As we get close, I see the door to my mother's suite is cracked open.
She's never careless like that.
I push it open fully and step inside.
The suite looks pristine and untouched. My mother sits on the edge of the bed with a small duffel at her feet, hands trembling around a silk scarf that she keeps folding and unfolding.
I look at her, and she just looks wrong. That's the only word for it. May Killaney has spent her entire life armored in composure, in an elegance that made grown men straighten their ties before speaking to her. Even when Keira would cry, screaming and red-faced, or when Declan broke his arm at nine, and when I cut my hand and bled all over the kitchen floor when I was fourteen, she never broke. She always kept it together.
But now her eyes are red-rimmed. Her hair, usually pinned back, hangs loose around her shoulders, and she looks more human than I've ever seen her.
"Callum," she says, her voice hoarse. "They called from the lobby. Said you were coming up."
She doesn't stand to hug me, and I don't try to hug her. We're not that kind of family. But she reaches for my hand and squeezes it once.
My mother, the warrior. She's buried siblings, cousins, men of our bloodline who died in a life they chose. She doesn't break easily. But today's a different story, and I suppose it should be. My parents married young, and my dad started courting her when they were even younger.
"They won't listen," she says, her voice cracking. "I told them. I told them someone must have come in."
"I know, Mom."
"I mean," she stops and fumbles with the scarf, "I was with him that whole day. He was better. Sitting up. We talked about coming home. He asked about you, about Declan and Keira. He was tired, but he was there, Callum. He wasn't dying."
I crouch down in front of her, eye level. "I believe you," I say, looking into her eyes. "Finish packing. We're leaving soon. I'm going downstairs to call Keira and Declan, let them know I'm with you now."
"Yes, but they won't release the body yet. There's paperwork, an autopsy?—"
"I'll handle it," I say, standing. "You're with me now. Our men will stay here with you. I'll be right back."
"Good," she says. "I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."
I nod. "Give me ten minutes."
I leave her in the suite and head back to the lobby. I don't want her to hear me talking about him.
As I take the elevator back down, I can't shake how my ribs feel tight, like someone's wrapped wire around my chest and keeps twisting.
I step out into the lobby, and it's a bit quieter now. A couple checks in at the desk, their German crisp. A bellhop wheels luggage past. The rain has slowed outside, and the sun is trying to peek through.
I dial Declan.
He answers on the second ring. "You there?"
"Yeah. I'm with her," I say and lean against a marble column. "She's not good."
"Fuck." A pause. Static crackles. "Keira's here. You're on speaker."
"Cal?" Keira's voice cuts through, full of worry. "How not good?"
"Shaken. More than I've ever seen." I glance toward the elevators, make sure no one's close enough to hear. "And the German police aren't helping. They're dismissing everything. No forced entry. No signs of tampering. They're calling it a heart attack despite Mom insisting he was healthy yesterday."
"What about the feather?" Declan asks.
"Yeah. They claimed it was from the pillowcase and not significant. I asked him how often black feathers fall out of pillows at the hospital, and he just said, 'It happens.' Motherfucker," I mumble, shaking my head.
"You think they're covering it up?" Keira asks.
"That, or they simply don't care." I watch a woman in a fur coat glide past, her heels clicking against marble. "Either way, we know what it means."
