Chapter 7
Malcolm was in my library.
Drinking my whiskey.
Predictable.
Dahlia and Ellis sat under guard nearby.
Archie was upstairs with Tessa.
I checked first.
He was feeding Bishop pieces of banana.
Apparently the dog had been promoted from “stray” to family in under six hours.
Good.
Then I entered the library.
Malcolm smiled.
“You found Nolan.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
“No, you’re not.”
He sighed.
“You always did inherit your father’s suspicion.”
“Apparently not enough.”
I sat across from him.
“Why?”
Malcolm did not pretend ignorance.
That was useful.
He spoke about Vincent.
About my father.
About class inside the family.
Blood at the dining table.
Staff at the side entrance.
Men who bled for Flynn but whose children remained employees.
Some of it was true.
That made him more dangerous.
“Vincent deserved recognition.”
“Yes.”
Malcolm paused.
He had expected argument.
I continued.
“He did not deserve his children kidnapping my brother.”
Dahlia flinched.
Malcolm looked at her.
“That was not the plan.”
Of course.
Every conspiracy has a moment someone claims the ugliest act exceeded the brief.
“What was the plan?”
“Nolan agrees.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He was supposed to leave Red Hollow.”
I looked at Ellis.
He looked away.
Malcolm realized.
“You kept him?”
Dahlia said:
“He would have gone straight to Garrick.”
“That was the point.”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“The point was change.”
There.
The coalition cracked.
Malcolm wanted pressure.
Dahlia wanted victory.
Different.
Then I asked Malcolm whether he knew Archie had been locked in a kennel.
His face changed completely.
“What?”
Dahlia closed her eyes.
I described it.
Every detail.
Sandwich.
Bolt.
Watch.
Archie crying.
Malcolm stared at her.
“You put a Flynn child in a dog cage?”
Dahlia snapped:
“A Flynn child.”
There.
That was her wound speaking.
Malcolm heard it too.
She continued.
“My father gave thirty years and your first concern is still the Flynn child.”
Silence.
I leaned forward.
“You want to know the difference?”
She looked at me.
“Archie is three.”
My voice stayed quiet.
“Vincent was an adult whose grievance we can finally tell honestly.”
I pointed toward the ceiling.
“My son is not the place you collect that debt.”
Dahlia started crying.
Not remorse.
Not yet.
Something older.
Malcolm looked suddenly tired.
His revolution had become exactly what he claimed to oppose.
May you like
Inheritance deciding worth.
Only reversed.
