Page 66 of False Heir

I didn’t think so, but maybe there was something to what Kieran was saying.

There had to be.

“Always something with you,” she shot back, but I could see the storm in her eyes, the battle between the fury and the flicker of something softer.

“Please,” I said again, my voice barely above the whirl of campus life. “Just this one last time.”

“Fine.” Adriana’s reply was curt, her lips a tight line. She pulled out her phone and swiped it open. Her eyes scanned the screen, then softened ever so slightly. “We can make it work, maybe,” she sighed, more to herself than me.

My pulse quickened. That sliver of hope I’d been clinging to since our last encounter—it flared to life like a match struck in the dark.

“Dr. Davies?” I asked, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice.

She nodded, locking her phone with a click that seemed to echo louder than the laughter around us.

“Let’s go then.” I gestured toward the main part of the campus, where the historic brick buildings of Harvard Yard stood stoic against the bustling students.

As we entered the yard, the weight of our silent truce pressed down on us. We walked side by side, but the distance between us felt as wide as the Charles River. Students darted around us, their chatter and laughter a stark reminder of a simpler time before family, duty, and blood had complicated everything.

My mind churned with what Dr. Davies might say, how it could unravel the tightly wound tapestry of lies that had become my life. But for now, I focused on the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.

“Tristan,” Adriana finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice didn’t cut this time; it wavered, betraying a hint of vulnerability. “Whatever he tells us...are you sure you’re ready?”

“I mean, it’s just a box, right?” I asked.

“Right. Just a box,” Adriana said. “Nothing weird about it at all.”

Navigating campus was hard. There were a lot of doors, a lot of places to go. But we finally found his office.

The heavy door to Dr. Davies’ office creaked open, revealing a sanctuary that seemed detached from the outside world—a place where time stood still among the leather-bound books and faded maps adorning the walls. Dr. Davies stood behind his desk, his warm smile a sharp contrast to the turmoil churning inside me.

“Tristan, Adriana, welcome,” he greeted, motioning us toward the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

“Dr. Davies,” I acknowledged with a nod, taking a seat while my mind raced. How much did this man know about the Callahans? About me? Why was he talking to us like he knew us?

“Your family’s name is well-known, Tristan,” Dr. Davies began, his eyes locking onto mine. “Your father was a remarkable man; his death was a loss felt by many.”

I tensed at the mention of my father, a wave of grief lacing my apprehension. “How do you know about him?” I asked, my voice steady despite the questions pounding through my head.

“Let’s just say your family has always been of particular interest to me,” he replied cryptically, then turned to pour a drink from a crystal decanter. “Whiskey?”

“Sure,” I said, accepting the tumbler he offered. He poured some water for Adriana, who took it with a polite thank-you.

The whiskey was smooth, a rich note of peat lingering on my tongue. I watched Dr. Davies take his seat across from us, the creak of aged leather punctuating the silence. His office felt like a vault of secrets, the air heavy with the musty scent of old paper and wisdom. He leaned back, steepling his fingers as he regarded us with an unreadable expression.

“Tristan,” he began, his tone serious, “the, uh, criminal history of Boston has always been my area of expertise.”

I blinked, the information a hard swallow. “Expertise?” I echoed, trying to keep my voice even. The idea that this academic before me could know the intricacies of our world was unsettling.

Dr. Davies nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. My fascination with your kind of...lineage has been the focus of my studies for years.” He paused, glancing at Adriana briefly before returning his gaze to me. “Absolutely. That’s why I was so pleased when Kieran brought me the box.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Adriana

The winter sun played a losing game with the clouds, managing only to skim the surface of Harvard Yard with a weak brush of light. I sat next to Tristan, my leggings and long cardigan inadequate against the chill that seemed to creep from the outside.

“Dr. Davies,” Tristan started, his voice steady but I could feel the tension coiling in him, ready to spring. “I’ve got no clue about any box.”

The historian peered over the rim of his glasses, which he’d just nudged back into place on the bridge of his nose. “And the family?” he pressed. “Does this make you the head now?”

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