Chapter 27 #2
“Here,” he says, adjusting my arm a fraction of an inch. “It’s all about the trajectory. Relax your shoulder.”
The gentle correction surprises me, given his fearsome reputation. There’s something almost paternal in his guidance.
A low sound, somewhere between a cough and a growl, rumbles from Calloway’s direction.
Thorne doesn’t look away from me, but a ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Something to add, Calloway?
“Just admiring your… hands-on approach to coaching,” Calloway says, his voice dangerously light. “Didn’t realize it was part of the initiation.”
I release the ball, watching it barrel down the lane. The crack of bone echoes in the chamber as nine femurs fly.
“Yes!” I pump my fist, turning to find all three men watching me.
“One more for the spare,” Thorne says, with an undeniable warmth in his voice.
I select my final head. Before I throw, I glance back at Calloway. He gives me a slow, encouraging nod. The ball rolls true, knocking down the last, solitary bone with a satisfying thwack.
“Not bad for your first time playing with heads,” Thorne says. “You’re a natural, Kline.”
“Better than Xander’s first game,” Calloway adds. “He went pale and refused to touch the balls at all.”
“I could see the eyeballs,” Xander defends himself, shuddering at the memory. “You know how I feel about eyeballs.”
“We should celebrate,” Calloway says, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. “Jiya did well for her first head-bowling experience.”
“There’s champagne upstairs,” Thorne offers, setting the balls back in their rack. “French, of course.”
I laugh, a real, unforced sound. I’m standing in a room with three killers and a rack of human heads, and for the first time since my world fell apart, I feel…seen. Understood. Safe.
“Lead the way,” I say to Thorne.
He gives a curt nod, and we move toward the exit, a strange, newly-formed unit. Just as his hand reaches for the door panel, a low, insistent chime echoes through the facility.
It’s not a loud alarm, but the effect is instantaneous. Everyone freezes. The warmth of the moment evaporates, replaced by a sudden, diamond-hard tension.
“Perimeter alert,” Thorne says, his voice stripped of all pleasantry, becoming cold and commanding.
Xander pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. “Front gate,” he reports, his voice clipped and professional. “Single vehicle approaching. BPD standard-issue cruiser.” He turns the tablet, the screen glowing in the dim light. “Ah, hell.”
The image on the screen shows a police cruiser pulling up to the imposing iron gates.
“Ramirez,” I breathe, recognizing the detective who questioned me at Penumbra.
“You know her?” Thorne’s eyes narrow, fixing on me.
“She was at my bar, asking questions about men who’d disappeared.”
Calloway steps forward. “She’s the lead detective on The Gallery Killer case.”
“Perhaps she’s here about Marcel,” I say.
“Impossible,” Thorne dismisses. “There’s no connection between Marcel and this property.”
“There’s no link between this property and any of those cases,” Xander says, his eyes glued to the tablet.
My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Xander’s fingers run across his phone screen. “Running her through the system. Detective Sofia Ramirez, Boston PD, Homicide Division. Decorated. Clean record. Sixteen years on the force.”
“Did she follow you?” Thorne’s gaze bores into Xander.
“Negative,” Xander replies, his voice clipped and certain. “I ran a full counter-surveillance sweep. We were clean.”
“Then we have a problem,” Thorne says, watching as Ramirez approaches the front door on the security feed. “Because Detective Ramirez doesn’t strike me as the type to make social calls.”
The intercom on the wall emits a sharp, electronic buzz, making us all flinch.
“We need to get upstairs,” Thorne says, jabbing the elevator button. “Now. And act natural.”
The bowling alley disappears from view as the elevator rises upward. The doors open onto the opulent, silent main floor.
“Natural?” I hiss as the elevator doors slide open. “We were just bowling with human heads! What if she finds them?”
“She won’t,” Thorne says, pulling a small, black key from his pocket and inserting it into a slot on the elevator panel. A soft beep confirms the command. “Emergency protocol engaged. Level B3 is now scrubbed from the system.”
“Xander’s is the only vehicle in the drive,” Thorne says, his voice a low, controlled murmur as he straightens his already immaculate shirt cuffs. “She has no reason to suspect anyone else is here.”
“What if she does?”
“We’ll deal with it.” Thorne’s expression hardens into something that reminds me of why he leads a society of killers. “Calloway, get yourself and her out of sight. Xander, you’re with me.”
Calloway’s hand finds mine, his grip firm, pulling me toward a darkened corridor before I can protest. “Guest wing,” he whispers, his voice urgent. “This way. Now.”
A musical chime pierces the silence of the mansion. It’s an elegant, melodic sound that is somehow more insistent than a buzzer.
A silent, shared signal passes between the men.
Xander pulls out a thin tablet, his thumb a blur across the screen before he presses it into Calloway’s hand.
“Live feed,” Xander whispers. “You’ll want to see this.”
“Go,” Thorne mouths at us, his face a mask of aristocratic calm.
Calloway grabs my arm, pulling me through a side door and into the deep shadows of a library. The air is thick with the scent of old leather and secrets. He positions us in the cramped space behind a massive, floor-to-ceiling bookcase, angling the tablet so we can both see.
The screen shows a crystal-clear, wide-angle view of the foyer.
Thorne stands near the grand staircase, the picture of a man interrupted.
Xander moves to the front door. I lean closer to Calloway, our shoulders pressed together, the tension a living thing between us.
The audio from the tablet is a crisp, clear whisper.
The heavy front door swings open.
Sofia Ramirez steps into the frame, a compact, coiled spring of authority.
Her dark hair is pulled back, her practical pantsuit immaculate.
She looks like she hasn’t slept, and it only makes her seem more dangerous.
Without preamble, she holds up her badge, the gold shield catching the light from Thorne’s crystal chandelier.
“Detective Ramirez, Boston PD,” she announces, her voice carrying the weight of official business.
“To what do I owe this unexpected, and rather early, visit?” Thorne’s voice responds.
“Mr. Ravencroft,” she says. “My apologies for the hour. Some things can’t wait.”
Thorne gestures her in, a perfect host. “Please. Though I must admit, my curiosity is piqued.”
Ramirez’s eyes sweep the foyer, missing nothing. They land on Xander. “And you are?”
“Xander Rhodes. Security consultant,” Xander says, his voice flat and professional as he presents his credentials. “Mr. Ravencroft engaged me regarding a perimeter breach.”
Sofia Ramirez examines his ID, her expression revealing nothing. “At this hour?”
“I value my privacy, Detective,” Thorne says. “When my perimeter flagged an anomaly, I called Mr. Rhodes.”
“I’m not here about your alarm, Mr. Ravencroft,” she says, dismissing the explanation.
“Then why are you here, Detective?” Thorne asks, his tone balanced between curiosity and annoyance.
“Marcel Durand,” she says, watching Thorne’s face.
My stomach drops. Next to me, Calloway goes completely still.
Thorne raises an eyebrow. “The name is familiar. What about him?”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure in several months. Perhaps at the Willoughby Foundation gala in the spring?”
Ramirez pulls out her notebook, flipping through pages. “His calendar had an appointment noted for last night. Eight PM. At the Beacon Hill Gentleman’s Club. With ‘TR.’”
I bite my lip to keep from gasping. Marcel won’t make his appointments.
“A club with hundreds of members, Detective,” Thorne says, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I am their host, not their keeper. And I certainly don’t have a monopoly on those initials.”
“True,” Ramirez concedes. “But Mr. Durand is now a missing person. His phone is off. His credit cards are dark. He’s vanished.”
“Unfortunate,” Thorne says. “But I fail to see the connection to me.”
Ramirez takes a step closer. “The connection, Mr. Ravencroft, is that two other men have vanished in the last year. Both were members of your club. Both are now presumed dead.”
Thorne’s expression remains one of polite interest. “From my club, Detective? Did they vanish from the premises?”
A muscle in Ramirez’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. “No. They did not.”
“Then I’m afraid I still fail to see the connection,” Thorne says, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness that is anything but.
“And you?” The detective’s attention snaps to Xander. “Do you know anything about this?”
“First I’ve heard the name,” Xander says with a practiced shrug.
“What about Calloway Frost?”
The name hangs in the air. Beside me, Calloway freezes.
“Frost?” Thorne says, his voice betraying nothing. “He’s a brilliant photographer. I own several of his pieces.”
“And his whereabouts last night?” Sofia presses.
“I couldn’t possibly know,” Thorne responds. “We’re acquaintances, not confidantes.”
Ramirez lets the silence stretch for a beat, her gaze unwavering. “Interesting. Because we traced Mr. Frost’s phone. It pinged off a cell tower less than a mile from this estate. About an hour ago.”