"So you're saying Reo is more important than me?"
The color drained from his face. "Oh God. No. No. I'm just saying the protocol has typically been—"
"Don't waste my time today."
"Of course." He straightened his spine and pushed his glasses up with one finger. "We've finally discovered the name of the serial killer we've been calling the Footman.”
“What is it?”
“Archer Lee. He’s half Japanese, half American."
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Interesting.”
"His mother was a thief. She stole from the yakuza during your father's reign. The Fox ordered his men to bring her head and heart. To make an example. They broke into her home and chopped her up while her six-year-old son sat in the corner watching."
In my mind, I imagined a six-year-old boy in a corner watching his mother be reduced to pieces on the floor.
"When the killers finished, I guess they. . .felt remorse for the kid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They left the boy, Archer, his mother's feet."
I tensed.
"They took the rest of her body to the Fox."
I considered all of this. My father had given a demented kill order, received the delivery, and moved on without thinking about the child he'd left behind.
And within the darkness that boy had grown into a serial killer.
"No one knows how long Archer held on to those feet," Ali continued. "But it was long enough to build an obsession. He grew up in an orphanage, and every year, a child was found dead with their feet removed. When Archer became an adult, he escalated to women."
"And delivers their feet to me.” I sighed.
Ali nodded. “The sins of the father and all that.”
“Where is Archer now?”
"We went to his home. He was gone. Cleared out within the last week. Our team is running down known associates, aliases, and financial records."
“Find and bring him to me immediately.”
“Of course." He bowed and then for some idiotic reason bowed two more times.
I sneered.
He quickly turned and hurried away.
I spent the next hour rummaging through my mother’s belongings—watercolor sketches, old portraits of ancestors, brilliant swords, an empty jewelry box.
And at the center. . .a thick book.
I picked it up and held it with both hands. Dust sat in the grooves of the cover. The leather had gone soft and pale.
I opened it.
The pages were painted in Japanese ink that had browned.
