The Whisper. Carla Neggers

think he was dead.

      She entered the kitchen without a word and leaned against a counter. Strongly built and obviously well trained, she looked as if she’d have no problem dispatching even a hard-assed spy like Myles Fletcher.

      Fletcher ignored her and directed his attention at the two men. “Simon. Will. It’s good to see you.” Finally he turned to Josie and winked at her. “Hello, love.”

      “Bastard,” she said, then beamed a friendly smile at Scoop. “You’re looking well, Detective. Much better than at Abigail’s wedding. Some of your scars seem to be fading already.”

      “I feel fine,” Scoop said. “I’m ready to get back to work.”

      Simon stood by the kitchen door, near Josie’s position at the counter. “Moneypenny here wouldn’t listen to good advice and stay in London. She had to follow us to Ireland.”

      She gave Simon a good-natured roll of her eyes.

      Across the tiny cottage, Fletcher was at the front window again. “More company.”

      Scoop noticed Simon’s expectant, troubled expression, but Will Davenport was more difficult to read. The kitchen door opened on a gust of wind, and flaxen-haired Keira Sullivan entered the cottage, followed in another half second by black-haired Lizzie Rush. They were both thirty, both coming to terms with the dramatic changes in their lives over the past summer. Lizzie was Will Davenport’s new love, and however she and Keira had gotten to the little Irish village, it hadn’t, obviously, been with either him or Simon. Scoop was trained in reading body language, but it didn’t take an expert to detect the tension between the two pairs of lovers.

      With a curt nod at Davenport, Keira swept past Simon and greeted Scoop with a kiss on the cheek. “This place agrees with you,” she said, then, without waiting for an answer, turned to Josie. “Lizzie and I were in Dublin. It took a bit of doing on our part to figure out what was going on. I’m glad you could get here.”

      “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Josie said dryly.

      Fletcher returned to the table of art supplies. He looked less tired as he smiled at Keira. “Your charming cottage suddenly seems very small, indeed, doesn’t it?”

      “I have a feeling not for long,” she said, no curtness to her now. Her breathing was shallow, her cornflower-blue eyes filled with fear and anticipation.

      Something was up, Scoop thought, observing his half-dozen visitors.

      Fletcher picked up the sketch he’d done and handed it to Keira, her hands trembling visibly as she took it. “Here you go,” he said. “It’s an Irish wolfhound. I think of him as a shape-shifter in the midst of going from man to dog. That explains the quirks in my rendition, don’t you think?”

      Josie Goodwin snorted from the kitchen. “So does being a bad artist.”

      “It’s wonderful,” Keira said, gracious as always.

      Lizzie Rush walked over to the unlit stone fireplace and stood with her back to it. She was the director of concierge services for her family’s fifteen boutique hotels, including in Dublin and Boston. She was small and black-haired, with light green eyes and an alertness about her that supported the rumors Scoop had heard that her father wasn’t just a hotelier but also a spy who had taught his only child his tradecraft.

      She was the one who’d called Bob O’Reilly with the split-second warning that a bomb was about to go off on Abigail’s back porch.

      Davenport, clad in an open trench coat, kept his focus on Fletcher, who had quietly moved away to the front door. Without raising his voice, Will said, “Simon and I are going with you, Myles.”

      Fletcher pulled open the door and left without responding. The door shut with a thud behind him. Unless the departing Brit could shape-shift himself into a bird, Scoop figured Fletcher had a vehicle stashed nearby.

      Davenport—well educated, well trained and very experienced—looked over at Lizzie, but he didn’t smile or go to her, didn’t speak, just tapped one finger to his lips and blew her a kiss, then turned and headed out after Fletcher.

      “Damn Brits,” Simon muttered, then shrugged at Josie. “Sorry, Moneypenny.”

      “I had much the same thought.” She stood up from the counter and inhaled sharply as she nodded toward the front door. “You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

      “Yes.” There was no irreverence in Simon’s manner now. He was deadly serious. He walked over to Keira by the table of art supplies and half-finished sketches and touched her long, pale hair. “Keira…”

      “You have a job to do. Go do it. Stay safe. Keep your friends safe.” She placed Fletcher’s sketch back on the table and caught Simon’s big hand in hers, no sign she was trembling now. “Come back to me soon.”

      Simon kissed her but said nothing more as he went after the two British spies.

      Once the door shut behind him, Josie let her arms fall to her sides. “All right, then. They’re off, and now it’s just us girls again.”

      Scoop raised his eyebrows.

      Her strain was evident even as she smiled at him. “Sorry, Detective.”

      “Honestly, Scoop,” Keira said, attempting a laugh, “you look even more ferocious these days. Who’d ever know you adopted two stray cats?”

      “The cats know,” he said.

      Tears shone in her eyes. “They must miss you.”

      “They’re in good hands. Your cousins are taking care of them.” Not Fiona but her two younger sisters, who lived with their mother—Bob O’Reilly’s first wife. Scoop tried to keep his tone light. “Your uncle’s having fits. Now Maddie and Jayne want him to adopt cats.”

      “I’m just glad yours survived the fire,” Keira said quietly. “When are you going back to Boston?”

      “Tomorrow,” he said, deciding on the spot. First the mysterious archaeologist, now British spies and the FBI. Too much was going on for him to justify even one more day in Ireland. Answers weren’t here, in Keira’s idyllic cottage.

      Lizzie sank onto the sofa where, in his first days at the cottage, Scoop had lain on his stomach for hours at a stretch, easing himself off medication and trying to remember anything that could help with the investigations back in Boston. She kicked out her legs and propped her feet up on a small coffee table. Although she was a hotel heiress accustomed to five-star surroundings, she didn’t look out of place in the simple cottage. From what Scoop had seen of them, Lizzie Rush and Lord Davenport—who was accustomed to castles—were at home wherever they happened to find themselves.

      “I have a room all set for you at our hotel in Boston anytime you want it,” she told Scoop.

      “That’s very kind of you, Lizzie, but another detective’s offered me his sleeper sofa.”

      “Who?” Keira asked, skeptical.

      “Tom Yarborough.”

      She sputtered into incredulous laughter. “You two would kill each other.”

      Probably true. Yarborough was a homicide detective—Abigail’s partner—and not an easy person on a good day. He hadn’t had a good day in months.

      “My family would love to have you at the Whitcomb,” Lizzie said. “Consider it done, Scoop. I’ll text Jeremiah and let him know.”

      Jeremiah Rush was the third eldest of Lizzie’s four male Rush cousins. With her father frequently gone and her mother dead since she was an infant, she had practically grown up with them north of Boston.

      “What about you three?” Scoop asked, taking in all three women with one look.

      “We’ll keep ourselves busy,” Josie said. She opened up the refrigerator, giving an exaggerated