Chapter 2
Kane Murphy
I flex my bruised knuckles as I follow my cousins through the cemetery gates, the metal creaking in protest like it knows we shouldn’t be here. The moon hangs high above us, casting long shadows across the headstones. Perfect grave-robbing weather, if there is such a thing.
“Keep it down,” I hissed as Rory tripped over a low grave marker. “You want the groundskeeper to hear us?”
“There is no groundskeeper, Kane,” Declan mutters, his flashlight beam sweeping across the family plot ahead. “Not at three in the morning.”
I snort. “Shows what you know. Old man Finnegan sleeps in that shed over there. Has for years.”
Declan stops abruptly and turns to face me. “And how exactly would you know that?”
I shrug, not wanting to admit I’ve spent more than a few nights passed out among these tombstones when I was too drunk to make it home. “I have my sources.”
Wren rolls her eyes, the shovel slung over her shoulder, catching the moonlight. Even in the darkness, I can see the distrust in her eyes when she looks at me. Can’t blame her after what happened at Connor’s swearing-in ceremony. That right hook from Declan still has my jaw aching.
“The MacGallan crypt is just ahead,” Kat says, pointing toward the stone structure looming against the starlit sky.
It’s an imposing sight—our family mausoleum, built by our great-grandfather when he first established the family business in Canada.
Impressive on the outside, but what matters is who’s supposed to be inside.
“I still think this is insane,” I mutter, but follow them anyway. I’m not sure why Declan insisted I come along. Probably wants to keep an eye on me, make sure I don’t run my mouth about what I saw at the docks that day.
Rory approaches the heavy iron door, pulling out a set of keys. “Good thing your dad always made sure we all had access,” he said, finding the right key and sliding it into the lock. “Family tradition.”
“Weird fucking tradition,” I say under my breath.
The door swings open with a groan that seems to echo across the entire cemetery.
Inside, the air is stale and cold, smelling of stone and something else—something old and undisturbed.
Declan’s flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating the stone floor and the plaques on the walls marking generations of MacGallans.
“Dad should be in the newest vault,” Kat says, her voice unusually small in the enclosed space. “Third from the right on the bottom row.”
We move deeper into the crypt, our footsteps echoing against stone. I’ve never liked this place. Too many dead MacGallans watching, judging. They never approved of my branch of the family when they were alive; I doubt death has improved their opinion.
Declan kneels before the marble plaque bearing his father’s name. ‘Tomas MacGallan, Beloved Father, Respected Leader,’ it reads, along with the dates of his birth and supposed death. “‘Beloved father, my fucking ass,’” he mutters sarcastically under his breath.
“You sure about this?” I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. “Even for our family, this is crossing a line.”
“Nobody asked you, Kane,” Rory snaps.
“Actually, you did,” I reminded him. “Declan practically dragged me here.”
“Because you know something,” Declan says without looking up, his fingers tracing the engraved letters of his father’s name. “And I want you close until I figure out exactly what that is.”
Wren steps forward, placing a hand on Declan’s shoulder. “We should do this quickly.”
He nods and stands, turning to Rory. “You know how these vaults work?”
Rory steps forward. “There’s a mechanism here,” he says, feeling along the edge of the marble. “It should release the—”
A click echoes through the crypt, and the front panel of the vault slides forward slightly. My stomach turns. I’ve done some shady shit in my time with the family business, but opening a coffin is a first.
“Help me,” Declan says, and Rory moves to the other side of the panel. Together, they pull it forward, revealing the dark cavity behind.
I expect the stench of death, but there’s nothing—just more stale air and stone dust. Declan shines his flashlight inside, and we all lean forward.
The coffin is there, polished mahogany just as I remember from the funeral. Declan’s hands shake slightly as he reaches for the lid.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as my knees start to shake. “We’re really doing this.”
“Shut up or help,” Wren says sharply.
I step forward and place my hands on the coffin lid beside Declan’s. Our eyes meet briefly, and I see something there I rarely witness in my cousin—fear.
“On three,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “One... two... three.”
We lift the lid together, the hinges protesting after months of silence. The flashlight beam illuminates the interior, and all five of us freeze.
The coffin is empty.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “He was telling the truth.”
Declan’s face has gone pale, his eyes fixed on the satin lining of the empty casket. “He’s not here.”
“That’s impossible,” Kat says, her voice rising. “We all saw him. At the funeral—”
“Was a closed casket,” Rory finishes. “Tomas insisted that in his Will.”
A cold feeling settles in my gut as the pieces start coming together—the meeting at the docks, the foreign man, my father’s hushed phone calls. Uncle Tomas wasn’t just paranoid—he was running from something. Someone.
“The letter,” Wren says. “Ireland. The lockbox.”
Declan straightens, a new determination hardening his features. “Pack your bags,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to Ireland.”
“All of us?” I ask, gesturing around the crypt.
Declan turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Especially you, Kane. You saw something that day at the docks. Something you’re still not telling us.”
I swallow hard. He’s right, of course. There’s more to what I witnessed—much more. The foreign man wasn’t just arguing with Uncle Tomas; he was threatening him. And the words I overheard weren’t just about being found.
They were about what would happen to the entire MacGallan family if Tomas didn’t return what he’d taken.
“Fine,” I say, meeting Declan’s stare. “But you’re not going to like what you find there.”
“Probably not,” he agrees. “But it’s time we learned what my father was hiding.”
As we close the empty coffin and seal the vault, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re opening something far worse than a grave. Uncle Tomas had secrets—dangerous ones—and now we’re all going to pay the price for them.
Walking out of the crypt into the cool night air, I look up at the stars and wonder if the old man is out there somewhere, watching us stumble into his mess. If he is, I hope he appreciates the irony: the black sheep of the family might be the only one who knows enough to save it.