Coming Christmas 2026

Cold Vein

Book Two in the Philippa Fraiser Detective Series

Chapter One

Samantha Sheridan—Sunny to everyone except the tax office—grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar. The wood was sticky with the night’s chaos: spilled beer, a splash of cranberry juice, something she hoped wasn’t barbecue sauce. Her shoulders throbbed. Her feet felt as though they’d fused to her boots.

‘Last chance, Harvey,’ she muttered, tossing the rag into the sink. ‘I mean it this time.’

She’d had this conversation with herself so many times. Once again, she cut her barman slack, which the guy didn’t deserve. He should be here. But he wasn’t. And for the fourth time that week, Sunny took on all the closing-time chores with a sense of finality.

An hour later, with her body running on fumes, she killed the neon signs, plunging the place into a softer, amber glow. Chairs were stacked. Glasses rinsed. The old jukebox hummed as it powered down. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, carrying the smell of pine and the distant hush of the lake.

Sunny stretched, spine cracking, and allowed herself to imagine the bliss of her bed. Five hours of sleep—maybe six if the universe was kind. No more. Not with deliveries due. She reached for the light switch.

Before the lamp could darken, a dull thud hit the building. Downstairs, the front door. Maybe.

She froze. The sound wasn’t a knock. No fist could crash like that. This was a weight, like the sound when barrels rolled down the ramp into her cellar. No deliveries tonight. They were ten hours away. Sunny’s pulse kicked up. Greenville wasn’t a town where people banged on bar doors after closing—unless they were drunk, lost, or both. But this sound… it had a heaviness to it. A finality.

Another thud, softer this time, like something sliding down the wood.

‘Great,’ she whispered. ‘Just what I need.’

Pulling on her robe, she stepped downstairs, back into the gloomy bar before reaching under the bar and pulling out the closest thing to a weapon: a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. Not elegant, but solid. Comforting.

Sunny approached the door slowly, slippers silent on the worn floorboards. She listened. Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Just the wind.

Damn it. Okay,’ she breathed. ‘On three.’

Cursing Harvey’s absence for the umpteenth time, she unlatched the bolt, turned the key, and cracked the door open an inch. Cold air rushed in. And with it, a body.

A young man—barely more than a kid—slumped forward and collapsed at her feet, his weight knocking the door wide, causing her to stagger backward. His skin was pale in the porch light, his clothes damp with frost. The guys' eyes were open but unfocused, staring past her into the dark.

Sunny’s breath caught in her throat.

‘Oh God… hey—hey!’ She dropped to her knees beside him, bottle forgotten, left to roll around on the floor. Hands shaking as she reached for a pulse, instinct telling her she wouldn’t find one.

Nothing.

The night pressed in around her, silent and vast.

Sunny swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady as she stepped back to the counter to collect her phone.

‘Greenville PD,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Philippa. I need Philippa.’

Because whatever had brought this boy to her doorstep, she couldn’t deal with it alone.