Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

I don’t give myself time to think about who is at the door. I’m armed and I’m ready to deal with a ghost, a man, his ex-girlfriend, or an assassin. The latter being of the most concern, but I doubt he’d ring a doorbell. However, there were no signs of struggle with the prior victims. That won’t prove true if I’m next on the hit list. Cujo says so, I think, marching across the room and down the stairs, the bell ringing another three impatient times. When it begins repeatedly ringing, the grip on my weapon eases. I know who this is, and I’m pretty sure he is here to kill me but will settle for a whole lot of yelling.

As if proving my point, by the time I turn into the shiny dark-gray-tiled foyer, and round the table filled with a massive vase of fake white-and-red flowers, he’s shouting my name. “Lilah, damn it. Open up. I know you’re here.” I reach the door, and he’s already started another round of demands. “Lilah—”

“Hold your horses, already!” I shout, setting Cujo in the corner by the coat closet.

“Lilah, damn it.”

“You said that already!” I call out, reaching for another security panel and keying in the disarming code. It gives me a computerized “system disarmed” in a female voice before I unlock the door.

“I’ll say it ten more damn times if I have to until you open the damn door,” he replies.

I open said “damn door” and I’m immediately facing my brother, and just like old times, he’s sporting a casual look of faded jeans, boots, and a tan, short-sleeved button-down with a badge on the pocket. And while this might be too casual for some in the middle of the elites of his territory, his confident good looks, blond hair, and tall, leanly muscled body now consuming the doorway charm the best of the best.

“Lilah, damn it,” he growls again, his pale-blue eyes fixed on me.

“Andrew, damn it,” I growl right back, and in a blink, he’s pulling me into one of his famous bear hugs, one that makes you feel suffocated and loved at the same time. “I missed the hell out of you, little sis.”

My arms wrap around him, and those emotions I’ve just sworn to be nonexistent expand in my chest, acid ready to destroy me. And yet there is no escaping one reality—his familiar, woodsy scent somehow stirring memories of Christmas trees and family holidays, of all things. Times when Santa Claus and fairy tales felt possible. “I missed you, too,” I confess.

Andrew pulls back, his hands on my arms. “I’m glad you’re here, but I’m pissed. Why the hell are you in my town, my state, and I had to find out from the FBI?”

“I wanted to surprise you. I had no idea another murder would happen when I got here.”

“And you didn’t find me when you got here?” He walks me backward, shuts the door, and then glares down at me, his hands on his hips. “Don’t bullshit me. And what the hell does ‘another murder’ mean? What other murders were there?”

“Maybe we should see if the coffee pot still works.”

“Why do I think I’d prefer a bottle of whiskey?”

I’m the one who needs whiskey to get through this trip, I think as we head toward the kitchen. His phone rings and I hear him answer, but I keep moving, cutting left into the kitchen, and this time it seems my surroundings demand attention. I walk toward the island, actually noticing the granite countertop when it had been just white space the last time I was here. And when I move to the counter between the fridge and the sink where my old Keurig remains, the checkered backsplash in shades of gray catches my eye. I’d sat in the kitchen and helped Mom pick that tile years ago, but it feels like yesterday.

I check the stock of coffee and then inspect the dates on the box to discover it and the creamer are both expired. Sighing, I rotate to find Andrew joining me, fingers diving through his wavy blond hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Aside from a dead body in my territory?” he asks, leaning on the island, hands on the counter behind him. “Some sort of disturbance at the Spielberg property.”

“Do you need to leave?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.

“Don’t sound so hopeful,” he scolds, telling me my endeavor of neutrality has failed. “I’m informed about these high-profile situations in my territory,” he adds. “But I don’t answer the calls myself unless absolutely necessary.”

“Of course. I knew that.” I move on to more important matters. Caffeine. “The coffee and creamer are both expired, which is pretty much my definition of hell, just so you know.” Right after nightmares of Kane and me and oceans of blood, I add silently.

“Why the hell are you here, Lilah? And don’t tell me it’s to see me. You don’t even return my calls.”

I lean on the counter, my arms folding in front of me. “There’s a murder in Manhattan that I’m trying to connect to two in Los Angeles.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“It’s close enough to merit a visit home,” I say, the word home uncomfortable on my tongue.

“That’s bullshit. You’re here on the night that a murder is discovered. I assume it’s connected.”

It’s not really a question, but since he’s looking at me like he wants an answer, it’s easier to give him one than not. “I believe it is,” I concur.

“Your boss is a bastard. Loose lead, my ass.” His gaze sharpens. “Did you follow it or did it follow you?”

“I have no reason to believe it followed me.”

“And yet it happened the night you arrived.”

“You’ve already stated these facts.”

“You don’t think it’s odd timing?”

“It’s curious.”

“Curious?” he demands. “It sounds like a gift left by an admiring killer or a damn threat.”

“Fuck me, Andrew,” I say, moving him away from the case. “I don’t remember you saying damn this much.”

“I damn sure remember you saying fuck all the damn time.”

“Fond memories, aren’t they?”

He scowls at me and then his phone starts ringing again. He grabs it from his pocket and glances at the number. “Dad,” he tells me, answering before I can demand he not. “She’s right here,” he says to him, eyeing me. “Yes. Hold on. I’ll put you on speaker.”

“No!” I mouth, waving my hands, but he does it anyway and sets the phone on the counter.

“You’re live with Lilah,” Andrew announces.

“Why the hell are you here without telling us?” comes the gruff, fierce demand of my father’s familiar voice. “How about the gift of a phone call followed by a hug, instead of a dead body?”

“Good to hear your voice, Dad,” I say, hugging myself again, and now it’s my turn to glower at Andrew.

My brother, in turn, seems to have confused my scowl with a smile and answers for me. “She wanted to surprise us,” Andrew replies.

“With a dead body?” my father demands.

“Oh Jesus fuck, you Love men are drama queens. I didn’t drop a dead body off when I got here.”

“Fuck?” my father demands. “Your mother—”

“Was trapped by the spotlight,” I say, “or she would have been letting it fly, too.”

Andrew jumps in and gets to the point. “Are you claiming jurisdiction on this case?”

“Not yet,” I say, “but I need full access to every detail.”

“I’ve had three phone calls about you being at the crime scene,” my father says. “It’s sent tongues wagging. People are nervous.”

“Murder does that to people,” I say.

“The feds do that to people,” my father corrects. “We need to have a press conference at daybreak tomorrow.”

“A press conference is a bad idea,” I say.

“We’re having a press conference,” my father reiterates.

“Tell them I happened to be here and Andrew asked me to help.”

“We’ll tell them together,” my father says. “You need to be there and at dinner tomorrow night. I need to go.” But he doesn’t go. He hesitates and uses what I call his “Dad” tone, a softer hard, which is his best attempt at tender. “Lilah,” he says. “Good to have you home, even if it is a bloody return.” He hangs up, ending any impact of his “tender” moment abruptly. What the hell is it with these men just hanging up on me?

Andrew snatches his phone and it immediately beeps with a text he glances at, his sharp expression telling me he is not pleased even before he looks at me again. “I have to go handle this problem.” But like Dad, he doesn’t go. He stays, his attention fixed on me. “You look good. Thin, but good.”

I roll my eyes and reply, “You look good. A little chubbier than before, but good.”