Page 32 of The Dark Before Light

I’m now fully awake. The urge to ask if Kieran’s okay is pressing, but I force myself into therapist mode. “What can I do for you, Sven?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “I couldn’t reach Alistair and frankly, I’m at the end of my rope. I’d take a bullet for Kier, but right now I want to strangle him. I need help.”

In the background, there’s another loud splash, followed by laughter.

“Where is he?”

“Home. With fifteen guests.” The slight emphasis on the last word tells me these people aren’t friends so much as co-signers on Kieran’s bad ideas.

I hang onto professionalism with both hands. “I’m Kieran’s therapist, not his babysitter. What are you asking me to do?”

“Nothing, Doctor.” His voice is too dry. “Just thought you should know he started drinking Wednesday when he got home from the appointment and hasn’t stopped since.”

My heart skips.

“Give me the address. I’m on my way.”

Sometime in the last four years, Kieran moved to Malibu. His home is a sprawling, single-story retreat on a bluff overlooking a private beach. Alan could probably tell me who the architect is. All I know is it’s lovely, quintessentially modern but still inviting, the grounds overflowing with palm trees and greenery.

When I pull up to the closed gate, I put my car in park and grab my phone to text Sven. I’m about to press Send on the message when there’s a knock on my window.

“Shit!”

Palm to my chest, I roll down the window.

“Thanks for coming,” Sven rumbles.

“Thanks for the heart attack.”

His lips twitch before he walks a few steps and punches a code into a keypad. The gate starts to slide open, and he returns to my window. “Everyone is gone, as per your request.”

It was closer to an ultimatum. “Where is he now?”

“In the pool last I saw. Gabe’s keeping an eye on him.”

“How drunk is he?”

Sven shrugs one massive shoulder. “He’s Irish.”

I choke on inane laughter. “Was that a joke?”

“Nope.” One of his eyelids flutters, and I’m almost positive it’s a wink.

“And his mental state? Angry, happy, sad?”

“Irish,” he says blandly.

He turns and walks ahead of me down the driveway. Torn between the urge to laugh and scream through my teeth, I put the car in gear and follow. I pull around the loop and park adjacent to a four-car garage, then join Sven at the front door. He opens it for me and stands aside.

Nerves tickle in my stomach. I’m on his turf now. My composure is a toddler’s paper mache project—sloppy patchwork over a balloon of anxiety.

Desperate for more time to pull myself together, I ask, “When do you guys sleep?”

“When we’re tired.”

“Do you live here?”

He nods. “Guesthouse. Are you done stalling, Doctor? Because we’re not getting any younger.”

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