed from A.J. at the lodge. Dark, wiry and ultrafit, Grit had lost his lower right leg in the same firefight that had nearly taken Elijah’s life in Afghanistan in April. A member of Grit’s team, another SEAL named Michael Ferrerra, had been killed. While in rehab in Washington, Grit had helped Elijah look into Alex Bruni’s hit-and-run death. He’d flown back and forth between Washington and Vermont in the past five weeks, but basically he’d been camped out in one of Jo’s run-down cabins on the frozen lake below the lodge.
Jo frowned at him. “Why?”
“Fear. No good options. Make a wrong move and end up a target of unknown killers. Make a wrong move and end up irritating a Cameron or Harper.” Grit pointed his apple in the general direction of Jo and the Camerons. “You people are scary.”
“You don’t know Hannah Shay,” Jo said.
“I’ve been to Three Sisters Café. Hannah wears a green apron and bakes cupcakes, and she’s studying to be a lawyer. Small. Prettier than she thinks she is.”
“And hard as nails,” Sean said. “She’s not afraid of us.”
“I am,” Grit said. “I’ve had quite the immersion into you hard-bitten Yankees since November. You don’t let up. Really scary.”
Elijah rolled his eyes. “Eat your apple, Grit.”
Myrtle Smith picked her way along the lane. She must have come with Grit. Her Washington home had caught fire a few hours after Kyle Rigby’s death on Cameron Mountain. It was an electrical fire that was contained to her homeoffice, but no one believed it had been an accident. Myrtle had been looking into the sudden death of a Russian diplomat in London—a former lover, from what Sean could gather—and had her suspicions about a network of killers. All her notes had been destroyed in the fire.
Grit Taylor had saved her life.
In his limited experience with Myrtle, Sean had learned she didn’t like the cold, never mind that she couldn’t seem to stay away from Vermont. She was fiftyish, tiny and black-haired, with perfectly manicured red nails and lavender eyes. She’d arrived in Black Falls with Grit in November, returned to Washington in early December, then came back before Christmas.
“They say you burn more calories in cold weather,” she said, eyes on the terrain as she carefully navigated icy patches. “I hope so, because I’m frozen.”
Rose’s mouth twitched, and Sean was relieved to see his sister display at least some hint of amusement.
Myrtle continued down the lane. “It’s too damn dark for me to be hanging out in a cemetery, but Grit and I saw all these cars and had to stop. Old reporter’s habit. Otherwise you wouldn’t catch me here except in broad daylight.”
Elijah turned to Jo, his mind clearly not on Myrtle’s complaints. “Can you give Sean and me a minute? Take Myrtle and Grit and check the crypt. Whatever.” Then he shifted to Rose. “You can go, too.”
Rose gave him a cool look. “As you wish.” She smiled at Grit and the other two women. “My brothers want to
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