And my father? He’d be disappointed that Callum and I aren’t fighting harder to honor the legacy he built. But that’s easier said than done when you have no money and have been shunned from society.
Though not many, we still have a few strategic people on our side, which is how we can maintain this house, but we are light-years away from what we were when my father was alive.
I park beside Callum’s beaten-up black Land Rover and kill the engine. Gathering up my dress and heels, I climb out of the car and head across the stone path toward the front door, which still bears the ornate McCarthy crest in the stained glass.
My father had it made years ago, when our family was considered untouchable.
I took pride in looking at it every day when I came home from school, but as I look at it now, it just feels like it’s trying to mock me.
Inside, the mansion is cold and quiet. A few light bulbs are out, leaving some of the hallway in darkness. The Persian rug covering most of the foyer is dulled and worn down at theedges, and even Mom’s grand piano is sitting in the corner under the stairs, covered in a layer of dust.
I head upstairs, peeling off my earrings as I go and dropping them into my clutch. My room is the only space in this house that still feels untouched by my past, and I want nothing more than to lock myself inside for the rest of the day, or week. Or hell, even the entire damn year.
The door creaks open, and I shut it quickly behind me so I don’t wake Callum.
Something about being in this room is bittersweet. It’s a mixture of a time capsule of who I used to be and who I’m trying to become.
When I turned thirteen, my mother had the entire room redecorated in a more grown-up style, bringing in an antique four-poster bed and dark mauve curtains, as well as a vanity table to match—though the mirror is cracked now, and the jewelry boxes are nearly empty because I sold most of it.
Even my walk-in closet is nothing more than storage for old college papers and textbooks since I had to sell most of my designer stuff to pay for them.
I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, tracing the details of the crown molding with my eyes. My body is exhausted, but my mind is running on pure adrenaline.
Seamus Sullivan was shot.
The thought is surreal. The fact that someone so powerful was taken out in an instant is terrifying in theory, but I can’t seem to feel anything. Not even relief, considering what his family did to mine.
Instead, all I feel is numb, which feels like yet another betrayal of my name.
Seamus orchestrated the fall of my father, and whether or not he pulled the trigger himself, the blood was on his hands.
And now it seems that someone wants to give the Sullivans a taste of their own medicine.
I should be happy. I should want to add whoever did this to my Christmas card list, so why don’t I feel like celebrating?
I roll onto my side and stare at the photo on my nightstand. It’s an old picture of my dad and me standing on the front steps of the house back when the gardens were pristine and the house wasn’t covered in ivy.
I must have been around ten, with a huge toothy grin on my face and my hair pulled back into a tight braid. My father is smiling, his hand on my shoulder and such pride in his eyes that my own sting with tears.
Would he wear that expression now if he was still alive?
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts, and I sit up.
“Hey, sis,,” Callum’s voice calls from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
He steps inside, wearing his usual black hoodie and jeans, his shaggy hair unkempt and falling into his eyes. Sometimes, I forget he’s only twenty-six because of how worn down and tired he looks, just like everything else in this house.
I grab a blanket off the end of the bed and drape it over my knees. “Is this about last night?”
He nods before closing the door behind him, crossing to the bed, and perching on the end.
“I wasn’t the one who shot him if that’s what you’re thinking.” I fiddle with the blanket.
“I’m not.”
“And I didn’t see who did it either.”
