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I remember the first night Isabelle was in the house. How she mentioned a presence in the cellar. I wonder if that presence was Zoë. I’ve gone down there since Isabelle found the letter. It’s gone. The air is empty like the rest of the house. Maybe she’d been waiting for us to discover the letter. I wonder what she expected Zeke to do with the information. How she thought he could share it with us, something so terrible and impossible.
When I told my mother what I intended to do with my father’s remains she only nodded once. We didn’t speak of why. Didn’t mention Zoë’s suicide note. Didn’t mention the abuse she’d endured. Honestly, I’m not sure my mother could take hearing it again. I’m sure she’s gone through her own hell many times over at her daughter’s death. And then learning the reasons behind it.
I watch from a distance as two men work to remove the stones behind which are his bones. I don’t feel anything as I look on. Nothing but disgust for the man. The death Zeke dealt him was too good.
“Jericho.”
I turn to find my brother approaching. I hadn’t heard him over the noise of the workers. He glances to the mausoleum then back to me, a tell-tale line of worry between his eyebrows.
“What’s happened?” I ask, on alert.
“I don’t know. We’ve been summoned to IVI headquarters.”
“Summoned?”
“I just got off the phone with Hildebrand’s secretary. They’re calling in Sovereign Sons. Meeting starts in half an hour.”
“That’s unusual. Any idea what it is?”
He shakes his head. “The compound is on lockdown. That’s all I know.”
“Lockdown?” The last time that happened was during an execution over two years ago.
“We should go.”
I nod. “I’ll get Dex out here to manage this.” I tell the men I’m leaving and get my phone out to text Dex on my way. I want to tell Isabelle where I’m going but hear her from just beyond the library door. She’s having her lesson and I take a moment to appreciate the music, but decide not to interrupt. I’ll see her when I’m back.
Zeke drives us to the compound. We arrive with a string of other vehicles and hand the car off to the waiting valets. Men exchange greetings with one another and it’s obvious no one knows what this is about. Judge and Santiago approach as we’re ushered to the main building.
“Any idea what’s going on?” I ask after we shake hands.
“Not sure,” Judge says. “All I know is something happened at the Cat House last night.”
The Cat House is essentially a high-end whore house. The most beautiful of courtesans are kept by The Society for use by Sovereign Sons. I realize how fucked up it sounds, but they’re supposedly paid well and work of their own free will. I guess it’s some of what our fees buy. Another perk.
“I don’t think it’s a simple reprimand if they’ve called us all in,” Santiago says because there have been one or two instances where things got out of hand, and someone needed to be reprimanded.
“No,” Judge agrees, expression serious. I wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on, but our conversation comes to an end when we enter one of the more somber rooms within the compound where large meetings are conducted. It’s one of the few, outside of the ballrooms, that can hold us all.
Zeke and I take our seats alongside each other at the ancient oak table. Santiago and Judge are across from us. There’s a buzz of noise as people speculate what is going on. Why the urgency. They only quiet once the last of the men enters, the door is closed and the gong sounds.
I look around the table. Every seat is taken and a few men stand along the walls. No refreshments apart from water is offered, which is rare for any meeting at the compound.
This is serious. And I know when I glance to my brother that he and I are just realizing the same thing. Carlton Bishop is absent.
The door opens then and the silence becomes absolute as Councilor Hildebrand enters wearing his official robe. One of the guards guides him to his seat at the head of the table and sets the folder in front of the councilor. We all watch and wait as, once he’s settled, he glances to the other guard and nods.
The door he just came through is opened once more and to my shock, in comes Julia Bishop holding her son’s hand. The little boy is about four years old with a mop of curly blond hair and big, frightened blue eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit and has his thumb in his mouth. She walks swiftly but his steps are slow as he takes in this room full of strangers. I see her tug at his hand to hurry him along.
