Stolen Heiress
And Marcus Hale, who knew enough to bury me, was in their hands.
The door opened behind me. I didn't turn. I knew the footsteps, the rhythm of her anger, the particular silence before Catherine spoke.
"You sent them to Celine's house."
Not a question. An accusation, delivered with the precision she used for everything contracts, social events, murder.
"To clean up your mess," I said, still facing the window. "Hale was your hire. Your recommendation. Your second cousin through that Marchand branch you never talk about."
"And Celine?"
Bab Populer