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Delaney.
Cain’s voice returns in my head.
Delaney opened the door.
Is she dead?
No. But she’s taken care of.
I have no idea where Samson is.
Or what Cain has done.
Or what Father has ordered.
Or whether Delaney is alive.
I should go to my office. I should call Father. I should demand answers from Cain, though demanding anything from Cain is like throwing stones at a brick wall.
Instead, I walk straight out of Vexley House to the oversized garage and choose my burgundy Mustang. I don’t call my driver. Instead, I drive myself.
The road to Samson’s castle takes me out of the city. The farther I drive, the more the landscape opens. I enjoy fewer cars on the road. Such a difference from everyday New York City. Though we have thick woods behind Vexley house, out here, the trees are even thicker.
Probably why Samson loves the place so much.
The building appears. Brick walls. Narrow windows. All gated, of course. Once a private club that thrived during Prohibition, now it’s been renovated into Samson’s private retreat, though I do keep an office here. That was actually Samson’s idea. I never quite understood why.
Now, I’m beginning to.
The gate—marked with the familiar key motif—clicks open with my remote, and I park near the front entrance.
Usually a guard stands watch, but not today.
Strange.
Samson always has guards. Not because he needs them physically. But all the Vexley properties are guarded. Father’s orders, and I agree with him.
The air outside the car is cold and damp. Instead of going right in, I take out my phone and call Samson. It goes straight to voicemail.
Where the hell is he? He skipped the gala last night. I assume Father disinvited him. Maybe he’s traveling. I doubt it though. He usually checks in with me. He and I decided long ago to be accountable to each other regarding our whereabouts…mostly because neither of us wholly trusts our father or our younger brother. Or each other, for that matter, but there are degrees of distrust in this family, and he and I have always understood exactly where we stand.
I don’t leave a message. I slip the phone into my pocket, walk to the door, and enter the code.
“Samson,” I call as I step inside.
No answer.
The interior is colder than it should be. The heat is on, but low. The chandelier above the hall is unlit. Nothing looks obviously disturbed.
I move through the hall and scan every detail. A glass on a side table. Half full. No dust. No blood. A coat tossed over the back of a chair. Samson’s.
If Samson is gone, he left recently.
I turn down the corridor to check the locked door at the end of the hallway.
I walk, until—
What the fuck?
