But before I can say the words, his head turns away, snaps around in the direction of the front room. His shoulders are tense and the tendons of his neck are pulled taut.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asks very quietly.
Instinctively, the volume of my voice matches his.
“No.”
That’s when I hear it. The jostle of the front doorknob. The sharp whine of the hinge as it opens. And then . . . footsteps, slow but distinct.
Someone is here. Someone is inside my flat.
Oh my.
Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my . . .
Without a sound, Tommy Sullivan pulls a gun from the inside of his suit jacket—and my panicked thoughts come to a record-scratching halt.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a handgun up close. It’s black and weighted and looks right at home in his grip.
“You didn’t tell me you were armed!” I whisper-yell.
“Shh.”
“Do you have a permit for that? Do you know the statistics on—”
His large hand covers my entire mouth.
“Shush.” He looks down at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before—hard, harsh and deadly serious. The kind of look that says he could kill a man with his bare hands, and walk away whistling a merry tune afterwards.
Goosebumps prickle on my skin . . . but they’re not the bad kind. Because maybe it’s wrong, but deadly Tommy Sullivan is sexy as all get-out.
“Stay.”
And without a sound, he slips out the kitchen door.
But I don’t stay. Because I’m not a dog.
But mostly because . . . what if something happens? What if there’s more than one of them? What if they manage to get the upper hand?
What if he needs me?
I pull the drawer open, careful not to make any noise, and grab the thick, hefty wooden rolling pin that I’ve never actually used to roll anything. It’s just one of those things you get when you move into your own place.
I give it one practice swing, then tiptoe out the kitchen door.
There are sounds of a tussle from down the hall, grunting and struggling. There’s a scrape of wood, a thud that vibrates the wall and the crash of my corner lamp when it smashes to the floor, and the light that had been spilling out from the living room goes out.
I flick on the hall light, to give the room some illumination, and then I lift the rolling pin over my head—and charge to the rescue.
But when I get there, it’s apparent the only person who needs rescuing . . . is my brother. Who’s pinned to the floor on his stomach, with his arm wrenched behind his back and Mr. Sullivan’s boot pressed to the back of his neck.
“Luke?”
He angles his pain-filled, floor-squished face my way, as much as he can.
“Hello, Abby. Sorry to drop in without ringing first. Thought I’d surprise you.” He chokes out a laugh and lifts his eyebrows. “Surprise.”
* * *
Mr. Sullivan replaces the bulb in the lamp and cleans up the glass while I make Luke a cup of tea and get him settled on the sofa, hovering about him the way I always do when he comes home.
His color is good, his cheeks ruddy. His thick blond hair longer than the last time I saw him. And he’s put on a bit of weight—always a good sign, especially with the active, adventurer lifestyle he’s adopted for himself.
I introduce him to Tommy Sullivan and in spite of their unfortunate first interaction, there don’t seem to be any hard feelings.
“Sorry about putting you down like that,” Mr. Sullivan says.
“Not a problem.” My brother nods. “Completely understandable.”
I fluff the pillows behind his back, making him spill his tea.
“Abby—you’re fussing.”
“Sorry.” I force-fold my hands in my lap. “It’s just so good to see you. Are you staying home for long?”
“A few weeks.”
“And you’re going to schedule your physicals? I can help with that if you’d like.”
He grins, indulging me as he always does. “No need for help, Dr. Sister. And yes, I’ll be a good little patient and see to all my checkups.”
I exhale a sigh of relief. Because even though he’s a grown man and four years older than me, I worry about him. It’s a constant thrum in the back of my mind—like tinnitus—that I’ve learned to live with. I worry that something will happen to him and we won’t even know, or if we do, he’ll be too far away for us to help him—for me to get to him in time. But seeing him here in the flesh, solid and strong and healthy, is a sweet salve for my anxiety.
“And you’ve been well?” I ask. “Any recent infections? Shortness of breath or fatigue? Have you been tolerating your medications?”
Luke pats my head and doesn’t answer any of my questions.
“Do you have sisters, Mr. Sullivan?” he asks.