I almost smile at his sincerity. I know he means what he says. “Make her happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that, I back down the drive and hit the road. I watch Rosehill shrink in the rearview, until the huddled hills have hidden it from view.
* * *
She was a gardener.
Emma gardens.
I look down at her body, splayed almost elegantly on the bedroom floor in death. She was older, but still quite pretty, with long blonde curls and eyes like honey. Who wanted her dead, I wonder? I check my phone, where a bank balance update awaits. I lift my brows. Someone very wealthy, apparently. Who was she to them? A friend? A lover? Family?
It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.
I replace my gun in its holster, stepping over the woman’s body, careful to avoid the puddle of purple-red spreading from the back of her skull, across a very nice Persian rug. She didn’t deserve to die this way, whoever she was. But she didn’t see it coming, and the death was instant. A small mercy at a very high price point.
My phone vibrates as I make my way downstairs. Night presses against the windows, and I don’t turn on any lights as I pause in the kitchen. The number on my screen is marked as unknown—for a horrifying second, I wonder if it has to do with Emma. Fear lances through me. Is she OK? Did she run again? Is this the cops calling? A distant neighbor whose door Emma reached in panic?
“Hello?”
“Hey, little brother.”
Cold spills down my spine. I lean against the counter, where a half-glass of white wine sits forgotten. “What the fuck do you want, Clarence?”
“Easy, man! Jesus. You get so worked up these days. Back when we were younger, I swear, it was almost impossible to ruffle those feathers.”
I clench my fists. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to swing by the fresh crime scene. I always love that feeling, you know, walking through a newly-empty house, blood still wet on the floor…”
He says nothing for a moment, but this time I don’t play along.
“All right, all right,” Clarence laughs, “look, I’m out of office at the moment. But I thought I’d give you a heads-up—good old Sampson’s not doing so great. I heard he was coughing up blood and wound up in the hospital in Glasgow. I wanted to give you a chance to go say bye-bye, in case he’s, you know, on his way out.”
“Fuck you.” But my gut twists. Sampson can’t die—not yet. Not until I’ve secured an heir and his blessing. Not until I know he can die in peace, with me at the helm and my bloodline established. “You’re full of shit.”
“Yeah, say what you will, kid. Look, that’s not the only reason I called. I wanted to give you some peace of mind.”
What the hell is he talking about?Again, I bite back any response, forcing his hand.
“I’m over the channel at the moment. Gotta check on somefamilymatters, if you know what I mean. But things are looking good. So before you go off fucking any womb that walks, I thought I’d dissuade you. I’ll be succeeding Sammy soon. I know he hoped you’d get a girl knocked up, but let’s be real, Malcom. Sampson isn’t going to last nine months. Much less however long it takes you to rope some girl into bearing your mafia-hitman spawn.”
Rage boils through me, but I bite it back. I can’t give him the satisfaction. “He’ll never name you,” I say coolly, even though it’s untrue. It’s all I can manage without losing my composure.
“Hey, we’ll see, right? Anyway. Gotta run. Always such a pleasure catching up though, little brother. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up before he can utter another word. A lead for another job has popped up on my phone, and right now, I could use the distraction. Besides, I know I need to give Emma space. She can’t bear it when I’m at Rosehill with her. So I’ll stay away while I can. Even if it’s just a while longer.
Because we are running out of time. And I don’t know how much longer I—or Sampson—can afford to wait.
All I can hope is that she has a change of heart—and soon.
9
Emma
“Nice this time of year, aren’t they?” Callie gives me a surreptitious sideways smile—one I can’t believe I’m able to return. “These gardens were first planted by the lady of the house, centuries ago. Mr. Walker had them fixed right up when he took over. The rose roots were practically stone, but we got them back up. And now look. Amazing what can happen with just the right circumstances.”
