Chapter 4
Lucy
The police station smelled like burnt coffee, disinfectant, and sweat. I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, the air conditioner humming like it hated its job.
The police officer behind the desk barely looked up from her sandwich when I gave my name. She squinted at her monitor, made a face like she’d swallowed the wrong condiment, and told me to wait.
Five minutes later, I was ushered into a small, windowless room by two detectives who looked like they hadn’t chased anything but a buffet in years. Both wore short-sleeved shirts straining at the buttons and identical expressions of forced patience.
“Miss Kane,” the taller one said, his badge swinging lazily from his belt. “We understand you have... concerns.”
“Questions,” I corrected, taking the seat they didn’t offer but clearly expected me to sit in.
The second detective sank into the chair across from me with a wheeze. He glanced at a folder, probably empty, and said, “We already went over the facts. Your brother—”
“Was clean,” I cut in. “For three years. No slip-ups. He worked at a garage in town, went to his meetings, kept his nose clean.”
The tall detective folded his arms. “And yet, he was found dead with a bottle of Oxy next to him. No signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle. Toxicology confirms lethal dose. That’s a pretty standard OD.”
I pulled the printed report from my coat pocket and slid it across the table. “Except for the bruising. Ribs, arms, and marks on his wrists. Looks like a struggle to me.”
Their eyes narrowed. The tall detective glanced at the report, jaw tightening before he slid it aside. “That part doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
My stomach dropped. He’d seen the bruises and didn’t care, or maybe he cared too much, maybe enough to bury them. I knew my father had contacts in the police force, so maybe the Dead Knights did too.
“How’d you get this?” the short one asked, tapping the report with a podgy finger.
I said nothing.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch. “You know accessing this without permission could be considered a federal offence?”
I held his gaze. “Are you arresting me?”
More silence.
The tall one sighed, long and theatrical. “Look, I get it. It’s hard to lose someone, especially someone close. And especially if you thought they were doing better. But addicts relapse. That’s the nature of the beast.”
“I’m not saying he was a saint,” I said. “I’m saying this wasn’t a relapse.”
The short one chuckled under his breath. “You sure you’re not looking for someone to blame? People grieving do that. They rewrite the story so it hurts less.”
I stood. “You’re not listening.”
“No,” said the tall one. “You’re not accepting. It’s done. He’s gone. The report’s closed. We’re not reopening anything because a grieving sister watched a few too many crime documentaries.”
I stared at them. For a moment, I wanted to shout and scream, throw the chair across the room to watch them flinch. They weren’t incompetent. They were pretending, which was worse. At least incompetence could be fixed. Corruption ran deeper.
Instead, I reached down, picked up the report, and folded it neatly.
“I’ll take that.” The short one stood and held his hand out for my report.
I opened my mouth to argue, but my mind caught up first. If they arrested me for having it, I would be no help to anyone. I huffed out a sigh but handed it over.
They watched me like they expected me to cry. Grieving relatives didn’t dig. Grieving relatives didn’t fight. They went home. They cried. They fell apart quietly.
But I’d never done what I was supposed to.
“I appreciate your time,” I said, turning for the door, “but I’m not done yet.”
The short one muttered something under his breath, but I didn’t care enough to listen.
Because they were wrong.
I sat in the car drumming my fingers as irritation raced through me. Why was nobody listening? The whole thing screamed coverup.
Surely, my parents would listen to me now that I had the proof in the autopsy reports. I clicked on the indicator and pulled out into traffic, heading towards the house I said I’d never return to.
The house hadn’t changed—stone pillars, wrought-iron gates, and guards with earpieces pretending not to see me roll my eyes as they buzzed me through. Even the landscaping looked pruned within an inch of its life, perfectly controlled, like everything else inside.
I parked crooked on the driveway. Let them complain—I wasn’t planning on staying long.
The front doors opened before I even reached them. A housekeeper I didn’t recognize blinked at me, clearly unsure if she should welcome me or warn me off. I pushed past her before she could decide.
Voices floated from the sitting room, along with high-pitched laughter, the clink of crystal glasses, and the low hum of money being flaunted. My parents were entertaining. Of course, they were. It had only been a day since they’d buried their son, for fuck’s sake.
I didn’t bother being subtle. I walked straight through the marble foyer and into the lion’s den. Six people turned to look at me—men in suits, women with lips too tight to smile naturally, and in the middle of them, my parents.
My mother froze mid-pour, Champagne sloshing onto her guest’s manicured hand. My father raised one brow but didn’t stand.
“Lucy,” he said, like the name itself was an inconvenience. “I assumed you’d gone back to whatever dusty hole you live in.”
“I need to speak to you,” I said, holding up the printout. “Now.”
His nostrils flared, but he turned to the room and smiled. “Excuse us, friends. My daughter’s brought a scene with her. Best if we keep the family drama confined to the study, don’t you think?”
He led the way while my mother followed, eyes glassy and unbothered.
Two guards flanked the door as we entered the office, which looked more like the headquarters of a private empire than a workspace.
Dark mahogany, a globe bar, books no one read .
. . money, power, and control, all in perfect symmetry.
He sat behind the desk like a king on his throne.
I dropped the autopsy report on the polished wood between us. “There are things in there that don’t match up. Bruising. Ligature marks. That’s not an overdose, it’s a coverup.”
My mother frowned, but my father didn’t even blink. He steepled his fingers and looked at me like he was waiting for me to finish a tantrum.
“I need help,” I said, more quietly. “You have people, contacts. You can get the truth.”
“We already have the truth,” my father said flatly. “Caleb went back to his old ways, just like I warned he would.”
“He didn’t.”
“You think you knew him?” His voice sharpened. “He was a junkie with a patch and a record. He embarrassed this family long before he overdosed in that motel.”
I flinched but stayed rooted. “You think you’re so much better?”
“At least I never pretended to be something I’m not,” he said, leaning forward. “Neither of our children have ever shown an ounce of loyalty. You run off and become some glorified teacher’s assistant. He runs off and plays gangster biker until he gets himself killed.”
“You abandoned him,” I snapped. “He was seventeen when you kicked him out. What did you think would happen?”
He shrugged.
I looked between them, the bile rising in my throat. “I never ask you for anything. Never. But I’m asking now. Please. Help me with this. Just this once.”
For a second, I saw a flicker of something in my mother’s eyes. Not softness, but she’d looked away.
“No,” my father said simply, standing. “There’s nothing to help with. Go home, Lucy. You’re chasing ghosts. Leave the past where it belongs.”
They were already done with me. The door opened behind me, and without a word, I walked out. The guards didn’t even look at me as I passed.
By the time I got to the car, my hands were shaking. Not from sadness but from rage.
They’d made their choice, like they always had.
I sat in the driver’s seat, staring out through the windshield, watching the mansion shrink in the rearview mirror of my mind.
There was only one place left to go now.
The one place I’d been avoiding.
The Dead Knights clubhouse.
I hadn’t set foot near that world in years, but if I wanted answers, real ones, the kind the police wouldn’t give and my parents refused to see, I would have to walk in there and face their President and try not to get myself killed in the process.
I needed a plan.
I started the car to head back to the motel first then through the gates of hell itself.