Chapter 5

The church bells tolled like hollow echoes, each strike pulling me further into the pit inside my chest. I stood at the edge of the grave, black suit sharp as always, sunglasses hiding more than just tired eyes. People whispered behind me. Pity, shock, curiosity—they all sounded the same.

Let them whisper. I’d always been good at giving them something to talk about.

“Your father lived well,” the priest intoned.

And died badly, I thought, lips quirking upward in a smile that felt paper-thin. My grip tightened around the single white rose in my hand. The police had called it suicide. But even now, standing over the coffin, watching dirt being shoveled in, it rang false in my head. My father hadn’t been a saint, but he hadn’t been a coward either.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Kieran leaning against a tree. The vampire didn’t bother pretending to blend in. Blond hair catching the sun, green eyes half-lidded as if the whole affair was beneath him, hands tucked lazily in his coat pockets. He looked like he was watching a performance he wasn’t particularly invested in.

I almost laughed. Of all the guards Perth could’ve sent, I got this one—the bored angel who looked like he’d rather nap through the apocalypse.

When the service ended, mourners came up, one by one, to murmur condolences. I gave them what they wanted: a charming smile, a quip to break the tension, a warmth that cost me more than anyone realized. I’d always known how to perform.

But then a man I didn’t recognize approached. Middle-aged, sharp suit, thin smile. “My condolences, Mr. Griffin,” he said softly. “Your father was… a man of many dealings. I only hope you’ll be able to… manage what he left behind.”

Something about his tone made my stomach tighten. He didn’t wait for an answer. Just patted my shoulder, then melted back into the dispersing crowd.

I stared after him, frowning. “The hell was that?” I muttered.

“You attract strange company,” Kieran’s voice drawled beside me.

I nearly jumped—I hadn’t heard him move. “You like sneaking up on grieving men? Or is it just me you enjoy tormenting?”

“Both.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “You’re a terrible babysitter, you know. I could’ve run away three times today and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I would’ve noticed.” His gaze swept lazily over the cemetery, though I didn’t miss how sharp his eyes actually were. “I just wouldn’t have chased. Someone else would’ve done the dirty work.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

His smirk was faint, crooked. “Not my problem how you feel.”

I turned away, annoyed. The rose slipped from my fingers into the soil. I watched it sink halfway into the dirt, stark white against brown earth. My throat ached. The stupid sunglasses suddenly felt like they weighed a hundred pounds.

“Hey,” Kieran said quietly.

I blinked. His tone had shifted—hesitant, awkward, like he was speaking a language he wasn’t used to.

“You don’t… always have to act tough,” he said finally, the words blunt and uneven.

I froze, thrown off balance. My chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, my eyes stung. One tear slipped down my cheek, then another, before I could turn away.

Kieran reached into his coat and, almost reluctantly, pulled out a crisp handkerchief. He held it out like it was a weapon he didn’t know how to handle.

I hesitated, then took it. “You carry this around? Nice idea.” My voice cracked, but I managed a faint smirk.

He shrugged, looking away. “It’s not mine. But you needed it more.”

I swallowed, my throat tight, and whispered, “Thanks.”

We walked in silence back to the car. I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around my face, hiding me further. Kieran didn’t comment. Didn’t scold. Just walked with that same easy stride, as if none of this mattered. And maybe that was the strangest comfort of all.

⸻

Later that evening, I slipped out of the funeral suit, tossing it onto a chair. My fingers brushed against the inside pocket—and paused. Something crinkled.

Frowning, I reached in. A folded slip of paper, crisp and unfamiliar.

Unfolding it, my eyes scanned quickly.

If you really want to know how your father died, meet me at Ashvale Square, midnight.

My breath caught. My mind reeled. Ashvale Square? How the hell…?

The question of who and how spun through my head like knives. Who had slipped it into my jacket? The man from the funeral? Someone else entirely? And what did they mean by if you really want to know?

Footsteps approached. My head snapped up—Kieran was at the door, watching me with those lazy green eyes that saw far too much.

Without hesitation, I crumpled the paper in my fist and shoved it back into my pocket before he could glimpse it.

“What?” I said, forcing a smirk. “Gonna report me for illegal smoking?”

He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Not tonight.”

My heart thudded in my ears. I turned away, but my mind was racing. Ashvale Square. Midnight. Should I go? Should I risk it?

Everything about it screamed trap. But beneath the fear, a darker pull gnawed at me—curiosity, sharper than grief.

Whoever had left that note knew something. And I had to find out what.