Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
CILLIAN
This wasn’t how I expected my life to turn out.
Single Cillian.
Standing in front of the sink, washing my lone dish and set of silverware, the running water chases away the silence of an otherwise empty house.
A house originally bought in anticipation of a family, but now only for me.
By thirty-six, I thought I’d be married with kids, and maybe a couple of dogs to play fetch in the large yard surrounded by the traditional white picket fence.
Well. Maybe not a white picket fence. Those don’t seem particularly safe. If I had a wife and kids to protect, I’d want a better fence. A tall, reinforced one, with gates that lock and maybe even security cameras installed at each corner.
Would it be overkill in my sleepy residential neighborhood, where the most excitement over the past year was when little Wyatt Enniston accidentally threw his baseball through Belinda Connor’s living room window and broke her new Tiffany lamp?
Probably.
But if I had a family to protect, I’d install the fence anyway. Because I know from experience how evil can lurk in the most unexpected of places.
It can hide in an innocent-looking house with toys scattered throughout it. It can be in a school. A hospital. It can come in the shape of someone you trusted. Someone you considered a friend.
Evil can be anywhere. And after thirteen years in the Army, ten of them as a Green Beret on the ODA5131 team, or A-team, that’s a truth I know better than most.
I still loved being on the team, though.
I relished the chance to venture into the most dangerous places in the world, searching out enemies who sought to destroy our country.
Enemies who thought nothing of using innocents as pawns in their malicious plots.
Tangos who viewed my team as the enemy because we fought for freedom.
Originally, I thought I’d stay with my team until I aged out—until my joints were too creaky and my reflexes began to slow. Then I’d transition to a training position, still living and working at Fort Campbell, the same place I’d been stationed for over a decade.
But then I met Raisa. I fell in love. My plans for the future shifted from ops in the Middle East to getting married and starting a family.
Raisa wanted to move closer to her parents in Norfolk, Virginia, and at the time, I couldn’t have denied her anything.
So I left the Army—five years ago, now—to move across the country with her. We got married. I opened a home security consulting business in Richmond. We bought a fixer-upper in the suburbs with ambitious plans to spend a year fixing it up before trying to get pregnant.
But there’s that saying about best-laid plans…
Once I was home more often, Raisa claimed she felt suffocated. I was home too much for a change.
She liked the idea of home renovations, but not the reality of it. She wanted to pay someone to do all the work, which wasn’t in our budget. She wanted to travel. Take expensive vacations. But with a new business to run, it wasn’t a possibility.
I wanted to make her happy. I tried. But I’m not sure anything I did would have worked.
Honestly, I think she liked the idea of marriage, but the reality of it wasn’t what she expected.
Our plans to have kids got delayed. And delayed. Raisa took a promotion that required more travel. When she was home, she spent more time with her friends than with me.
Then I got into the accident. And I think—though she’d never, ever admit it—it was the final straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Or our marriage, as it ended up being.
It’s ironic, really. Thirteen years in the Army, ten in the Special Forces, and I walked away from every mission with no more than minor injuries—cuts, bruises, a broken finger or dislocated shoulder.
But two years ago, during a fluke ice storm in January, I got into a car accident that did more damage than those thirteen years combined.
Now I have scars. Visible ones on my face and arms from the shattering glass; scars that attract unwelcome attention wherever I go. I walk with a slight limp thanks to my reconstructed kneecap. On rainy days, my back hurts so badly it’s hard to get out of bed.
Raisa said it wasn’t the scars. And to be fair, I don’t think that’s all it was.
Our marriage had been petering out for years, and we’d both been hanging on out of sheer stubbornness.
But nine months later, she filed for divorce.
And a month after that, she moved to Norfolk to live with her parents.
I was sad at first. Disappointed. I mourned the loss of the dreams I’d had for us. But time—as it often does—provides clarity. Raisa and I weren’t a forever match. And I’m okay with that.
Do I feel lonely at times, rattling around in this four-bedroom house that’s way too big for one person? Sure. Do I wish I had someone who really knew me, who doesn’t care about my scars, who loves me just the way I am? Of course.
Will I ever find that person? I don’t know. Maybe.
Or.
Maybe I’ve already found her, but I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it.
Me. A coward. Before I left the Army, I would have laughed at the very idea of it. And now? I won’t even ask out the first woman who’s drawn my interest in years.
With a rueful chuckle, I turn off the water and dry my hands on the towel hanging beside the sink.
Then I grab my phone off the counter and head back into the living room, flipping on a few lights to chase away the growing darkness.
A glance out the window shows the sun just about to dip below the horizon.
Now that we’re nearly through September, the long days of summer are fading. If I still lived in New York, where I grew up, the leaves would be starting to change. Evenings would bring a crisp bite to the air. Fall would be right there, waiting, with winter close on its heels.
Not for the first time, and I’m sure not the last, I wonder why I’ve stayed in Virginia instead of moving back up north to be closer to my parents. I could start a new business up there. Or find a new job entirely.
But there’s just something that tells me I should stay here.
Flopping down on the couch, I kick my feet up on the coffee table. I lean forward to reach for the remote, but stop halfway there.
Could I watch the next episode of the new true-crime docuseries on Netflix? Sure.
Or I could call Paige.
It’s not our normal night. I usually call every Wednesday, and it’s only Monday. But I’ve been finding that waiting a week between calls is getting harder and harder.
We’ve never met in person. But six months of weekly calls—often lasting a couple hours or more—makes me feel like I know her.
Talking to Paige is my favorite part of the week.
No, it’s not our normal day to talk. But I could just call to check in.
See how her week started off. I know she’s been having a tough time the last few weeks, ever since her much-loved dog, Ghost, passed away.
And on the heels of a weekend spent without him, she might be feeling extra down about it.
Worry reaches into my chest, grabbing hold of my heart and twisting.
What if she’s sitting home alone, staring at Ghost’s empty bed, fighting back tears?
What if she’s not okay, like she keeps insisting?
My feet slide to the floor with a thunk. I leave the remote where it is.
The docuseries can wait.
As I dial Paige’s number, a bubble of anticipation swells inside me.
A smile lifts my lips while I wait for her to pick up.
Then.
The call goes through.
Her voice flows across the line—soft and sweet, with a faint hint of huskiness to it.
“Mindful Mediums, this is your medium, Paige, speaking. How can I help you this evening?”
My smile broadens at the sound of her voice. “Hey. It’s Cillian. How are you tonight?”
“Cillian.” Her tone lilts up with pleasure. “I’m good. How are you?”
“Pretty good.” I lean back against the couch cushions. The lingering tension from the day seeps from my shoulders and back. Though it seems impossible, the ache in my knee feels better. “I know it’s not Wednesday, but I was just sitting around, so I thought…”
Shit. That makes it sound like I called her because I was bored. Which is the furthest thing from it.
“You can call on other nights,” she replies. “Well. Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday. Although if you let me know the week before, I could switch my days. Like if you’re going out of town and can only talk on Tuesday or something.”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” I clarify. “And I didn’t want to wait until Wednesday. I hope that’s okay.”
There’s a pause. “It’s more than okay.” I can practically hear her smiling. “I’m always happy to talk to you, Cillian. You know that.”
Happy warmth floods through my body. I grin at the blank TV screen as I say, “I’m always happy to talk to you, too.”
After another brief pause, Paige asks with a touch of amusement, “So. Would you like a reading?”
I chuckle. “No. That’s okay. Just talking is fine.”
Seven months ago, I never would have imagined calling a phone psychic hotline every week, paying a dollar a minute to not have my future read.
Because I never do. Not after that first phone call with Paige, when her reading veered into regular conversation halfway through it, and we ended up talking for an hour about home renovations, instead.
Paige loves fixing up houses, for the record. She has a little fixer-upper herself; one just outside Fredericksburg, about forty minutes north of me. She also loves animals, spending time outside, and going on daily runs around her neighborhood. And she likes true crime documentaries, too.
So she pretty much likes everything I do.