1
CALLUM
The car rolls to a slow stop outside the hotel my mother is staying in, a five-star tower of glass that reflects a gray, warped version of the sky. I'm gripping my phone so tightly the muscles in my forearm are flexing.
The detective's voice on the other end is direct and irritated that I'm still asking questions.
"…as I said, Mr. Killaney, there's no evidence of homicidal action. The medical examiner?—"
"That's because you're not fucking looking hard enough," I say, lower than a growl. I don't shout. Shouting is what men without power do.
"Sir, I understand your grief, but?—"
I sit forward in my seat, watching rain streak across the tinted window. Berlin's skyline blurs into a gray smear of stone and steel, the kind of city that pretends sophistication while hiding rot beneath pressed suits and polite smiles.
"You don't understand anything about my grief. Or my father." My jaw locks. "He didn't just drop dead in his hospital room in a foreign country. Not with everything happening back home. Not with the threats my family has been under."
"Mr. Killaney, I understand your frustration, but there is no evidence of?—"
"There was a feather under his pillow." My voice stays low. "A black feather. Someone got into his room. Past your security. Past the nurses. And you're telling me he just stopped breathing?"
A pause. The kind that says he's already written his report.
"Your father was very ill, Mr. Killaney. The treatments were experimental. His heart was weak. These things can happen."
"These things don't happen with a fucking calling card left behind."
Silence stretches between us and I hear him exhale.
"I will review the file again, but I cannot promise a different outcome."
He doesn't get it. He doesn't know the full story, and somehow the Morrígan Order was able to kill my dad without revealing anything to the police.
So well, in fact, the Germans are dismissing the feather like it's decoration.
"We're done." I end the call before my hand goes through the phone.
He's gone, and I can't change that. My mother is upstairs in a suite she shouldn't be alone in, and a detective, who couldn't find his own spine, is telling me there was nothing suspicious.
What a shit show.
I step out of the car, muscles buzzing with the kind of anger that makes it hard to breathe. The cold seeps through my suit jacket as I walk toward the entrance. My men follow at a distance, two in front, two behind.
I walk through the revolving doors into the golden-lit lobby. It's got white marble floors, polished chrome, chandeliers dripping with crystal.
A concierge nods as I pass, but I don't stop. I know where I'm going.
My men and I step into the elevator, and I press the top floor. I watch the numbers climb, third floor, fourth, fifth, and think about the last time I saw my father alive.
My mother had FaceTimed me. He looked small in that hospital bed, tubes running into his arms, machines beeping, and his skin had gone the color of old paper, but his eyes were still sharp when he looked at me.
He felt better, but we still didn't know the outcome. He swore me not to tell Keira and Declan anything, so I kept our FaceTime calls a secret.
I just wish I hadn't. Given them a few more times to speak with him.
The elevator dings and the doors open.
Her suite is at the end of the hall, away from the noise.
