PATRICK
The castle was in disarray.Boxes stood stacked in formidable towers, movers shouted instructions in the grand hall, and the sharp screech of packing tape being ripped from its roll bounced off the ancient stone. I stood in the doorway of my office, watching two men in matching blue uniforms wrap the massive oak desk that had been in my family for three generations.
“That stays,” I said, startling them both. “Most of the furniture remains. This isn’t a permanent relocation.”
“Aye, Mr. McCrae,” the older of the two said, setting down his roll of plastic wrap with obvious relief.
Just a year. A temporary move to establish MIRI’s new West Coast division. Twelve months in California.
Twelve months in San Jose.
Twelve months near… her.
The board had approved the expansion months ago—long before I’d ever heard Theresa Carideo’s name. The business case was solid: American biotech was exploding, and we needed a physical presence to capitalize on partnerships with institutions like Stanford, UC Berkeley, and the nexus of venture capital on Sand Hill Road.
The data had supported several locations. Palo Alto put us at Stanford’s doorstep. Berkeley offered its own world-class research facilities. But San Jose was the strategic center—the heart of Silicon Valley, a hub for top-tier engineering talent, and home to some of the best private schools in the state. The relocation agency had found a six-bedroom house in a quiet, gated community, ideal for a family that needed stability and privacy.
“Da.”
I turned to find Brody standing in the doorway, his seven-year-old face solemn as always.
“What is it, lad?”
“Mrs. Kowalski rang from California. She says the house is nearly ready.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “She wants to know whether we’re still departing on Saturday.”
“Aye, that’s the plan.” I ruffled his hair, and he immediately smoothed it back down. “Are ya excited?”
Brody considered this before he spoke. “I’ve made a schedule for when we arrive.”
Of course he had. The boy had been organizing things since before he could walk properly. When Shannon died, he’d made himself a schedule for crying—specific times during theday when he was permitted to be sad, everything else rigidly controlled. His therapist said it was how he managed the grief.
“That’s brilliant,” I told him, meaning it. “Perhaps you can help your brothers with their packing?”
“I tried.” His wee face screwed up in frustration. “Alec told me to bugger off. And the twins are just throwing everything everywhere.”
I bit back a smile at hearing my own words coming from his mouth. “I’ll have a word with them. Where’s Alec now?”
“In his room. He’s angry again.”
Again. It was my eldest son’s default state these days. Nine years old and carrying rage like a grown man. He’d taken Shannon’s death the hardest, and the announcement of our move to California had only made things worse.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll sort it.”
Brody nodded and disappeared down the hallway. I braced myself and went in search of Alec.
The castle had been in my family for generations, its stone walls holding centuries of McCrae history. I’d grown up here, and after Shannon and I married, we’d renovated the east wing into our family quarters. Six bedrooms, a playroom for the bairns, a family kitchen separate from the main kitchen that served events and guests. It was home.
And now we were leaving it.
I found Alec in his room, angrily shoving clothes into a suitcase with no regard for folding or order. At nine, he was already showing signs of the man he’d become—tall for his age, withShannon’s dark hair and my blue eyes, a combination that would be devastating to the lasses when he was older. If he ever stopped scowling long enough for them to notice.
“Need a hand there?” I asked from the doorway.
He didn’t look up. “No.”
I stepped into the room anyway, noting the books still on his shelves, the framed photos still on his wall—Shannon laughing on the moors, her hair whipped by the wind, the whole family at Christmas, moments frozen in time before everything went to hell. “You ken we’re leaving in three days, aye? Might want to pick up the pace a bit.”
“I know how to pack,” he muttered.
