When Kings Rise : A Dark Irish Mafia Romance intensified by the presence of a cult. (The O'Sullivan

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE RED brICK building towers over us, its grandeur reminding me more of a castle than the coroner”s office. Despite its apparent age, I know it”s a fairly new construction. The sweeping driveway leading up to it is deserted except for us.

I adjust my stride to match Niamh”s erratic pacing. She bumps into me yet again, a little too hard this time, causing me to stumble slightly. I glance at her, puzzled by her inability to walk in a straight line despite being perfectly sober. This may be all too much for her, especially since Rian shared more information with us that he was holding onto.

The girl who was found on top of Andrew’s grave has brown curly hair. It’s such a small detail, but for both of us, it’s starting to paint a picture, especially since we have a photo of a missing girl who doesn’t appear to even be eighteen.

“Niamh, are you okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low despite the emptiness around us. It feels like the walls have ears, and the last thing we need is unwanted attention.

She gives me a tight-lipped smile, her eyes darting around nervously. “Just, I want this done and over with.”

I can”t help but agree. It was the mushroom pickers who had found the body. They told Rian the details of what they found, and we have one more final detail. She was wearing a tweed jacket on the twenty-second day of September.

As we reach the grand front door, Niamh straightens up. She rings the bell, and the sound echoes, seemingly swallowed by the building”s vast interior. Moments later, the door swings open to reveal a stern-faced woman in a coroner”s uniform.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone as cold as the air that flows out from the building. All the dead people are in there. I swallow, ready to speak, but Niamh seems to have found her nerve.

Niamh steps forward, and I admire her courage as she speaks. “Yes, we believe we may be related to a woman who was found on September 22nd. We were hoping to... to claim her, if possible.”

The woman”s expression softens slightly, but she maintains her professional demeanor. “I see. Do you have any proof of your relationship? Anything at all that can help us verify your claim?”

Niamh and I exchange a glance. This is the part we hadn”t fully prepared for.

“We... we have this,” I say, pulling out a photograph from my jacket pocket. My fingers are sweaty around the image. I find it hard to look at the young, smiling girl that Rian had somehow dug up from the internet.He must have spent hours comparing the small details he had gathered to find a girl who matched this description and who had been declared missing in this area on September 22nd.

The coroner studies the photograph, then us, her gaze lingering a little too long on our faces. “Do you have any ID?” She finally says.

Shit.Of course, she would ask for ID. I curse Rian for not thinking of this; I curse myself, too.

“We got here as quick as we could; I’m sorry, I don’t.” I hang my head and take a large lungful of air.

“She always wore her tweed jacket around this time of year. It was her favorite.” I hope sharing this knowledge will prove that we know her.

The assistant still watches me. I don’t know what she sees on our faces, but all of a sudden, she’s hesitant.

No.

Niamh chimes in, her voice stronger than I”ve heard it today. “We got a letter from her two years ago, but nothing since. We”ve been so worried. Please, we just need to know if that”s her.”

The assistant nods, seemingly swayed by Niamh. “Let me check the records for the clothing description.” She steps away, leaving us to wait at the reception desk.

The wait stretches out like a long, dark alleyway in front of us. Niamh doesn’t speak, and I don’t try to engage in conversation. If I do, I might end up convincing us to leave.

The assistant returns.

“Normally I need ID, but there”s something about your request... Follow me.”

As we step into the building, I can”t help but feel like we”ve just crossed an invisible threshold. The interior is just as imposing as the exterior, with high ceilings and long, echoing corridors. My heart races with a mixture of fear and anticipation. What are we about to discover? And more importantly, are we ready for the truth that awaits us?

The coroner”s assistant leads us down a long, sterile hallway, her steps echoing off the walls, adding a somber rhythm to our procession. The air is thick with a blend of disinfectant and something else, something I can’t pinpoint. Niamh”s hand brushes against mine. Her features are strained, and she does appear to be a grieving sister. I think she is imagining her own sister on a slab. I know they are close.

My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic drumbeat as we draw closer to the room, and the reality that I’m going to see a dead body that isn’t painted for the Gods or clothed for the living sets in. It will be raw, white, and appear very much dead.

We”re shown into a small, stark room. The assistant pauses at the door, her face unreadable. “I”ll need a moment to prepare,” she says before leaving us alone with our thoughts and our fears.

Niamh turns to me, her face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Do you think we”re doing the right thing?” She whispers, her voice barely carrying across the room.

I clutch the photograph tighter, the edges wrinkling under the pressure. I glance down at the picture. The girl has the kind of ordinary face that blends into the crowd.

“We”re too far in to doubt ourselves now,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “Remember, Megan ran away because of that boyfriend right before graduation. That”s our story.”

Niamh nods, biting her lip, the anxiety clear in her eyes. But there”s also resolve there, a determination that mirrors my own.

When the assistant returns, she doesn”t waste time on pleasantries. “Follow me,” is all she says, leading us to another room, this one with a somber purpose. The air is colder here, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.

She stops by a table that”s covered with a sheet, her expression softening just a tad. “We”re not allowed to do this usually, but something about your story...” She trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the cold air.

Niamh squeezes my hand, her presence a comforting anchor in the storm of my thoughts. I’m thinkingwe could just peek under the sheet and leave. I glance at Niamh, who’s watching the door.

I want to know what lies under that sheet, but it also terrifies me.

“The body... she was found wearing a tweed jacket,” she starts, and for a moment, the world seems to stop spinning.

The revelation hits us like a physical blow. As the assistant prepares to reveal the body, I brace myself, not just for the possibility of recognizing the girl from the photo but for the consequences of today.

The assistant, with a solemn nod, carefully pulls back the sheet. My heart races, but I force myself to look. Niamh, on the other hand, can”t bear it. She turns away instantly, burying her head in my shoulder. Her reaction, while genuine in its horror, fits perfectly with what the assistant would expect.

The girl on the table is indeed young, her features peaceful yet hauntingly still, marred only by the stark, unnatural bruising around her neck. The discoloration stands out, a silent testament to the struggle that marked her final moments. It”s jarring, and my calm fa?ade begins to crack under the weight of this visible violence.

“The coroner is ruling it as suicide,” the assistant says, her voice steady but lacking conviction.

I can”t help myself; my gaze flicks to the assistant, searching her face for any sign of doubt, and I find it. There”s a hesitation in her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty.

I need her to talk. We have come this far. “She would never have taken her life,” I say. My gaze wavers with guilt at seeing this girl’s body. A part of me knows we have no right to see her in such a state.

She hesitates, glancing at the door. “It”s just that... the bruising, the positioning. It doesn”t sit right with me,” she confesses in a hushed tone. “But I”m not the coroner. I just assist.”

“But you”ve seen things that don”t add up,” I press, my resolve hardening. “Things that might suggest... something else?”

She looks torn, caught between her professional duty and the truth she must suspect.“I can”t say for sure. There are just... doubts. The angle of the bruising, the lack of other injuries... It”s as if she was...,” she trails off, unable to finish the thought.

I nod, but Niamh squeezes my shoulder as if to tell me we have to go. The bruising around her neck speaks of a struggle.

The sheet is placed back over the girl, and the assistant steps away.

Niamh lifts her head from my shoulder, her eyes red but determined. “What do we do now?” She whispers, her voice barely audible.

“We find the truth,” I reply, my voice laced with a newfound determination. “For her and for all the Megans out there whose stories don”t end as neatly as they”re told.”

The assistant returns to us, chewing her lip. Lowering her voice to a whisper. “There was skin found beneath her fingernails,” she divulges, glancing nervously around as if the walls themselves might be listening. “The coroner tested it and claimed it matched her own DNA. Said it wasn”t from an assailant.”

I process her words, the implication sending a cold shiver down my spine. The absence of scratch marks on her body—it doesn”t add up. She hadn”t been clawing at herself in a frenzied attempt to escape some inner torment. No, she had been fighting for her life, grappling with a very real and external threat.

“She didn”t scratch herself,” I mutter, more to myself than to Niamh or the assistant. “She scratched the person who killed her.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, a vile truth hidden beneath layers of convenient lies.

Niamh”s grip on my arm tightens. A wave of nausea washes over me, the room spinning as the reality of what we”re suggesting settles in. I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit right there on the coroner”s pristine floor.

The assistant mistakes my physical reaction for emotional turmoil, which, in a way, isn”t entirely wrong. She quickly offers me a tissue, her eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and concern. “I”m sorry; this must be incredibly hard for you,” she says, her voice gentle.

Gathering my composure, I take the tissue, using it more as a prop to cover my moment of weakness. “I... I can”t be sure this is my sister,” I stammer, playing back into our narrative with a thread of truth.

The assistant nods, understanding—or believing she understands—our plight. “We have a composite sketch,” she offers. “An investigator tried to piece together what she might have looked like before... before she ended up here.”

She retrieves the sketch from a folder and hands it over. The drawing depicts a young woman, vibrant and full of life, a stark contrast to the cold, silent form on the table. It”s a glimpse into what could have been, a life cut tragically short.

Niamh and I lean in, studying the sketch. It”s generic enough to be anyone, and yet, in the lines and shadows, I see the faces of every missing person, every unsolved case.

“Thank you,” I say softly, handing back the sketch. “This... This helps, but I don’t think it’s our sister.”

As we put distance between ourselves and the building that now seems more like a facade for darker truths, the reality of our situation settles in. The coroner”s too-quick judgment and the ignored evidence, it all points to something sinister—a network of power and silence, possibly the mafia, a cult, or a terrifying mix of both.

“Are you okay?” I ask Niamh beside me.

“I can’t stop thinking…what if that was Ella.” Her lip wobbles.

I link my arm with hers. “It’s not.” I remind her.

She nods, but the heaviness in her gaze doesn’t lift.

I take out my cell and call Rian. I relay everything we have learned.

“What”s next is the most tedious job you”ll ever do: figuring out who that is in the sketch,” he says, a heavy sigh punctuating his words.

After ending the call, I turn to Niamh, who looks as if she”s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “All we have to do,” I begin, my voice steady despite the turmoil within, “is to steadily chip away at this case. We give Diarmuid no reason to suspect what we”ve been up to.”

Niamh nods, her eyes meeting mine with a renewed spark of determination. “One step at a time,” she agrees, a semblance of a plan forming between us. “We stay under the radar, gather what we can, and build our case. For her,” she adds, a vow to the girl in the sketch and all those like her who have been silenced too soon.