Worst. Fucking. Day.

Scratch that. Shit days were piled up behind him, so this one was going to have to take a number.

Hudson hooked his finger into the immaculate knot at his throat and gave the expensive noose a sharp tug as he stepped off the elevator and into his penthouse. The silence wasn’t a surprise. In fact, once upon a time, he had infinitely preferred it. But now it was a killer. His loafers pounding against the wood floor were too loud, and as he pulled his tie from around his neck it sounded like sandpaper grating against the fabric of his collar. He thought of the numerous times he’d come home, beat to hell from work, to find music blaring or a fucking video game plastered across the theater screen. Instead, the place was a mausoleum. God, he’d give anything to have that noise polluting his penthouse now. At least it would muffle his thoughts, which at the moment were like loud screams jackknifing through his brain.

He reached for the stool at the breakfast bar and his fingers curled around the edge as he contemplated throwing the thing. He wanted to disturb the silence and emptiness, wanted to punch through the reality of the present and invade the past, altering its course. If he could, his parents would still be alive, Nick wouldn’t be a goddamn junkie, and—his head dropped and he exhaled a sharp breath—he wouldn’t have royally screwed things up with Allie.

Quitting the white knuckle routine on the barstool, Hudson stripped out of his jacket, draped it over the back of the stool, and then tossed his tie on top. As he did, he remembered his phone. He flipped the lapel back and reached into his pocket for his cell, but when he pressed the button to fire up the screen, he found a whole lot of nothing. No messages. No missed calls. What the hell did he expect? It had been two weeks and Allie hadn’t returned a single one of his calls.

He stared at the screen, lit up with a photograph of Allie taken during their trip to Lake Geneva. She was straddling his Harley, beckoning him with a smile, her cheeks still a little flushed from the wine. But instead of that perfect smile all he could picture was how fragile she’d looked sitting in front of two matching caskets, clinging to the redhead seated next to her. The anguish etched in the delicate features of her tear-streaked face had shredded him. And when her shoulders shook with the sobs she was trying to hold in, he knew he should have felt grateful for her friend’s support. Instead he’d envied her purpose. Hudson wanted it to be his arm she gripped. He wanted to be the one she counted on to hold her up as the world as she knew it bottomed out.

He punched the button on the phone, cutting off the self-torture.

Fuck, he needed a drink.

Shoving his phone in the front pocket of his pants, Hudson strode to the Subzero and yanked the door open, only to find it empty of the beer he was craving. Cursing, he snapped it closed and stalked upstairs toward the game room. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The glow from the glass door fridge behind the bar provided the only light he needed to hit his target. He grabbed a Heineken, cracked it open, and flicked the cap off with his thumb. As he watched it slam dunk into the trash, he suddenly realized where Nick had picked up the nifty little trick.

Hudson flinched at the sound of his phone echoing through the cavernous room. He set the bottle on the bar and dug his cell back out of his pocket.

“Chase,” he answered, not bothering to screen the call.

A gravelly voice came from the other end. “Hey.”

“Nick, hey, how—”

Nick cut off the hi-how-are-ya’s. “Has it been on the news?”

“Couple lines in the Trib, but nothing more.” Hudson wasn’t surprised. Dead drug dealers didn’t make headlines. Nick blew out a relieved breath, but Hudson could still sense the undercurrent of stress. “You’re not to worry about it, clear? I’ve handled it.”

“What do you mean? The cops gotta be looking for me. APB or some shit, right?”

Hudson ran a hand through his hair. “No one is looking for you.”

“How can you be sure? What if someone saw the—”

“Not like this, Nick. Not on the phone.”

“Why? Do you think someone’s listening?”

“No. But I—”

“Holy shit, is your line tapped? Are you being watched?” Hudson could hear the wild panic gaining momentum.

“Jesus Christ, Nick, no. But my presence has already been requested at the police station in regards to the Sinclair murders. I’m not taking any chances.”

Nick snorted. “Yeah, like you’d kill Allie’s parents.”

“They have to rule me out as a suspect and I intend to cooperate.” Anything to keep the police from having a reason to dig too deeply into his life. Looking into the shit buried in his past was like pulling a thread. Yank on one and the whole thing would unravel.

“What if they’re just playin’ you? What if they know something?”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” Nick was a first-rate addict and the last thing Hudson wanted was for him to relapse and die by his own hand. Not on his watch. If it took stint after stint at high-priced rehab facilities, so be it. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to hit a brick wall when it came to saving his little brother. “Focus on getting yourself clean, understood?”

“I’m clean as a fucking whistle, Hudson. So stop the song and dance bullshit. Level with me.”

“Well, let me switch it to a different tune.” Hudson tightened his grip on the cell phone until he heard the thing squeak. “Sober, Nick. You need to cut the shit with the booze, the drugs, the life you’re living.” His voice grew more powerful with each word. “Goddamn it, I don’t want to bury you next to them.”

Silence stretched out between them, filling the line with white noise.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Nick’s voice came quietly through the phone. He’d been saying the same thing for the past ten years, but the fact was Hudson was wholly responsible. He’d never forgotten his litany of failures, and every time he tried to get some shut-eye a motherfucking slideshow played in his head: Nick being ripped away from him; gruesome images tinted with red; his mother’s cold, lifeless body staring up at him; and finally, Allie in the elevator as the doors slid closed.

He couldn’t lose his brother or suffer through long, dark months of not knowing where Nick was or whether he was alive or dead. Hudson choked back anger laced with fear. “I don’t want to lose you too, Nicky.”

“Not happening, no fucking way. I got a new lease on life, ya know?” Nick chuckled, no doubt to break the tension they both felt, but then dove headfirst into another minefield. “Have you heard from her?”

“No. She won’t return my calls.”

“Did you go to the funeral? Shit’s been all over the news. Even made The View.”

“The View?”

“Yeah, ladies in here dig it, and I’m kinda stuck for the ride. Good thing that one chick has a nice rack.”

“Fuckin’ A, Nick.” Hudson laughed for the first time in two weeks.

“So did you talk to her?”

“No.” Hudson rubbed the back of his neck. “She didn’t even know I was there.”

“Dude, why the fuck not?”

“Wasn’t the right time.”

“Chicken-shit pussy.”

“It’s complicated, Nick.”

“Yeah, what do I know? Hey bro, I gotta run, people waiting in line to use the horn.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah.” Nick cleared his throat. “Me too. I’ll catch ya later?”

“Sure. Bye, Nick.” Hudson waited until he heard his brother hang up before ending the call, then fisted the beer that was sweating it out on the bar and took a long swig. He glanced around the dimly lit room, from the dartboard to the pool table to the bar and, finally, to the column. That fucking column. Images of her were everywhere. There wasn’t a goddamn place he could look and not be reminded of her. Alessandra Sinclair had not only come back into his life, but had taken up residence in his heart.