The drive home was silent until they rounded the bend near the estate.
That’s when Cillian spotted it—the overturned car.
Or what was left of it.
The vehicle had been pulled from the road, now resting awkwardly on the gravel shoulder. Its windows were smashed in, windshield cracked like a spiderweb, and its undercarriage still bore the mud from the embankment.
Cillian slowed down as they approached.
“Shouldn’t we check it out?” he asked, voice low.
“You have enough on your plate and you want to take on more?” Kent muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Let the police handle what they’re paid for.”
But Cillian’s eyes lingered on the wreck as they passed. Something about it didn’t sit right—too neat, too conveniently out of the way.
Still, he said nothing.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, the night was deep and Sylvester was pacing out front, eyes darting like he’d been waiting for hours. His worry wasn’t the kind he wore often.
Cillian stepped out of the car.
“What now?
