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“Father has managed to get a copy of Beatrice’s autopsy results,” he says grimly.
“And?” I probe.
“They found track marks on her arms,” he says. From his disapproving drawl, I imagine that he’s shaking his head in his predictably judgemental way. “It confirms her death was an accidental overdose.”
“So, no vengeful lover or murder then?” I joke, despite knowing full well that the Killers Club staged the scene.
“No, much to Mother’s disappointment,” he says unironically. “She’s just another woman who came into too much money and took the wrong path. This is why men are the head of the household.”
Misogynistic prick. I feel a wave of sympathy for his wife—although she’s vapid enough that his saying something like that wouldn’t bother her. It’s why he married her.
“Thanks for keeping me updated,” I say. “I better go.”
“One more thing,” he jumps in before I can hang up, “you’re expected to attend her funeral.”
“Surely it won’t be for another week or two?”
“It’s in two days. The McGowan family want this whole nasty business wrapped up quickly,” he says. “We’re all invited. And, considering the rumours that she was soon to be your betrothed, you have to be there.”
“What if I’m too grief-stricken to attend?” I ask hopefully, trying to find an excuse to escape the dismal affair. Attending high-profile weddings is torturous, but funerals are even worse.
“The family requests your presence, so you need to get back to London,” he says, pulling the royal card. “The time for gallivanting is over. I’ll text you the details.”
He hangs up, and I sigh, running my hand through my hair in exasperation. Callen’s stupidly tight shirt makes the movement difficult. At least if we return to the city, I’ll be able to find better clothes.
“Was that anything important?” Freddie asks from behind me, coming from out of nowhere. He has a habit of appearing when you least expect him to.
I want to ask him the same question about his conversation with Ivy but keep my mouth shut. He seems less angry than when he went inside, which must mean progress.
“Beatrice’s autopsy came through.” I grimace. “It showed that she died of an overdose.”
There’s a sad irony to Beatrice’s reputation being dragged through the mud. She wasn’t a party girl—in fact, I once remember her telling me she only drank champagne on special occasions because she was worried about alcohol giving her premature wrinkles.
“An overdose is easy enough to orchestrate,” Freddie says.
The light hitting his hair highlights the silver strands running through his dark mane. He has more greys around his temple and ears than before.
“The funeral is in two days, and I need to be there.”
“We can’t postpone returning to London any longer,” Freddie says. “It’s time.”
We knew we couldn’t stay here forever. Even though Torean and his motley crew were gone, I didn’t want to stick around for long enough to see him again after hearing about how he threatened Ivy.
“Where are we going to stay?” I ask. “Everywhere is compromised now that they know who we are.”
“There is one place left,” Freddie says mysteriously.
While we’re chatting, Ivy peers around the living room door. “Did I hear you say we’re leaving?”
“Yes,” Freddie says. “We’re heading home.”
“Are you sure Bram will be okay to travel?” she asks, biting her lip in worry. “It’s a long drive…”
A surge of jealousy rushes through me. She seems to care about Bram, but where’s her concern for me? I’ve known Beatrice my whole life—okay, I didn’t like her very much—but the Killers Club still killed her.
“Are you his babysitter now?” I growl.
She gives me a funny look, but I’m already turning and heading back to my bedroom.
