The Angel
Inside an ancient ruin, Keira discovers the mythic stone angel she seeks—but also senses a malevolent presence…just before the ruins collapse around her.Search-and-rescue veteran Simon Cahill finds Keira in the rubble just as she's about to free herself. Simon holds no stock in myths or magic, so he isn't surprised that there's no trace of her stone angel.But there is evidence of startling violence and—whatever the source—the danger to Keira is quite real. The long-forgotten legend that captivated her has also aroused a killer…a calculating predator who will follow them back to Boston, determined to kill again.
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Praise for the novels of
CARLA NEGGERS
âNo one does romantic suspense better!â
âJanet Evanovich
âA believable, gripping story that will keep armchair sleuths guessing⦠Here is intelligent writing that remains highly entertaining.â
âPublishers Weekly on Betrayals
âNeggers has created yet another well-matched pair of characters and given them a crackerjack mystery to solveâcomplete with a seriously creepy villain.â
âRomantic Times BOOKreviews on Abandon
â[Neggersâs] skill at creating colorful characters and deliciously twisted story lines makes this an addictive read.â
âPublishers Weekly on Stonebrook Cottage
âWhen it comes to romance, adventure and suspense, nobody delivers like Carla Neggers.â
âJayne Ann Krentz
âA keen ear for dialogue and a sure hand with multidimensional characterizations are Neggersâs greatest gifts as a storytellerâ¦. By turns creepy and amusing, the story engages on several levels.â
âRomantic Times BOOKreviews on Breakwater
âNeggers keeps the reader guessing âwhodunitâ to the end of her intriguing novel.â
âPublishers Weekly on The Widow
âSuspense, romance and the rocky Maine coastâwhat more could a reader ask? The Harbor has it all. Carla Neggers writes a story so vivid you can smell the salt air and feel the mist on your skin.â
âTess Gerritsen
To Kate and Conor
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Brendan Gunning for all the wonderful Irish and Irish-American stories, and to Myles Heffernan, Paul Hudson, Jamie Carr and Christine Wenger for sharing your knowledge and expertise.
To Sarah Gallick for the help with Irish saints and for sending me early excerpts from The Big Book of Women Saints.
To my daughter, Kate Jewell, and my son-in-law, Conor Hansen, for getting us all to southwest Ireland. Conor, Iâll never forget standing in the stone house where your great-grandfather was born, or meeting your cousins on the Beara Peninsula.
To Don Lucey for the insight into Irish music and all the great recommendations.
To my agent, Margaret Ruley, and to my editor, Margaret Marbury, for the unwavering patience and support, and to the rest of the fabulous team in New York and TorontoâDonna Hayes, Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Dianne Moggy, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Heather Foy, Michelle Renaud, Stacy Widdrington, Margie Miller, Adam Wilson and everyone who makes MIRA Books such an incredible pleasure to work with.
And to Joe Jewell, my husband, for all the great times in Boston, âourâ city, and to Zack Jewell, my sonâ¦yes, another trip to Ireland is in the works. Canât wait!
Carla Neggers
P.O. Box 826 Quechee, VT 05059 www.carlaneggers.com
Contents
Prologue
South Boston, Massachusetts
2:00 p.m., EDT July 12, Thirty Years Ago
A scrap of yellow crime scene tape bobbed in the rising tide of Boston Harbor where the brutalized body of nineteen-year-old Deirdre McCarthy had washed ashore. Bob OâReilly couldnât take his eyes off it.
Neither could Patsy McCarthy, Deirdreâs mother, who stood next to him in the hot summer sun. Coming out here was her idea. Bob didnât want to, but he didnât know what else to do. He couldnât let her go alone.
âDeirdre was an angel.â
âShe was, Mrs. McCarthy. Deirdre was the best.â
Ninety degrees outside, and Patsy shivered in her pastel blue polyester sweater. Sheâd lost weight in the three weeks since Deirdre hadnât come home after her shift as a nurseâs aide. At first the police had believed she was just another South Boston girl whoâd gone wrong. Patsy kept at them. Not Deirdre.
She disappeared on the night of the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.
Appropriate, somehow, Bob thought.
Patsyâs eyes, as clear and as blue as the afternoon sky, lifted to the horizon, as if she were trying to see the island of her birth, as if Ireland could bring her the comfort and strength she needed to get through her ordeal. Sheâd left the southwest Irish coast forty years ago at the age of nine and hadnât been back since. She loved to tell stories about her Irish childhood, how she was born in a one-room cottage with no plumbing, no central heatânot even an outhouseâand how sheâd learned to bake her famous brown bread on an open fire.
Bob wondered how sheâd tell this story. The story of her daughterâs kidnapping, rape, torture and murder.
The police hadnât released details, but Bob, the son of a Boston cop, had heard rumors of unspeakable acts of violence and depravity. He was twenty and planned on becoming a detective, and one day he would have to wade through such details himself. He hoped the victim would never be someone he knew. He and Deirdre had learned to roller-skate together, had given each other their first kiss, just to see what it was like.
