Arthur had declared war. Now it was my turn to fight back.
Chapter
Nineteen
PATRICK
My body feltstuck somewhere between Scotland and California, my brain insisting it was still 3 a.m. even while the setting sun slipped across the windshield of the Lincoln Town Car taking me from the airport. The eight-hour time difference had turned my internal clock into modern art—meaningless and vaguely nauseating.
But I was home. Or what passed for home these days—the giant six-bedroom rental in San Jose.
I’d gotten enough sleep on the plane to function thanks to the lay-flat seats in first class, and the consortium meeting had gone well enough that adrenaline was doing the rest.
Malcolm Hendricks had grilled me for three hours about abandoning Scotland for “American ventures,” his words dripping with disdain. But in the end, the consortium agreed to maintain funding—provided I showed up for quarterly reviews in Edinburgh and kept the Glasgow facility fully staffed. I couldlive with that, even if it meant more transatlantic flights than I’d planned.
The car’s tires crunched on the gravel driveway. “The ride’s already on your account, Mr. McCrae,” the driver said.
I nodded, reaching into my wallet and slipped the man a tip. “Thanks for the ride.”
The driver’s shoulders eased, grateful. “Any time, sir.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s sensible Honda sat parked to the left, and beyond it was Martina’s beat-up Volvo. Martina—our new housekeeper, a cheerful Argentinian woman in her forties.
The house glowed from within; every window lit like we were hosting a party instead of attempting something resembling normal family life.
Inside, perfect order greeted me. The twins hunched over the dining table, pencils moving across homework sheets under Mrs. Kowalski’s supervision. Brody sat cross-legged on the stairs, arranging colored pencils by shade—some organizational system only he understood. From somewhere in the kitchen, Eoin’s voice recited multiplication tables in a sing-song rhythm that suggested bribery had been involved.
Everything ran like clockwork. Mrs. Kowalski saw to that.
And there, at the top of the stairs, stood Alec, already mastering the art of disappointed silence. He looked down at me with the same cool stare he’d given me when I’d left for Scotland.
“You’re back.” An observation delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone noting a parking ticket.
“I am.” I tried to inject some warmth into my voice. “The trip went well. The consortium?—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged one shoulder, dismissive. “You’ll leave again.”
Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, his bedroom door clicking shut in that careful way of his.
Every professional victory from the past week deflated in an instant. I’d saved jobs, secured MIRI’s future, convinced a room full of stubborn Scots that expanding to California wasn’t the enemy.
But I couldn’t get through to my son.
Mrs. Kowalski appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her sharp eyes taking in my slumped shoulders. “Welcome back, Mr. McCrae. There’s roast chicken in the oven if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you. I need to make a quick call first.”
She nodded, communicating volumes of judgment with that single gesture.
I left my suitcase at the foot of the stairs and escaped to my study, shutting the door behind me. The room looked exactly as I’d left it—desk buried under papers, books stacked on the floor in a system that made sense only to me, Shannon’s photo still facing the window where the morning light would hit it.
Martina had clearly been under strict orders not to tidy in here.
I dropped into the leather chair and reached for the phone. I’d memorized Theresa’s number after our second call.
Three rings. Four.
“Carideo residence.” A man’s voice. Michael, her brother.
