"Shit, this your building?" he asks.
Well, this will be easy.
I nod.
My dad had me do the payroll runs from time to time. Said it was the most important job, since you looked every man in the face who was working for you.
This one's been on our payroll for years.
"Sorry, Mr. Killaney," he says, his tone apologetic. "You mind coming to the station for some questions? Just a formality so I can close this."
"Sure," I say. "My driver will follow you."
The detective nods and gestures to his partner. They get inside their sedan, and I turn back to my SUV.
As my driver pulls out onto the road, following the detectives, I look back at my destroyed building, trying to brush it off, like it is not the city leaving its mark on me, like this is not because I've been focusing so much on her.
Now a small part of me regrets not getting in that shower with her this morning when I heard the water running. I did not need to hurry here to see this shit, and she would have calmed me.
Fuck this Morrígan Order.
31
CALLUM
The gates swing open and my driver pulls through without stopping.
I'm finally home.
Three hours of sitting in that stale interrogation room, pretending to give a shit about their procedural bullshit while the detectives tried to bond and joke around with me.
Either way, paperwork says it was a homeless woman who trespassed and slept in my building. She tried to stay warm and started a fire by accident.
Whether that's true or not isn't my concern. It's enough to close the case, satisfy our insurance claims, and be done with it.
I get out of the car and make my way inside.
I walk through the front door and pause for a moment, not meaning to. I listen for her voice, but I don't hear it.
I walk through the main floor, checking the sitting room, the library, the living room. All empty.
The kitchen smells faintly of coffee, but the pot is clean. The counters are wiped, and there's no dishes in the sink.
My pulse kicks up a notch. It hasn't been like this since I unlocked her door. She's normally around someplace. As a matter of fact, she normally greets me, which is something I'm starting to like but haven't told her yet.
I pass by the small sitting room near the back where she sometimes curls up with a book. The chair is empty, with the blanket folded neatly over the arm.
My chest tightens in a way I do not like.
I head back toward the stairs, passing one of the housekeepers in the hall.
"You seen Zaria?" I ask.
She stops, clutching a stack of folded linens against her chest. "No, sir, not today."
I stare at her for a moment, waiting for more, hopeful she'll remember something, but she just blinks at me.
"You sure?"
