Page 7 of A Trap So Flawless

Fists that have taken my consciousness, fists that have bruised me, made me bleed.

The fists that fucking made me.

I bend over the casket. His face looks fine – apart from the fact that he’s a goddamn dead man. But there’s no bruising, and not really any swelling that I can make out. He must not have been in the water for long.

I slide my free hand beneath his neck and lift his head. Ah. There it is. On the back of his head, there’s a wound clearly visible through his thinning hair. An angry gash that’s been sutured.

Fucking cowards. Putrid fucking scum. They hit him from behind.

Probably because everyone in this fucking city knows that nobody could take down Callum Gowan in a fair fucking fight. They’d be swallowing their own teeth before they even had a chance to raise their fist.

Or their crowbar.

Or their gun.

I’m going to find whoever did this even if I have to burn all of Dublin down to do it.

Fire rips through my head, followed by blood that does nothing to extinguish the flames. It’s carnage inside me. And behind it all, beyond the smell of doom and smoke…

It’s her. Still there. Even now.

The quiet clearing of a throat has me lowering my grandda’s head back down onto its silky pillow in the casket.

“I don’t want to disturb your time with him,” Murphy says.

“Then fucking don’t.”

His mouth thins. But he doesn’t back down or run away.

“We have some business to discuss. I wanted to find a quiet moment with you. The will.”

“What about the will?” I blink, and even that simple action scrapes.

I need a fucking drink. Or twenty.

“I’m his sole heir. What else is there to know?” I press, straightening up to face him fully instead of twisting to regard him from over my shoulder.

Murphy stiffens, then sighs, and I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say next.

“He changed his will not long before his death,” Murphy says evenly, emotionlessly, as if doing his best not to provoke a reaction. “You will only inherit his businesses, his house, and his wealth, if…”

“If?” I hiss, taking a warning stride towards him.

“If you do not marry.”

I feel Rowan tense nearby, though I don’t hear his swift intake of breath. I can only hear my own. My inhales are ragged, my heartbeat loud enough to bring the fucking roof down on all our heads.

“When?”

“A little over a fortnight ago.”

After I left Toronto for Halifax.

After I told him about the engagement.

And now he’s too fucking dead to take it back.

Flame and blood and rage. My bones are too big for my skin. My free hand rises practically of its own accord. Seizes Murphy by the throat. I drag him to me.

---