Chapter 8
Iris described him.
Older.
Gray at the temples.
Formal dinner jacket.
Scar on his left hand.
He entered through Scarlett’s balcony door ten minutes after Cassian left.
Scarlett had looked surprised.
They argued.
Iris heard one sentence before being discovered.
“If Cassian loses his nerve, you still finish the toast.”
Cassian stood.
“What man?”
Scarlett shook her head.
“I don’t know his name.”
I believed her.
That frightened me more.
A stranger knew the plan.
Knew Cassian’s role.
Had independent instructions for Scarlett.
Someone above the conspiracy—or outside it.
Iris added:
“He wore a white carnation.”
Rafe looked toward me.
Three guests had worn white carnations.
An old Westbrook anniversary tradition used by men who served my father.
I remembered each.
Thomas Reed.
Graham Cole.
And Silas Mercer.
All three in the west salon.
I brought them back separately.
Thomas had both hands unscarred.
Graham too.
Silas kept his left hand in his pocket.
There.
When he finally removed it, a pale burn scar crossed his palm.
I looked at Iris.
She nodded.
Silas smiled.
Not denial.
“Dorian.”
He had served my father for twenty-five years.
Retired when I became head.
Still invited to major dinners out of respect.
Apparently respect had become camouflage.
“What did you want Scarlett to finish?”
He looked at Cassian.
Then laughed.
“My God. You really thought this was your coup?”
Cassian went pale.
There it was.
Silas had used them both.
The altered drink.
Vaughn men.
Temporary command.
All distractions.
While every eye watched the east corridor, something else was supposed to happen elsewhere.
I asked:
“Where?”
Silas said nothing.
Rafe’s radio cracked.
A guard’s voice.
“Boss, we have movement in the north wing.”
My private wing.
Not money.
Not weapons.
My father’s sealed bedroom.
May you like
A room untouched since his death.
And suddenly I knew what Silas had actually come to steal.
