Chapter 49
FIONA
Patrick and I stand on the sidewalk across the street from the hotel, gawking like all the people around us. Dozens of cops scurry between cars, some in uniform, others in suits. I quickly realize their attention isn’t on the front door of the hotel or the lobby. Instead, the police are focused on the side of the building.
Crime scene tape stretches across the entrance to an alley. A group of reporters has already gathered; they’re shouting questions from the sidewalk, but no one gives them any answers.
Patrick grabs my hand and leads the way across the street, taking advantage of the traffic jam to keep from getting killed. He shoulders a path to the front of the crowd, pulling me with him until we both peer down the alley.
Three overfilled dumpsters line a brick wall, huge and green and stinking in the August heat. A dozen cops cluster around the middle one .
Uncle Aran lies spread-eagle on top of a pile of black trash bags. The front of his shirt has been slashed, the white fabric now stiff with darkened blood. A pile of entrails spills over his belt, their scarlet mottled with black.
His hands stick out from the ends of his sleeves. They’re already swelling in the morning heat, but even from here, I can see that his fingers jut at impossible angles. His arms bend the wrong way, too. So do his legs.
There’s a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and a line of blood that runs into his tattered beard. A rat the size of a shoebox hangs out of his mouth.
A crime scene investigator approaches with a camera, and one of the cops moves to get out of her way. The policeman bangs his hip against the corner of the dumpster, and a cloud of flies swarms up from the pile of ruined meat that used to be my uncle.
I gasp, but the sound is drowned out by the frantic shouts of reporters. Patrick turns to me, his face a blank canvas.
I need to tell him I’m all right. I can manage this. This is what we planned for. This is the only logical end for a man who betrayed his family, his clan.
Before I can speak, though, my phone buzzes. It’s tucked inside my corset, where I’ve held it the entire night. I’m inclined to let the call go, but Patrick reaches inside his own pocket. He pulls out the burner he used to send the kill order.
He taps the screen on his phone as I reach for my own. It only takes a moment for me to see the messages, identical, from an unknown number.