“That wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t plan for—”
Idly, I trace a finger over King John’s face on the banknote, waiting out Guthram’s panicked sputtering. When he finally dissolves into uncomfortable silence, I take the opportunity to skim my thumb over the money. Fifty-thousand quid. Guthram tracks the taunting caress like an addict.
He’s so transfixed, he notices too late that I’ve withdrawn a lighter from my trousers.
“Oi!” Hands up, palms facing me, he straightens in his chair. “Priest, let’s not be hasty now.”
I flick the spark and watch the flame flicker to life. It teases the crisp corner of the stack, turning the edges a murky brown.
“Jesus,” Guthram breathes, the flickering flame reflected in his pupils, “you’re absolutely mad.”
“You have two options.” Grabbing the chair beside me, I draw it backward. Its feet scrape the floor with a pained whine. The flame continues to dance, turning King John into bitter smoke. And when my ass hits the seat, it’s in sync with a squirming, desperate Guthram, whose frantic stare never leaves the burning money on his desk. On an apathetic murmur, I continue, “You’ll tell me everything you know or—”
“You can’t just be bursting in here and throwing out demands! I won’t stand for it.”
This negotiation is not his to control. And if he hasn’t yet realized that I don’t broker deals with traitorous bastards, then he will. Immediately.
“Take the money I’m offering, or you’ll find yourself so deep in the Thames, your body will never be recovered.”
The commissioner hisses through his teeth. “If my father found out that you’ve threatened me, he—”
“Your father has been locked in an asylum for the better part of a decade,” I finish, removing my thumb from the spark. The acrid scent of burning paper permeates the room. “And by your own doing.”
“Thanks to Holyrood, he lost his bloody mind.” His dark eyes flit to Hamish, as if looking for support. When the Scotsman merely plucks at his shirtsleeve, blatantly ignoring the commissioner, Guthram visibly steels his shoulders. “It was either an institution where he’d have some modicum of freedom or putting the man out of his damn misery.”
Liar.
My lips curve in a humorless smile. “We both know the only reason that your old man is still breathing is because you aren’t done collecting his pension.”
“That isn’t—”
“And I allow it to happen,” I cut in, speaking over him, “so long as you’re useful. So, let me repeat your choices, Commissioner. Tell me what you know or you’ll be taking a permanent dip in the Thames. What will it be?”
Defeat chases away the last strains of Guthram’s arrogance, as I knew it would, when he passes a trembling hand over his angel-white hair. “There were no survivors. No one made it to the hospital”—a small, monumental pause that drives me to the edge of my seat—“and no one lived long enough to give us your name.”
What?
If I killed everyone, then . . . “Who.”
It’s not a question.
“I wish we knew.” Tugging open a drawer, Guthram pulls out a folder and sets it on the desk. “See here.”
Photographs scatter, their glossy paper refracting the overhead light.
Not even the slight glare can hide the images for what they are: namely, me mowing down every loyalist at The Octagon. Picture after picture, death after death. And not just of me but of Isla, too. Her fight with Ian Coney for the knife. Her strangling him with her bare hands.
Every picture has been captured from a high vantage point.
The galleries.
Someone had watched the mayhem unfold from The Octagon’s second or third balconies.
Bloody fucking hell.
Over my shoulder, Hamish curses so loudly that I wouldn’t be surprised if the president of the United States heard him, too, clear across the Atlantic.
“You didn’t think to come to me with this?” Behind my rib cage, the organ that’s failed to beat for decades pounds frantically. Anxiety, Isla called it two days ago. I wouldn’t admit it then, not out loud, but Christ, I feel it now. Dread clogs every airway as I fight for oxygen. Nearly half the photographs have Isla in them, bloodied, struggling, her beautiful face contorted with fear.
Each one leaves me feeling more nauseated than the last.
And each one reminds me, once and for all, that I will always be a savage, coldhearted bastard.
“I’m going to bury them where they fucking stand.”
A thread of air rushes past Guthram’s lips. “We don’t know who it is.”
My gaze jerks north. “What did you say?”
Clearly aware that he’s treading a fine line, Guthram fingers the starched collar of his police uniform. “The photographs . . . They’re being sent anonymously.”
“Give me more than that, Commissioner, or I’ll bury you first.”
“They’ve arrived on our doorstep every morning for five days now,” he mutters hastily, flicking a finger toward the photographs. Copies of the originals, I’m sure. “No fingerprints. No notes. Whoever is sending them wants you behind bars, Priest, which means you really shouldn’t be here right now.”
Hamish drops his big body into the chair beside mine. “I find it unlikely that ye don’t have any real leads.”
“You think any of this looks good on me, MacDonald?” The commissioner steeples his fingers on the desk, pointedly angling his chin. Scorn practically seeps from his pores. “It makes me look inept. Five days and we’ve no more leads than we did that first morning. I have one bastard angling for my job and now the country’s most wanted criminal is seated across from me. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.”
“You could.”
Guthram’s shoulders twitch. “What the hell are you going on about, Priest?”
With one last glance at the photographs from The Octagon, I brush them out of the way. Focus, man.
I’ve done nothing else but lose my focus for the last forty-eight hours.
Six mealtimes of Isla refusing every tray of food I’ve brought to her cell. Two days without her taking even the smallest sip of water. She’s hurtling toward dehydration, if she isn’t there already. No matter how she gives me her back when I step before the cell, with her clearly determined to pretend that I don’t exist, there’s no denying the yellow pallor of her skin and the delicate blue veins which appear ever more visible.
If she dies . . .
Holyrood will celebrate a job well done. Queen Margaret will breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that her father’s killer has been stripped of this world. And I—I . . .
For the sake of self-preservation, I slam the door on that mental black hole and return to my mission.
Reaching down, I nab the straps of the duffel bag resting by my feet. It’s heavy. Weighted down with enough money to sway even the most faithful. It goes without saying that Marcus Guthram has not a sentimental, loyal bone in his body.
The bag lands with an audible thunk on the commissioner’s desk, who only blinks warily. “Jesus, man. Who are you wanting me to kill?”
“He’s already dead.”