Chapter 184
Chapter 184:
“That wasn’t a pipe,” Hilliard said. The despair in his eyes vanished, replaced by a hunter’s focus. “That was a sneeze p>
He grabbed a heavy wooden chair from the vanity and dragged it beneath the vent.
“Hilliard, don’t!” Cailin lunged and seized his arm. “That’s the maintenance shaft — there are rats up there! You’re imagining things p>
He shook her off. He stepped up onto the chair and reached for the vent cover, fingers curling around the metal slats.
“Come down,” Hilliard said to the ceiling, his voice softening. “It’s okay. Come down p>
Cailin looked around wildly. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the bedside table and raised it above her head. She would knock him out if she had to. She would go to prison for assault before she let him take them.
Just as his fingers began to pry the vent loose, the massive flat-screen television on the wall flickered to life.
A loud, jarring ringtone filled the room.
Hilliard froze. He looked over his shoulder.
𝘙𝖾𝖺𝘥 𝘁𝗁𝖾 𝘭a𝗍𝗲st 𝘁𝗋𝗲ո𝖽𝗌 𝘰ո ѕ.cо𝘮
The screen illuminated. A video call. Kegan’s face filled the sixty-inch display — silk robe, glass of brandy in hand, looking relaxed and utterly arrogant.
“Hilliard,” Kegan drawled, his voice booming through the surround-sound speakers. “Breaking into my fiancée’s room? Is this how the American aristocracy behaves p>
Hilliard stepped down from the chair, but he didn’t move away from the vent. He glared at the screen. “She’s hiding them,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. “They are in the vents p>
Kegan laughed — a dark, rich sound. “She’s hiding the anniversary gift I sent over. A rare sculpture. Very fragile. If you break my gift, Holloway, I will break your stock price in half by morning p>
“You’re lying,” Hilliard spat.
“Am I?” Kegan took a slow sip of his drink, then tapped a command on the tablet beside him. A split screen appeared on the television: on one side, Kegan; on the other, a flight manifest for a private jet. The names Kegan Volkov, Aron Volkov, and David Volkov were highlighted. “Check the GPS on my jet. It landed an hour ago. The children you think you saw were my nephews. I dropped them at my sister’s in Queens before Cailin checked in. They are quite small for their age — easily mistaken for five-year-olds p>
It was a lie. A smooth, seamless lie, backed by forged documents displayed in real time. But it planted a seed of doubt.
Hilliard looked at the vent, then back at Cailin. She had lowered the ashtray, but her chest was still heaving.
“The tattoo,” Hilliard said abruptly, his mind seizing on the one piece of physical evidence he had seen. “The roses. You said it was from a crash p>
Cailin froze. “It was p>
“You’re lying,” he said, his voice dropping. “It’s covering a C-section scar, isn’t it? I saw it that night in the car. The texture — it’s not trauma scarring. It’s surgical.” He took a step toward her. “You had a baby, Cailin. I know you did p>