Chapter 30 Cillian
Cillian
Iwatch Sorcha chew mechanically on the crackers, her eyes distant. She’s running on fumes, and it shows in the way her shoulders slump, the way her hands shake slightly as she brings the water bottle to her lips again.
This whole situation is fucked. We’re hiding in a secret room between floors whilst a specialised taskforce hunts for her, all because someone decided to murder Smythe and frame her for it.
The timing is too perfect to be coincidental.
Someone knew about the marriage, knew about the inheritance, and decided to make their move.
I lean against the wall, my mind working through the possibilities.
Mickey Ryan is the executor, not the killer.
Emma claims she didn’t know Smythe was dead.
Alex is out there trying to fix this mess.
But someone orchestrated this perfectly—killed Smythe, summoned Sorcha to find the body, and tipped off the taskforce.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Sorcha says, glancing at me.
“Just trying to piece this together.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like any of the conclusions I’m reaching.” I push off from the wall and crouch in front of her. “Someone wanted you framed for Smythe’s murder specifically. Not just any murder—his murder.”
“Because of the inheritance,” Axl says, catching on.
“Right. If Sorcha’s arrested, charged, convicted—she can’t claim whatever this legacy is. Or at the very least, she’s tied up long enough for someone else to make a play for it.”
She shakes her head. “It makes no sense. Alex was adamant that no one knew about this thing. That the past Rhodes’ had wiped everyone off the board who knew.
This isn’t about the inheritance. It might not even be about me.
Think about it. I was called to the office.
Everyone heard it. Of course they were going to come for me.
Running was a mistake. It makes me look guilty. ” She stands up and heads for the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask, straightening up and following her in this cramped space.
“To turn myself in,” she says. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t do anything.”
“This time,” Ciar says. “You did kill O’Malley.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you idiots,” she growls and, well, she has us there. “I’m going out there, and you can’t stop me.”
“We aren’t stopping you,” I say. “We’re coming with you.”
“No, you will end up tangled in something that doesn’t involve you.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know what you meant,” I say, my voice low. “But you’re wrong. This involves all of us. Your fight is our fight. We’re not letting you walk into that alone.”
“He’s right,” Axl says, getting to his feet. “If you go, we go. They’ll have to arrest all of us.”
Sorcha looks between us, her expression a mix of frustration and relief. “You’re all insane.”
“Took you this long to figure that out?” Ciar rumbles from his chair.
She lets out a shaky breath, the fight draining out of her. “If you’re sure?”
“We’re sure,” I say. It’s a fucking stupid plan.
Walking out there and handing ourselves over is tactical suicide.
But it’s her plan, and there’s a look in her eyes, like she’s a cornered animal deciding to fight rather than run, that tells me there’s no talking her out of it.
Fucked if I’m going to try. She’s right. We can’t hide in here forever.
Axl moves to the panel and pushes it open.
The sliver of light from the hallway slices into our dim hiding spot, and the air from the house feels different, charged with threat.
Sorcha takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders.
She looks small, exhausted, but her jaw is set. She’s ready for whatever comes next.
I follow her out, Ciar and Axl right behind me. My hand instinctively goes to the knife at my back, the familiar weight of the handle a small comfort. We stand in the silent, empty hallway.
“Ready?” Sorcha asks, her voice a low murmur that doesn’t quite hide the tremor running through it.
I move to her side, my shoulder brushing hers.
“Always.” My gaze meets Axl’s over her head, then Ciar’s.
The understanding passes between us without a word.
No matter what happens when we walk out that front door, we protect her.
First and always. We descend the stairs together, each step a deliberate move towards a fight we might not win.
I listen for sirens, for the thud of boots on the outside, but there’s nothing. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
She reaches the front door and turns, her hand hovering over the handle. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see the vulnerability under the steel. I step up beside her, my hand covering hers on the cold brass.
“Together,” I murmur.
She nods, her fingers tightening under mine.
I pull the door open, bracing for the inevitable rush of the taskforce, the shouted commands, the cold steel of cuffs.
Except there is no task force, only one person, leaning against a black SUV as if he’s been waiting for us all morning.
My father.
“Get in,” he says, and without waiting for a word, he opens the car door and slides behind the steering wheel.
The four of us exchange glances, but at my nod, we lunge forward, practically yanking the doors off the hinges as we cram into the SUV. I’m in the passenger seat, the other three in the back.
Dad fires up the engine and peels out of the driveway like his arse is on fire. He doesn’t stop, simply goes into escape mode without a word.
As we hit the road that takes us into Dublin, he finally slows down and speaks. “Well, this was a shitshow.”
“You don’t say,” I mutter. “Alex called you?”
“Yeah. He’s working on it, but the four of you hanging around on your own without supervision is clearly… bad.” He glances at Sorcha in the rearview mirror.
“We were handling it,” she grits out. “Sir.”
“Call me Darragh,” he says. “Handling it how? By turning yourself in?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“We know,” he says, and I raise an eyebrow at the look he gives me.
It’s not good. “This taskforce wasn’t local.
They’re from Dublin. Organised Crime Unit.
Someone with serious juice called them in.
You running made you look guilty as sin.
Turning yourself in would have been signing your own death warrant.
Smythe was a snivelling little weasel, but he came from a powerful family. ”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is this about Smythe or Sorcha?”
“Smythe,” he says, surprising me. “Sorcha has been swept up in it because she was there.”
“Great,” she snaps. “Are you saying I wasn’t set up?”
“We don’t think so.”
“We?”
He ignores her question. “We believe that Smythe wanted to see you. Emma Ryan called you to his office as per the instructions she was left. You just happened to arrive and be the first to find Smythe. You didn’t report it.”
“Obviously,” I snap. “We thought it had something to do with this stupid fucking executor.”
Dad frowns and raises an eyebrow at me now. “Meaning?”
I turn to face him in surprise. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” he snaps.
“Nothing,” I say. “Forget it.”
“No, he needs to know,” Sorcha says and launches into the abridged version while I glower at her. It’s not that I don’t trust my dad, but the fewer people who know about this inheritance crap, the better.
When she finishes, Dad is silent for a full minute, his gaze fixed on the road, his hands tight on the steering wheel.
He doesn’t scoff. He doesn’t question it.
He processes it, the cogs turning behind his eyes in a way I know all too well.
It’s the look he gets before he burns down a rival’s empire. “I don’t think these are connected.”
“Are you sure about that?” Ciar pipes up from the back.
“We aren’t sure about anything right now,” Sorcha sighs and slumps between him and Axl.
“Explain,” I say.
He sighs. “This doesn’t leave this vehicle on pain of death. Smythe was a rat. He was feeding information to the OCU for a reduced sentence on some major embezzlement charges that he was filtering through St. Bart’s. Someone in his own circle found out and shut him up permanently.”
The car is silent except for the hum of the engine. Smythe wasn’t just a corrupt prick; he was an informant. It changes the entire game.
“So, the taskforce... they weren’t there because he was killed?” Sorcha asks from the back.
“They were there to arrest him,” Dad says. “Some of his intel went south, and it broke their agreement.”
“And instead, they found him dead,” I say. “Any idea who took him out?”
“Not yet.”
“So, this is all one big coincidence? Seems a bit too convenient. What did Smythe want to say to Sorcha?”
“Guess we’ll never know.”
I sit back in my seat and rethink everything we’ve learned. It’s plausible, but I don’t like coincidences. “Where are we going?”
“For a drive,” he replies.
“So we could talk?”
He nods once.
“You think the townhouse is wired?”
“Maybe.”
“Do the OCU think Sorcha killed Smythe?”
“Not exactly. They do want to know why she was in there and didn’t tell anyone. Looks a bit suspicious.”
“A bit?” she scoffs. “Am I safe?”
“For now. Unless you did kill Smythe? They will find out.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she grits out.
“This is about university politics,” I mutter, more to myself. “If Smythe was using St. Bart’s to embezzle funds, maybe even using St. Bart’s allocated funds, there would be a very angry board wanting an explanation and his resignation.”
“Permanent resignation,” Dad says.
“Then maybe this isn’t about whoever he was ratting out but the board wanting him gone.”
“Bit of a gruesome way to get rid of him.”
“True, but it makes a point to whoever takes his place.”
“Was it Mickey Ryan?” Sorcha asks. “We know he was around this morning. We know this is what he does. Executor or not, he still has a job to do.”
“Makes sense,” I agree. “But we can’t point the finger at Ryan. He is like Teflon.”
“Nothing sticks,” Dad says.
“But Sorcha is safe?” Ciar asks again.
Dad glances at her in the rearview mirror again. “The OCU will be a pain in the arse, but Alex is handling them. They’ll have to go through proper channels, which gives us time. As for Smythe’s killer... Sorcha finding the body makes her a witness. A loose end. And they don’t like loose ends.”
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, turning to face him fully.
“You go back to St. Bart’s, and you find whatever this thing is that Ardal Gannon left.”
“Go back?” Ciar asks.
I notice that Axl is being very quiet. He is thinking, observing, taking it all in.
“Go back. You have nothing to hide, right? Sorcha was traumatised, in shock and ran with the intention to call the authorities, but they were already there when you got it together enough after seeing such a horrific sight. Right?” His last word is a growl.
“Right,” Sorcha says, her face portraying her desire not to piss off my dad by disagreeing.
Dad drives in silence for another few minutes, circling the city and heading back towards the sprawling gothic nightmare we call a college.
“Alex will handle the OCU,” he says. “Your job is to act normal. Go to class and find what’s under that chapel. The sooner you do, the sooner we know what we’re dealing with.”
“And if we can’t find it?” Axl finally speaks, his voice even. “It’s been hidden for centuries for a reason.”
“Then you dig until you do,” Dad says. “This isn’t just about some old family pact anymore.
Smythe’s death has stirred up a hornet’s nest. The board, the families connected to this place are all watching.
Whoever killed him made a statement, and you can bet your last cent that whoever takes Smythe’s place is not going to be as pleasant. ”
“Pleasant,” Sorcha snorts.
Dad meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Pleasant.”
“Fuck,” she mutters.
He pulls over a few streets away from the main entrance, the engine idling. “Get out. Walk back. Try not to look so fucking suspicious, will you?”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, shoving the door open. The cold air is a welcome slap of reality. One by one, we pile out onto the pavement.
Before he can drive off, Dad leans across the passenger seat. “Sorcha,” he calls out, his eyes like chips of blue ice. “Try not to find any more dead bodies.”
With that parting shot, he pulls away from the kerb, leaving us standing in the grey afternoon like four spare parts.
“Well,” Axl says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That was illuminating.”
“You don’t say,” I growl and take Sorcha’s hand, leading her back towards the campus.
“What the hell are we supposed to do now?” she asks.
“We walk back and try not to look so fucking suspicious.”