Tom was hungover as hell, and the screaming woman wasn’t helping. He squinted in the bright light of the kitchen, so harsh compared to the dark cave he’d just left, and addressed the blur in front of him.
“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
As his eyes adjusted, he realized the blur was short, skinny, and brandishing a knife in his direction. He took two quick steps back and held his hands out in front of him in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Okay, listen, this is a misunderstanding.” His head throbbed, but he kept and kept his voice calm and even. “I just woke up, but give me a second, and I’ll get out of—”
If anything, the blur sounded even more hostile. But this time the hostility sounded… familiar. He risked a shuffle step forward and forced his bloodshot eyes to focus on the woman in front of him.
“Huck?” he asked in amazement.
Huckleberry Finn. His lips shaped the nickname without conscious thought, but the reminder of their old shared joke from American lit class did nothing to relax her guard. Instead, she spun to grab a second knife with her free hand.
“What the hell, Tom? Why are you in my apartment in the middle of a blizzard?”
He eyed the knives with alarm. Holy shit, Finn Carey was finally going to finish the job she’d wanted to do for eight years. They’d be finding pieces of him all over Chicago when the thaw hit.