Second Honeymoon Page 0,1

the sound. Click!

Then, ever so carefully, slowly, so as not to make a sound, Ned pulled open the drawer.

And took out the gun.

Three

OLIVIA SINCLAIR SHOT up in bed so fast it made her a little dizzy. Her first thought was that the heat had come on, that god-awful clanking noise from the pipes that would practically shake the house.

But that’s why she always wore the wax earplugs when she went to bed, so she could sleep through it all. The earplugs always worked, too. Not once did she remember waking up in the middle of the night.

Until now.

If that noise wasn’t the heat and the pipes, what was it? It had to be something.

Olivia turned to her left to see the time. The clock on the nightstand said 12:20 a.m.

She turned to her right to see the empty pillow next to her. She was alone.

Olivia took out her earplugs and swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet quickly finding her slippers nearby. The second she flipped on the light, she was jolted by another noise. This one she recognized instantly. It was a horrible scream, just awful.

Nora!

Bursting out of the bedroom, Olivia sprinted down the long, narrow hallway toward her daughter’s bedroom, where the light was on.

When she turned the corner at the doorway, she felt worse than dizzy. She felt sick to her stomach.

There was blood everywhere. On the floor. On the bed. Splattered on the pink-painted wall between posters of Debbie Gibson and Duran Duran.

Olivia’s eyes pinballed around the rest of the room. She took in a breath. The smell of the gunshots was still thick in the air. In one quick and utterly horrifying moment, she realized what had happened.

And what had been happening for more than a year.

Oh, my God! My daughter! My sweet and innocent daughter!

Nora sat curled up in the tiniest ball by the headboard of her bed. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees. She was naked. She was crying. She was looking at her brother.

Across the room in the corner, Ned, pale as the winter’s snow outside, was standing frozen like a statue in his Superman pajamas. He couldn’t even blink.

For a second, Olivia stood frozen, too. The next second, though, it was as if she’d suddenly remembered who she was. These were her children.

She was their mother.

Olivia rushed over to Ned and kneeled down to hug him, her arms squeezing him tight against her chest. He started to mumble something, repeating it over and over and over. “The bogeyman,” it sounded like.

“Shh,” Olivia whispered in his ear. “Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay, honey.”

Then, very carefully, she took the gun out of his hand.

Slowly, she walked over to the door, looking back one more time at the room. Her daughter. Her son.

And the “bogeyman” lying dead on the floor.

Moments later, she picked up the phone in the hallway. She stood there holding the receiver for a long moment, then she dialed.

“My name is Olivia Sinclair,” she told the 911 operator. “I just killed my husband.”

Book One

The Strange Case

of the O’Haras

Chapter 1

ETHAN BRESLOW COULDN’T stop smiling as he reached for the bottle of Perrier-Jouët Champagne chilling in the ice bucket next to the bed. He’d never been happier in his whole life. He’d never believed it was possible to be this happy.

“What’s the world record for not wearing clothes on your honeymoon?” he said jokingly, his chiseled six-foot-two frame barely covered by a sheet.

“I don’t know for sure. It’s my first honeymoon and all,” said his bride, Abigail, propping herself up on the pillow next to him. She was still catching her breath from their most daring lovemaking yet. “But at the rate we’re going,” she added, “I definitely overpacked.”

The two laughed as Ethan poured more Champagne. Handing Abigail her glass, he stared deep into her soft blue eyes. She was so beautiful and—damn the cliché—was even more so on the inside. He’d never met anyone as kind and compassionate. With two simple words she’d made him the luckiest guy on the planet. Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

I do.

Ethan raised his Champagne for a toast, the bubbles catching a ray of Caribbean sunshine through the curtains. “Here’s to Abby, the greatest girl in the world,” he said.

“You’re not so terrible yourself. Even though you call me a girl.”

They clinked glasses, sipping in silence while soaking everything in from their beachfront bungalow at the Governor’s Club in Turks and Caicos. It was all so perfect—the fragrant