Pleasant, urbane Michael is gone. The man standing in front of me is radiating malice and fury and he looks at me as if I’m a stranger.
A problem to handle.
“Hey, where is everyone?” The front door shuts as a voice calls out from the great room.
“Xenia, in here.” Michael says, barely raising his voice. But when the future Chieftain speaks, everyone hears him.
“Do you have all the electronics in one place?” she asks him, pulling her messenger bag off, not glancing in our direction. That feels like a punch to my chest. Xenia is a lot older than me, but we used to hang out as a big group: Maisie, her sister Catriona, and all the MacTavish girl cousins and in-laws. Xenia and I were particularly unskilled at karaoke, so we always sang together to double the audience’s suffering. Now, it’s like I’m not even in the room.
I understand. Of course, I do. It still hurts and I rub the heel of my hand over my breastbone.
“In the back room,” he says, “there’s two laptops as well as the desktop, an iPad and their phones.”
“On it,” she says, brushing past me without a glance.
“Ian.” Michael’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “In here, please.”
“Aye, boss?” Ian’s at the door, also not looking at Mom or me. It’s jolting, realizing how fast you can become invisible to the people you’ve known for a decade.
“Keep an eye on them,” Michael says. He’s checking his phone, his brows drawn together. He stalks outside to take the call and I can hear his voice through the open window.
“When did this happen?” You could catch frostbite, just from hearing his tone. “Handle damage control with the Inspectors, put in a call to Detective Wilson.”
“The both of ye, kindly sit down,” Ian says heavily. I wrap an arm around Mom’s waist, helping her across the kitchen and onto one of the mismatched chairs around the big farm table. The table and the room are really too large for just two people, though we were rarely alone here. If Maisie or some of my school friends weren’t gobbling down Mom’s apple crisp, there would be a couple of guards, wheedling for a tray of her muffins to take to the security center.
Ian’s been in this kitchen more times than I can count, now, he folds his arms, leaning against the sink.
There’s a crash from one of the back rooms and I jump half a foot. With a sinking heart, I realize it’s my bedroom. There’s nothing there, of course, but they’ll rip my room apart to check.
Mom’s weeping, a stream of silent tears coursing down her cheeks and I lean over to grab a dishtowel. Ian’s hand goes to his gun and I freeze. “I just wanted to get this,” I hold it up. “That’s all.”
“Dinnae move again,” he says, sliding his gun back in its holster.
The silence stretches on, I hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of furniture moving or something shattering.
I’m listening to the soundtrack of the end of life as we know it.
Everyone knows how traitors are handled in the MacTavish clan. For god’s sake, the Chieftain banished Catriona’s bodyguard Lucas to three years in Siberia just for sleeping with her. But for the suicidal fools who betray the clan? It’s death. Despite my best efforts, I’m trembling.
But… I’m supposed to go to law school in the fall.
My foolish brain has nothing more useful to offer than that.
Shame sweeps over me, like boiling water poured down my back. Everything they’ve done for us and Mom’s been selling information. That call Michael took, is that fallout from whatever she’d given this Robert guy?
An hour or two hours or a hundred hours later, Michael and his father walk back into the kitchen. I thought Mom had run out of tears to cry but a fresh round spills from her reddened eyes.
“Take them to my office,” the Chieftain says, looking down at his phone. Ian gestures impatiently and I help Mom up. Another guard, Gary, steps behind us, giving me a shove. There’s a breeze on my skin and suddenly, Gary is slammed up against the wall, Michael’s hand around his throat.
“Ye dinnae touch them,” Michael snaps. “Am I clear?”
“Yessir,” Gary croaks.
Is he saying that because he wants to do the damage himself?
Looking behind me as we’re led through the door, I can see Michael speaking to his father in low, urgent tones. He meets my gaze briefly before his eyes narrow and he turns his back to me.
There’s a tribunal of sorts already formed in the Chieftain’s office when we arrive. Mala is there, her expression is hard to read, but at least she looks at us. Cameron, the second incommand, is lounging on one of the leather couches in front of the fireplace. It’s late May, but Edinburgh is always chilly and there’s a fire going.
