Chapter 1

The Twins’ Inn looked cheery in the orange glow of the morning light. Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland, had a backin-time charm that often took visitors by surprise. Once befuddled that anyone, let alone Padraig and Oran McCarthy, would open a bookshop here, after spending some time in Kilbane and witnessing its charm, it made perfect sense now. Kilbane may not have held the same bustle as an Irish city, but there was no doubt it had character. Everyone was fast asleep—perhaps the argument that had broken out last night had taken its toll—and now residents were blissfully unaware of the trouble to come. It was a powerful feeling, knowing something they did not. The kind of power a writer well knows, playing God, crafting his or her stories. A tinge of red on the horizon foretold the approach of ominous weather. It was fitting; a storm was brewing in more ways than one. The pair of gray wolfhounds who had perched last night like statues by the office door, their regal bodies stiff, their ears alert to every sound, was nowhere to be seen. Asleep inside no doubt. But not for long. Good boys.

Everything, in the space of twenty-four hours, had changed. Human beings never had enough. They were bottomless pits of need. Insatiable. The argument played internally on an endless loop:

You can’t do this.

I am already doing it.

I’ll ruin you.

I’d like to see you try.

Don’t push me. You. Are. No one. You. Are. Nothing.

Words said in anger. Give it time. Give it a chance. Patience. The most powerful virtue of them all. And time had gone by. There had been no more mention of this preposterous idea, this act of outright betrayal. One could almost breathe again. Go to bed without worry pressing down like an anvil. Wake up without the dread of a ringing phone. Damage control. One hoped it was all forgotten. Forgiveness was another matter. But then this. A note. Five little words written on a piece of paper taped to the door. Five little words. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, and he was already screeching. The cat might have nine lives, but humans did not.

One might argue that in the act of putting those five little words to paper, the writer was to blame for what was to come. The valley of death. Walk, my lovely, walk. There wasn’t much time. Every detail must be considered. It would cause waves, of that there was no doubt, and adjustments would have to be made. No choice, no choice, no choice. Don’t think. Do. Action was character. The method was there, in and out like a soft breath, no need to think twice. Poison. Who needed old lace when arsenic alone would do? Thank heavens the purchase had been made when this avoidable debacle first began. The regular Web now held the same opportunities as the Dark Web. What had been once unthinkable was now easy-peasy. Guided by gut instinct, and backed up by preparation. Preparation was always key. And everyone knows: practice makes perfect.

And now, the skies had come to play. Thunder and lightning, nature’s stamp of approval. Ireland would see heavy thunderstorms over the next few days and warnings of power outages abounded. The ideal setting for a murder. Atmospheric. You did this. Your death was brought on by your hands. I am but a messenger. But first, the details. It was always in the details. The crime scene would tell a story, and a story needed to be shaped.