"This is a collect call from Plymouth County Correctional Facility. Do you accept these charges?"

The droll, automated voice had barely finished reciting the words before my thumb smashed the end key and I shoved my shitty ass BlackBerry into the back pocket of my jeans.

It was hardly the first call I had received from that particular correctional facility these past few months. In fact, it had almost become a routine of sorts. Every Tuesday, I found myself at the same table in the library at Northeastern University, textbooks spread out in front of me and highlighter in hand. At or around two o'clock, my phone would vibrate and I would see that same number, with that same five-oh-eight area code. I would listen to the monotonous voice ask me to accept those charges and then I would hang up.

Only, today was Friday, it was eight o'clock at night, and I was stood out in the alley behind the bar where I mixed drinks and dodged heady flirtations for minimum wage.

Putting the call out of my head, because, while there was more than one person it might have been, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of them. Instead, I focused on other things, like the fact I had only just started working on my master's degree at Northeastern, but already I felt as if I was sustaining myself on coffee and ramen alone. I'd gotten no where when it came to putting my chemistry degree into play in the real world, and had made the sorry decision to pursue my graduate degree while mixing over-priced coffees by day and cocktails by night to make rent.

A quick look at my watch confirmed that I needed to get my ass in gear and get myself behind the bar before my boss realized my break had extended beyond "just a quick smoke". After a final, blissful drag, I dropped the well burned butt to the pavement and tapped it out with the toe of my boot, then slunk back into the bar through the propped-open back door.

The thundering music quickly did its job to clear my mind when I ducked out of the stock room and back to my rightful place behind the beat-up old bar. The Nomad's DJ played almost exclusively indie punk rock, and after three years working as a bartender, I'd learned every one of his favourites. I found myself singing along to one now as I leaned over the counter to listen to the twenty-something jock on the other side order a beer.

I quickly fell into my rhythm, singing and dancing while I poured beers and mixed cocktails for fellow college kids and a shocking number of middle-aged men.

"That guy looming at the far end is really giving me serial killer vibes."

I looked over my shoulder just as Chelsea rounded the counter, pulling her denim skirt down and grabbing a glass from the shelves behind us. She sidled up beside me and began tipping bottles of different coloured liquors into the glass.

I continued pulling beers and handing them off to customers on the other side of the counter. "Chels, just because that one guy turned out to have skipped bail, doesn't mean every guy who looks at you sideways is a murderer." I rolled my eyes as I sorted the cash in my hand into the till.

Chelsea paused with a bottle of tequila in one hand, leaning her hip on the counter and blowing her bleached fringe bangs out of her eyes. "You have no idea how many people you walk by every day might be murderers," she insisted, nodding towards the crowd. "Out of seven-hundred-thousand citizens of Boston, there's bound to be more than a few."

I couldn't help but laugh at how serious she was. Chelsea Gunn was a twenty-five year old criminology dropout obsessed with all things true crime. The first time I had met her, she'd gone into great detail telling me about all of Ted Bundy's known victims, and had broadened my general knowledge of serial killers in America in the two years we had been working together at The Nomad. She was possibly the only real friend I had here in Boston, but I didn't mind. Her boisterous personality and wild style was enough.

We fell into our familiar routine of mixing drinks, taking cash and dancing around behind the bar. Once the crowd had lulled, I turned and leaned back with my elbows on the counter, my tank top riding up to expose more of my midriff. "Okay. Now tell me more about this Crazy Eyes killer. What did he look like? You know, in case I have to give my statement to the cops when you go missing tomorrow."

Chelsea rolled her heavily lined dark eyes in my direction, but sidled up at my right to indulge me anyways. "Tall— like over six foot. Dark brown hockey kind of flow, green eyes, looked like he'd been punched in the nose a couple times. Basically, he was fucking hot and I wouldn't mind if he did kidnap me and take me to some murder dungeon somewhere." Chelsea shrugged, like what she had said was completely normal. Because, well, for her, it kind of was. "Oh yeah, he was wearing one of those cool leather jackets, with all the patches and stuff. Must have been sweating like a pig wearing it in here, but it looked badass."

I had been playing along up until then, nodding and pretending to file away the details of another of Chelsea's potential murderers like it was just another Tuesday. But then she had to go and mention the stupid leather jacket, and my brain had to jump to the worst possible scenario.

My face went blank, startling my friend. Chelsea put a hand on my arm, her face becoming serious. "Kaye, you look like you just saw a ghost," she said, ducking closer so she didn't have to yell over the thundering music. "You know I'm just being stupid, right? Like always?"

Rolling my shoulders, I forced my body to relax, and turned to Chelsea with a half-smile. "Course," I reassured her, pushing her shoulder playfully. "But, hey, if you see this guy again, point him out to me?"

It was obvious by her furrowed brow that I had confused her, and that she may have been slightly concerned I'd been drinking some of what I had been serving tonight. But then her eyes fixed on something over my shoulder, and she nodded toward whatever it was behind me. "He hasn't gone anywhere."

Before my brain could tell my body to stop, I had whipped my head around to catch a glimpse of someone I hoped was a stranger.

And ended up locking eyes with someone overwhelmingly familiar instead.

I broke eye contact, turning back to a rather concerned looking Chelsea, but I knew it hadn't been fast enough. I knew he had seen me looking at him, and it was only a matter of minutes— if not seconds— before he was dragging me out from behind that bar for a little chat.

"Son of a bitch," I cursed, ducking around Chelsea as if I actually stood a chance of hiding behind the thin waif of a girl.

"What the hell, Kaye?" Chelsea asked, dancing around to follow me as I weaved my way to the opposite end of the bar. "Where the hell are you going?"

I punched the passcode into the pad on the stock room door, fumbling on the first two digits. The keypad bleeped and tiny LED light flashed red, earning a grumbled string of curses from my lips. As it reset, and I punched in the correct code, I looked over my shoulder. Chelsea's eyes were wide and apprehensive as she watched me make a break for it. I didn't have time to explain it to her; I would need hours to make her understand why I was ducking out the back door in the middle of a shift.

But behind her, I could see the familiar figure in the leather vest making his way through the crowd, and my panic rose with each irritated college guy he shouldered past.

"Just tell the boss I threw up," I said quickly, pulling open the door the second the little light turned green. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I really, just— I need to get out of here. Now."

As a testament to how good a friend Chelsea was, she only blinked once before offering me a solemn nod. "Go. I'll cover for you. But I expect a call the second I'm off."

I made that promise, catching a glimpse of a figure hopping the bar, and then I was standing alone in the stock room. The lock on the door beeped a heartbeat before the handle rattled, and a large fist pounded against the other side. The metal vibrated against my spine, but I ignored the voice calling my name.

I can't do this right now. I can't face him.

On the other side of the room was the same exterior door I'd come through a few hours before. Grabbing my shoulder bag from the table we used for our breaks, I made my escape into the back alley.

My car waited for me in the parking lot beside the bar. Thankfully, it was only a quick walk down the alley. I would be tucked safely in my decade-old Corolla before he would realize I hadn't in fact barricaded myself in that room.

Or so I thought.

Just as my fingers clasped my car key, I heard the roar of an engine. It sent an unwanted thrill through my blood, memories I had spent years trying to bury rushing to the surface. Every fiber in me wished I didn't recognize that rumbling engine over the din of Boston nightlife, didn't immediately picture the machine that made it. What I wouldn't have given to be able to ignore that sound and continue walking down the alley as if I didn't know how this would end.

I was almost to the parking lot, just a few hundred feet from my getaway car, when his Harley cut in front of me, blocking my path. I was cornered.

He hadn't bothered to put his helmet on, which meant I could see just how pissed off he was as he climbed off his bike and stalked down the alley towards me. I did him no favours, stopping my boots in their tracks and crossing my arms over my chest. Only then did it cross my mind exactly how low the neckline of my tank top was.

I uncrossed my arms and fisted my hands on my hips.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the whisky on his breath. His jaw looked like he was clenching it so tight his teeth were likely grinding together.

I had the sudden urge to punch that infuriated look right off of his face. Or kick him in the balls. Maybe both.

Furious green eyes bore into mine, pinning me in place the same way they had since I started getting in trouble as a kid. Some things just didn't change.

"What the fuck kind of stunt was that?" he ground out, his voice cold enough to freeze Hell. "Running away from me, Killian?!"

Yes, I had tried to run away now, just like I had five years ago. It was what I was good at. And as much as I had dreaded having to have this conversation with him, I wasn't about to let him intimidate me with his linebacker build and angry words. Nothing about this man in front of me scared me.

No, it was what he stood for that made my chest feel tight. It was that leather vest, with its patch and rockers that made my blood ice over in my veins.

I would run from that cut, and everything it meant for me, even when all I really wanted was to throw my arms around the man wearing it and never let go.

Almost as if he could sense my sentiments, I saw the fury in his eyes soften just a bit. He took a good look at me then, past the makeup and skimpy tank top, and let out the breath he had been holding while he waited for me to explode.

I wouldn't. Instead, I let one corner of my lips rise in a devilish smile I knew he'd recognize. Because he had the same one.

"Hello, big brother."

"So, you do remember who I am," he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I wasn't sure you would, seeing as you haven't been answering any of our calls for the past four fucking years."

My eyes narrowed on my brother. His hair was a little longer and his face looked a little more worn, but on the inside, he was still the same sarcastic killjoy I'd grown up with. "If you're here to vilify me for ignoring your calls, you wasted a good tank of gas, Ennis. I was very clear with you, and Dad, and Fitz when I told you I wanted out, that I didn't want phone calls or emails. Based on the weekly calls I get from Plymouth Correctional, I'd say at least one of you didn't take me seriously."

His palm slammed into the alley wall beside us. "We thought you'd be gone a year, Killian! Maybe two. Not five!"

"Sorry for getting an education," I bit out.

Ennis let out a bitter laugh and put on a wry smile. "And look how far that fancy degree's gotten you. Still serving drinks in slutty clothes for tips."

My right fist connected with his lower jaw. I hadn't choreographed my punch, and he didn't have a chance to sidestep or catch my wrist before it slammed home and his head jolted to the side. Really, he could only thank himself for teaching me how to throw a deadly right hook.

"Jesus Christ." Ennis wiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth, standing up straight with a sadistic smile on his face. Sadly, I hadn't made him bleed. "You haven't changed at all, have you, Killer?"

My skin prickled at the old nickname. I looked up at my brother from beneath hooded lids, my face blank. "Call me that again and you'll see."

Ennis unfortunately didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his shoulders appeared to slump, as if they were carrying some immense weight. When he shoved his fists into the pocket of the hoodie he wore under his cut, I realized he really wasn't here to scold me for falling off the face of the earth.

No, something was very wrong. Even when he was alone with me, Ennis always had his guard up, was always prepared for a fight. He was never unsuspecting, especially in unfamiliar territory.

By the way he uttered his next few words, I knew his defences were down, and frankly, it scared me. "We need to talk, Killian."

I made a show of surveying our surroundings. "In an alley?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but Ennis otherwise didn't show how much my sarcasm irked him. "I figured you would call the cops if I showed up at your apartment."

"Of course I would have," I tell him honestly, hiking my bag up on my shoulder. I didn't know if it was the fact I hadn't seen my older brother in years, or simply seeing him look so wrong, but I motioned for him to walk with me. "We can talk in my car."

I brushed past him, heading for the mouth of the alleyway and the parking lot beyond. His footsteps quickly followed me, but he stayed a pace behind me rather than falling into step beside me. I considered telling him that I didn't need him watching my back, but years of memories of my older brother looking out for me kept my mouth shut. At least this much was some semblance of normal.

When we reached my car, Ennis went for the passenger door without me having to suggest it. I unlocked my door, climbed into the driver's seat, and leaned across the console to unlock his side for him. Automatic locks were a luxury I could not afford.

Ennis somehow squeezed himself into the seat, pushing it back as far as it would go. I bit back a laugh at the comical sight of my six-foot-six linebacker of a brother squished into the passenger seat of my old Corolla.

"You have five minutes," I warned.

My brother readjusted his legs, rocking the car a bit in his effort before he gave up and shook his rumpled hair out of his face in annoyance. His green eyes met mine, like an eerie reflection, and my stomach dropped into my ass before he even said a word.

"Dad's dead, Killian."

The cramped car fell into a loaded silence, five years of conversations that would never be dying in the space of the heartbeat it took me to process those words.

My father was dead... and I wasn't the least bit surprised.

"Prison?" I said in an even voice, staring out the front windshield to avoid having to see the look on Ennis's face when he realized his baby sister couldn't bring herself to feign a single fuck. Because, while most people might expect it would have been a heart attack or cancer that killed their forty-eight year old father, I knew better.

Ennis made his indignation known. "Jesus, Killian, could you at least pretend you care?"

My eyes flicked up to the roof of my car as I exhaled some of the frustration building rather quickly in my chest. "What did you expect me to do, Ennis? Break down? Bawl my eyes out? We've spent our whole lives knowing Dad was never going to be a senile old man. Prison or a crash were always the top contenders, I just figured the first one was more likely."

"Dad was not locked up," he spat, and I could feel him glaring daggers at the side of my face. "He was shot in the fuckin' head, okay? Those sons of bitches killed him."

My blood went cold, frost licking its way through my veins and sending a familiar chill down my spine. The next word I spoke was entirely void of emotion. "Who?"

"They didn't exactly leave a card," Ennis told me. Much of the venom that had been in his voice only a moment ago was gone now. "Just dropped him at the gates in the middle of the night with a casing in his pocket."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noted Ennis shoving a hand into the pocket of his jeans. When I turned to him, he held up a small brass casing between two fingers. Even in the dim glow of the streetlights scattered through the lot my brain began to pick it apart, appraising every detail as if it hadn't been five long years since I'd last seen a piece of ammunition.

The corner of my brother's mouth quirked up as he watched me assess the tiny hunk of metal. It was kind of morbid, of course, given the fact that the casing had been left with our father's corpse and was more than likely from the bullet that had killed him. But the fact didn't stop my brother from dangling it front of my face like a dog treat.

My restraint finally cracked, and I snatched it out of his grasp with no resistance on his part.

Blindly, I switched on the dome light and held the brass casing up for closer inspection, turning it between my fingertips. Without thinking, my mouth started running. "Nine mil Luger, no distinct brand markings. Probably homemade." Of course, my brother already knew all of that. He listened anyways, nodding along with my assessment. "This was laser etched, though, likely after discharge." I ran the tip of my finger over the smooth lines of the letters etched into the side of the casing— the real reason Ennis had shown it to me.

SHEA

It was what everyone called our father, short for Seamus.

"So it was a hit?" I asked out loud, still watching the light glint off of the brass. On the outside, I maintained my icy, coldhearted persona. On the inside, a younger, wilder Killian Walsh was scratching and clawing at the walls I had carefully erected to keep her at bay. She cursed and screamed, swearing vengeance, and violence, and blood from the bastards who had put a nine mil in her father's skull.

Ennis extended a hand and I dropped the casing back into it. He tucked it back into his pocket without a second glance. "That's the general thought, yeah. Fucking cops are sure it was just retaliation, so they won't touch it with a ten foot pole."

That sounded familiar. "So, what now?"

My big brother fixed me with a look so raw, I could see every little effect the past few days had had on him. The dark circles, the bloodshot eyes, the dry, cracked lips. He looked so tired. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to take the weight of our father's murder off of his shoulders and just take a minute to catch his breath.

But Ennis would never do that. He would carry that weight until it broke him, just like his next words broke me.

"You come home, Killian."