If she listened all devi.., p.1
If She Listened--All Devices, page 1
i f s h e l i s t e n e d
(a kate wise mystery—book 9)
b l a k e p i e r c e
Blake Pierce
USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.
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Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright andreiuc88, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE
KATE VALENTINE
KARI BLACKHORSE
ISLA RIVERS
ALISON PAYNE
JENNA GRAVES
THE GOVERNESS
RACHEL BLACKWOOD
SHEILA STONE
FINN WRIGHT
MORGAN CROSS
JULIETTE HART
FAITH BOLD
FIONA RED
DAISY FORTUNE
AMBER YOUNG
CAMI LARK
NICKY LYONS
CORA SHIELDS
MAY MOORE
PAIGE KING
VALERIE LAW
RACHEL GIFT
AVA GOLD
A YEAR IN EUROPE
ELLA DARK
LAURA FROST
EUROPEAN VOYAGE
ADELE SHARP
THE AU PAIR
ZOE PRIME
JESSIE HUNT
CHLOE FINE
KATE WISE
THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE
RILEY PAIGE
MACKENZIE WHITE
AVERY BLACK
KERI LOCKE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
PROLOGUE
Marion Sullivan traced her finger around the rim of her wineglass, watching the last of the cabernet swirl inside. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow against the polished granite countertops they'd installed five years ago. It seemed almost silly now—all those renovations for a house they were leaving behind. Because it hadn't just been the countertops but the shower remodel and landscaping as well.
"Do you think we should have waited until spring?" she asked, looking across the kitchen island at Jeffrey. "Real estate always picks up then."
Jeffrey shook his head, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reviewed the listing agreement they'd signed earlier that day. "Thomas said the market’s strong right now. Low inventory." He glanced up at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Besides, I don't think I could take another winter in this place. Too many rooms to heat."
Marion nodded, taking another sip of wine. At fifty-four, she never imagined she'd be starting over again. The silence in the house had become oppressive since Emma left for college last fall. Their daughter's absence turned their four-bedroom colonial into a museum of memories rather than a home. It had taken less than a month after she’d left before started to feel the need to move on.
"I still can't believe we're actually doing this," she said, smiling faintly. "Twenty-two years in one place."
"Twenty-three in August," Jeffrey corrected, folding the papers and sliding them back into the folder their realtor had given them. "Remember how Emma used to slide down that banister? I thought for sure she'd break her neck."
"Or how you insisted we needed that ridiculous workshop in the garage that you've used maybe five times?"
Jeffrey laughed, the deep, familiar sound that still warmed her after thirty years of marriage. "Hey, I built that birdhouse, didn't I?"
"One birdhouse in twenty-three years. You’re right. Very impressive." Marion stood and carried her empty glass to the sink. She glanced out the kitchen window at their backyard, barely visible in the darkness. The maple tree they'd planted when Emma was born now towered over the property, its autumn leaves carpeting the lawn. Another thing they wouldn't need to worry about anymore—no more raking, no more gutter-cleaning.
"I wonder what the condo will feel like," she mused. "Will it ever really feel like home?"
Jeffrey came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. She leaned back against him, grateful for his solid presence.
"Home is wherever we are together," he said, kissing her neck. "Plus, think about it—maintenance-free living, walking distance to restaurants, no more shoveling snow..."
"You make a compelling argument, counselor." Marion turned in his arms, smiling up at him. Jeffrey had retired from his law practice last year, another reason their large house felt increasingly impractical. "And don't forget being closer to Emma. Two hours instead of five."
"That's the real selling point," Jeffrey agreed. "Though I suspect she'll be too busy with her college life to bother with her boring parents."
"Speak for yourself. I'm fascinating," Marion said, playfully swatting his chest. She glanced at the clock on the microwave—11:18 PM. "We should get to bed. Thomas is bringing the photographer at nine tomorrow."
Jeffrey groaned. "Do we really need professional photos? Everyone just looks at these houses on their phones anyway."
"Thomas said it makes all the difference. Besides, we want to get top dollar, don't we? That means making this place look like a showroom." Marion rinsed her wineglass and placed it in the dishwasher, her mind already cataloging what needed to be decluttered before the photographer arrived.
"Fine, but I'm not moving the furniture around again. My back is still killing me from repositioning the sofa last week. However...I think it would be a waste if we didn’t properly use the bedroom if this is the last night the house is technically ours.”
“Intriguing. But I thought you said your back was killing you,” she said, stepping forward and tugging at the waist of his pants.
“I’ll live,” he said with a smile.
They moved through their evening routine with the practiced efficiency of a long-married couple—checking doors, adjusting the thermostat, and turning off lights. Marion paused in the living room, taking in the space where they'd celebrated birthdays, Christmases, and Emma's high school graduation. The walls held so many memories.
They moved through the routines faster than usual, the tease of what was to come still fresh in their minds.
Upstairs, Marion changed into her nightgown while Jeffrey brushed his teeth. Their bedroom, with its king-sized bed and matching nightstands, had been their sanctuary for over two decades. The framed photos on the dresser traced their life together—their wedding day, Emma's first steps, and family vacations. All are coming down tomorrow to depersonalize the space for potential buyers.
Marion was smoothing moisturizer onto her face when she heard it—a faint but distinct sound from downstairs. Like something being moved or a door opening.
She froze, listening intently to the sound of running water in their bathroom. And then there it was again…the unmistakable creak of the floorboard near the kitchen entrance.
"Jeffrey," she called, her voice barely above a whisper. "Did you lock the back door?"
Jeffrey appeared in the bathroom doorway, toothbrush in hand. He was only in his boxers, having joked before brushing his teeth that he didn’t see the point in putting on his pajama clothes if they were just going to tear them off moments later. "Of course I did. Why?"
"I heard something downstairs."
"Probably just the house settling. You know we—"
Another noise interrupted him. It was louder this time, like something being knocked over with a gentle thud
Marion gripped the edge of their dresser. "That's not the house settling."
Jeffrey's expression changed, tension replacing his earlier dismissal. He nodded
"Wait," Marion whispered, grabbing his arm. "Should we call the police?"
"And tell them what? That we heard a noise?" Jeffrey shook his head. "It's probably nothing. Maybe we forgot to secure a window, and the wind knocked something over."
"Or maybe someone's in our house," Marion insisted.
Jeffrey sighed. "Fine, I'll go check. But you stay here."
"Jeffrey, don't—"
"It's fine," he assured her, though his voice lacked conviction. "Just... find your phone. If you hear anything strange, call 911."
Marion nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs as Jeffrey moved to their closet and retrieved the baseball bat they kept there—a precaution they'd never expected to use.
"Lock the door behind me," he instructed.
This scared her more than anything else, for Jeffrey to show this kind of concern meant that he truly thought something was up. "I'm coming with you," Marion said, surprising herself.
"Absolutely not."
"I'm not sitting up here alone," she insisted, her voice trembling slightly. "I'll stay on the stairs, but I'm coming with you."
Jeffrey looked as though he wanted to argue, but another noise from below settled the matter.
"Fine, but stay behind me," he conceded.
They moved into the hallway together, Marion trailing close behind her husband as they approached the top of the stairs. The house was eerily quiet now, the silence somehow more unnerving than the noises had been. Somehow, it felt like an enormous intrusion of safety that someone may have broken into their home on the very same day they had sold it.
Jeffrey began his descent, each step careful and deliberate, the baseball bat gripped tightly in his right hand. Marion stopped at the top of the stairs, as promised. Her mouth had gone dry, and she could hear her pulse thudding in her ears.
When Jeffrey reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused, listening.
"Do you see anything?" Marion whispered from her position at the top of the staircase.
Jeffrey shook his head, moving cautiously toward the darkened living room. "I'm going to check the back door," he said softly. "Stay there."
Marion watched as her husband disappeared from view, the darkness swallowing him. She counted each second of silence, trying to calm her breathing, telling herself they were overreacting.
Then she heard Jeffrey's voice, sharp with alarm. "Who the hell are—"
Two muffled pops cut through the night air—quick, subdued shots that made Marion's blood run cold. This was followed by the sound of something slamming into the wall.
"Jeffrey!" she screamed, her paralysis breaking. She turned to run back up the stairs but froze when she saw a figure emerge from the living room and step into the foyer below.
The intruder wore black from head to toe—dark pants, a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and what looked like a ski mask covering their face. But it was the object in their gloved hand that seized Marion's attention—a pistol equipped with what she assumed was a silencer of some kind.
For an eternal second, they stared at each other—Marion gripping the banister, the masked figure standing motionless at the bottom of the stairs. Then the intruder raised the weapon, pointing it directly at her.
Terror propelled Marion into action. She turned and bolted up the stairs, her nightgown tangling around her legs as she scrambled toward the safety of their bedroom. Her mind screamed at her to move faster, to reach the phone, to lock the door.
"Jeffrey," she gasped, though she knew with horrible certainty that he couldn't answer her.
She had almost reached the top of the stairs when she heard another shot. The impact hit her between her shoulder blades, a shocking punch of heat that stole her breath. Marion stumbled forward, her legs suddenly unresponsive. She couldn’t move despite the blistering, impossible pain spreading through her back.
As she collapsed onto the carpeted landing, a strange clarity washed over her. She thought of Emma, away at college, unaware that her world was shattering. She thought of the condo they'd never move into, the future they'd never have.
Marion's final conscious thought was of Jeffrey, waiting for her in the darkness below…and then of the sound of muffled footsteps approaching her from behind as she started to feel her own blood, warm and sticky, pooling around her.
CHAPTER ONE
Kate Wise watched her seventeen-month-old son stack wooden blocks on the living room carpet, his tiny brow furrowed in concentration. Stacking was relatively new for him, and he seemed to take it very seriously. Michael's dark hair—so like his father's—fell across his forehead as he carefully placed a red block atop his growing tower. His look of determination reminded Kate of herself, a thought that both amused and terrified her.
"Yay!" Michael exclaimed, reaching for another block.
"That's pretty impressive, buddy," Kate said, glancing at her watch.
Michael kept stacking, oblivious to his mother. He was also oblivious to Allen, standing just inside the kitchen. As Kate watched Michael, Allen called out: "What do you think about chicken marsala instead of the salmon? My cousin Anthony is allergic to shellfish, and I'm not sure if the kitchen prepares the salmon on the same surfaces."
Kate smiled at the domesticity of the moment. Wedding planning. Something she never thought she'd be doing again at fifty-seven. It was both enjoyable and irritating at the same time.
"Whatever you think is best," she replied, standing to stretch her legs. "I trust your judgment."
"That's a dangerous statement," Allen teased, appearing in the doorway with a notepad in hand. His salt-and-pepper hair was slightly disheveled, evidence of the hours they'd spent poring over reception menus and seating arrangements. "You might end up with foie gras and escargot."
"You wouldn't dare," Kate said. "Besides, I've eaten worse things on stakeouts."
She nearly stopped herself from mentioning stakeouts. Lately, she’d done everything she could not to speak about anything related to work. Two months had passed since her last field assignment with DeMarco. They'd caught a criminal mastermind who'd been murdering grandparents seeking custody of their grandchildren—a case that had hit close to home for Kate, given her own status as both grandmother and mother. She'd thought that case might rekindle her regular involvement with the Bureau, but since then, Duran had only called with more research requests and case review assignments. Nothing that required her to leave the house.
Allen came over and sat beside her on the couch, placing a hand on her knee. "How's the little architect doing?"
But Michael had abandoned his little tower and was now lining blocks up in a perfect row.
"He's meticulous," Kate observed. "Wonder where he gets that from?"
"Certainly not from me," Allen said with a laugh. "My desk looks like a paper factory exploded."
Kate leaned against him, savoring the comfort of his solid presence. These moments—quiet evenings at home with Allen and Michael—were precisely what she'd dreamed of during her decades with the FBI. A normal life. A family. Security. And given her own shaky history with her daughter, Melissa, it was a chance she feared she’d never get again.
And yet.
"Your brain is humming," Allen murmured against her hair. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
Kate sighed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do." Allen guided her back toward the kitchen, where dinner preparations were underway. A simple pasta dish, salad ingredients waiting to be chopped. "What's going on in that brilliant mind of yours?"
Kate slid onto a barstool at the kitchen island, watching as Allen returned to slicing tomatoes for the salad. "I don't know. Restlessness, I guess."
"Cabin fever?"
"Maybe." Kate ran a finger along the granite countertop. "Don't get me wrong—I love this life we're building. I love being here for Michael, planning our wedding, having a normal schedule."
"But?" Allen prompted, not looking up from his cutting board.
"But sometimes I feel like I'm... fading. Like my edges are getting blurry." Kate struggled to articulate the sensation that had been growing over the past several weeks. "The case summaries Duran sends are fine, but they're just paper. There's no adrenaline, no putting the pieces together in real time."
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