Siobhan’s Visit

Marlo

Ever since Cal had told me about the body pulled from the bay, my chest had been locked in a vise. Everything in my head was a loud, chaotic blur: Tamsin’s terrified warnings, Jarrah’s dark fortress, the burn scars wrapped around his ribs, and the quiet, deadly war threatening to swallow me whole.

"Marlo! Sweetheart!"

A gentle, frail voice cut clean through the campus noise.

I stopped near the stone steps of the student lounge. Sitting on a bench under the bare oak trees was a small, delicate woman. 

Aunt Siobhan.

My heart did a violent, confusing flip in my chest.

She looked so small. So fragile. She was clutching a small, round tin wrapped in a yellow ribbon against her lap. When her eyes met mine, her pale, wrinkled face instantly lit up with warm, maternal delight. She stood up slowly, her knees trembling slightly, and took short, hesitant steps toward me.

"Oh, my sweet girl," Siobhan murmured, opening her thin arms.

Before I could even think, she wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me into a tight hug. She smelled of lavender soap, vanilla, and old lace the exact same scent that had comforted me on the terrifying nights after my parents died. She felt so light in my arms, like a gentle breeze could knock her over.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of dark guilt crashed over my soul.

How could I have doubted her? How could I stand in a violent billionaire’s mansion and listen to rumors about ledgers and syndicates while this frail, innocent woman the woman who had raised me on her tiny schoolteacher pension stood before me, shaking in the cold just to bring me homemade food?

Tamsin had lied. Cal was playing mind games. Jarrah was manipulating me to keep me locked in his dark world. It had to be that. Looking at Siobhan’s soft, tear filled eyes, the idea of her being a cold-blooded killer felt entirely insane.

"Auntie," I whispered, my voice breaking as I wrapped my arms around her. "What are you doing here? It's so cold out."

"I missed you, Marlo," she said softly, pulling back just enough to frame my cheeks with her cold, slender hands. Her fingers were gentle, brushing away a strand of hair from my forehead. "You haven't been staying at your apartment. I called your dorm three times. I was so worried sick. I thought... I thought something awful had happened to you."

Tears slipped down her eyes, and my heart physically ached.

"I'm okay," I lied, swallowing the thick lump in my throat. "Work-study has just been really busy. I'm so sorry I didn't call."

"It's alright, sweetheart. I know how hard you work," Siobhan smiled warmly, offering me the metal tin. "I baked those cinnamon rolls you love. The ones your mother used to make every Sunday morning. I thought you might need a little taste of home."

The sweet smell of cinnamon and baked butter drifted up as she loosened the ribbon. My throat tightened so hard I could barely breathe.

We walked slowly toward the quiet side of the courtyard, sitting together on a secluded bench near the brick wall of the library. Siobhan wrapped her shawl tighter around herself, her hands resting over mine.

"You look so tired, Marlo," she said softly, her eyes studying my face with deep, motherly concern. "Are you taking care of yourself? Are you eating properly?"

"I am, Auntie," I whispered, staring down at the ribbon in my hand.

"I heard some strange rumors on campus, darling," Siobhan continued, her voice dipping into a gentle, worried murmur. "Students were talking about that hockey captain... Jarrah Vance. They said he’s been following you around. They said he was at the ice rink with you."

"He's... he's just around campus a lot, Auntie."

"Be very careful around that family, Marlo," Siobhan warned softly, her thumb gently stroking the back of my hand. "The Vance family is dangerous. Their hands aren't clean. You know how much your poor father was mistrusted before he passed."

"I know," I murmured.

Siobhan leaned in a little closer, her eyes fixed on mine with an intense, quiet interest that made my skin prickle.

"Have you... have you spoken to him much?" she asked gently. "Does he talk about his family's business? About their shipping lines or their private vaults?"

I blinked, a faint flicker of unease stirring in my stomach. "No. Not really."

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" Siobhan presssed, her voice remaining sweet, almost soothing, but her fingers tightening just a fraction around my hand. "It's just that the university administration mentioned he took over the athletic maintenance grants. Does he keep private records in his office? Did he ever ask you to organize any ledgers or private files for his family's company?"

A cold draught swept through the courtyard.

I looked at her face. Her smile was still gentle, her eyes still filled with soft warmth, but there was a sharp, calculating stillness in her posture that I had never noticed before.

Why was she asking about ledgers? Why was she asking about his family's private shipping files?

"No," I said slowly, pulling my hand back just an inch. "I just clean the locker rooms, Auntie. He doesn't show me any files."

"Oh, of course," Siobhan chuckled softly, patting my knee. "Forgive me, darling. I'm just an old woman worrying too much. I just want to make sure you're safe. You know your twenty-first birthday is right around the corner. Once you reach that milestone, everything will finally be at peace."

She stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "I should let you get to your next class, sweetie. Eat those cinnamon rolls while they're still fresh."

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, and turned to walk down the stone path toward the main gates.

I sat alone on the bench, holding the warm tin of pastries in my lap. My chest felt hollow, torn in two by conflicting emotions. I wanted so badly to run after her, to throw my arms around her and go back to my simple, innocent life.

My hands trembled as I carefully untied the yellow ribbon on the tin.

I lifted the metal lid.

Sitting on top of the warm, fresh cinnamon rolls wasn't a fork or a napkin.

Lying flat in the center of the pastries was a tiny, clear glass vial filled with a thick, amber liquid, and a small, folded piece of paper tucked underneath it.

With shaking fingers, I unfolded the paper. Written in Aunt Siobhan's neat, elegant handwriting were six short words:

Pour this in his drink tonight.