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stared thoughtfully out the window as he felt the plane’s landing gear slip into place. Dublin. He hadn’t been here in a long time, but it was a city he loved, where the old mingled with the new, and history, some of it painful and all of it a lesson in the ways of man, seemed to be waiting around every corner. But there was one thing he especially adored about this capital city of the Irish Republic. The music. He’d encountered some of the most melodic voices he had ever heard in the Dublin pubs. There was real heart in Irish music, heart and passion. What could be wrong with coming to a city where he was guaranteed a good pint and fine music?
    Nothing.
    Still, it wasn’t the music that had brought him here, it was his friendship with Kat, and his fear that maybe she wasn’t overreacting because she hated her stepmother, that someone really was after Sean.
    Right now, as much as he loved Dublin, he was chafing to get Sean O’Riley safely home, then find out what the hell had happened to Eddie. He’d been just about to board the plane when Kat called him—hysterical—to tell him that the boat had been found, but Eddie had not been aboard, and there had been no obvious signs of what had happened to him.
    Zach had also talked to Sean, who was convinced that it was just exhaustion from the flight, combined with something he’d eaten, but nothing the least bit threatening, that had caused his illness. He knew his daughter distrusted his wife, but Sean himself was quite certain he was in no danger from Amanda.
    He was worried about Eddie, and that only made Zach worry more.
    He, too, was far more worried about Eddie than he was about the possibility of Amanda trying to kill Sean. The way he saw things, the woman didn’t have the intelligence or the nerve to be a cunning killer.
    “Ah, there’s my Dublin,” said the elegant older woman at his side, interrupting his thoughts.
    “It’s certainly a beautiful city,” Zach said, turning to her with a smile. She’d spoken only four words, but there was a lilt to them, a melody in every word that made the Irish accent different from all others.
    She smiled back, and he saw the plethora of wrinkles—many of them clearly laugh lines—in her face and wondered just how old she was.
    It was as if she read his mind. “I’m ninety-two. Old enough. And weary. But glad to be home.” She pointed out the window. “Many a protest was held there, and blood flowed in the streets, but that was a long time ago. We’re finding peace now. Even in the north, we’re finding peace.” She flashed him a knowing smile. “Can’t be havin’ tourism without peace, and can’t be makin’ good money without tourism.”
    “It’s the way of the world,” he assured her.
    “American-Irish?” she asked him, indicating his auburn hair.
    He laughed. “We’re all a bit Irish in America, I think—at least on St. Patrick’s Day. My name is Flynn, but my father’s family goes way back in the States. My mom was Irish, though.” He frowned suddenly, looking past her. It had seemed as if a shadow had walked by, down the aisle of the plane. It must have been a trick of the light, he thought, as the plane canted, turning for its final approach to the runway.
    “So are you coming home, then?” she asked.
    He shook his head, but something about her expression touched him. “I’m only here to travel home with a friend who got sick right after he arrived.” And whose daughter thinks her stepmother is trying to kill him.
    “I see. Bringing him home for Christmas,” she said softly.
    “Well, bringing him home, yes. And it is nearly Christmas,” Zach agreed.
    She offered him a hand. “I’m Maeve.”
    “Nice to meet you, Maeve. I’m Zach.”
    “Well, I’m comin’ home for Christmas,” she said. “The old music, the old ways.” She smiled at him. “Home is a fine place to be.”
    “Isn’t home where the heart is?” he asked her with a smile.
    She laughed quietly. “Aye, and