Page 41 of When Kings Rise

My mother gives my breakfast a disapproving glare. She normally only allows me to have fruit in the mornings, but since I’m not under her strict eating rules, I enjoy the pastry in front of me. I have no idea why we have so much if we can’t eat it.

I’m expecting a load of questions.Instead, my announcement is met with an outpouring of pride and excitement. Their eyes shine, not with the joy of my accomplishments or happiness, but with the reflection of their own desires. They see me not as their daughter but as a key to unlocking the life of luxury and ease they've always craved, a life they believe marrying into royalty can provide. The weight of their expectations sits heavily on my shoulders, a crown of thorns disguised as gold. My appetite dwindles as my father reaches across and takes my mother’s hand, a silent message that things are going their way.

“We have a guest at the door,” The maid informs us all. I rise quickly, gather my old phone, and stuff it into my pocket before anyone notices and wonders what happened to my new slick phone.

My father rises, too. “Best meet the man in question.” My father is dressed in a suit and proudly pushes back his shoulders.

I can't help but stifle a laugh at the sheer disappointment etched across my father's face. His dreams of Kings and grandeur were momentarily shattered by the arrival of a friend, not a suitor.

“Father, this is Selene McNamara,” I say.

He covers his disappointment quickly and takes Selene’s hand, giving it a firm shake. Before he asks any questions, I grab a coat off the hook and link my arm with Selene’s. “I’ll be back later.” We race from the house and walk down the driveway out onto the road.

“Your father seems nice,” Selene says, glancing back over her shoulder.

“He’s still watching,” I reply without looking back.

“Yes.” Selene frowns, and I tug her to the left, out of sight.

“He thought Diarmuid was coming to get me this morning.” I offer up the explanation to her that she hadn’t asked for.

At the mention of Diarmuid’s name, Selene tenses.

We walk the rest of the way to the bus stop in silence. Only a few people are waiting, and we arrive just in time as the bus pulls up. Selene gets two tickets for Sandyford, and we find a seat.

The bus ride to Sandyford is filled with an uneasy silence, broken only by my inquiry into Selene's unusual determination.

“Did something else happen?” I whisper, not wanting anyone else to hear our conversation.

Selene’s features tighten. “No. I just want to help.”

She isn’t telling me everything and seems unwilling to talk this morning. So, I leave her alone and glance out the window. As the cityscape blurs past the window, I realize that perhaps, for Selene, this is more than just solving a crime; maybe it’s a way to take control in a world where we truly have none.

When we finally arrive at Rian's place, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly isn't this. The building itself is one of those new, nondescript blocks that seem to have sprung up overnight to cater to the city's ever-desperate demand for living space. It's clear from the get-go that Rian's apartment, like many others here, was designed with functionality in mind over comfort, intended for those willing to compromise space for a place to call home.

Stepping inside, the contrast is startling. Every inch of Rian's studio apartment is consumed by his work. The walls are plastered with photographs, notes, and maps, all connected by a spiderweb of strings that trace patterns only he could decipher. Timelines stretch across the walls, and stacks of books and papers clutter every available surface, creating a chaos that's both bewildering and strangely ordered. A single corner stands out in stark contrast—clean and carefully arranged, the dedicated space for his video podcasts, a slice of normalcy in a room swallowed by obsession.

Selene's voice cuts through my initial shock, her words tinged with dark humor. “Feels like we've stepped into the den of a serial killer, doesn't it?” she comments, and despite the gravity of our visit, I can't help but let out a laugh. The tension in the room lightens, just a fraction, as Rian turns to greet us with an energy and warmth that's immediately disarming. He pushes his glasses up on his nose as he smiles warmly at us.

I can’t help but smile back; his open and friendly approach makes me trust him. I glance at Selene. She's more guarded.

“We wanted to talk about Andrew O’Sullivan,” Selene starts. Rian isn’t put off by the instant jump to why we are here.

The moment the name is mentioned, Rian springs into action, adding another string to his complex web of information—the physical connection of string to pin, linking Andrew O'Sullivan to the woman.

“Do we know who the woman is?” Selene’s question weighs heavier than anything else in the room; that’s why we are here, after all.

Rian speaks with a confidence that's both reassuring and concerning. “No, not yet. But the best lead we have is through the medical examiner's office,” he asserts, his eyes scanning his network of clues as if they might reveal a new path at any moment.

Selene's interest piques at this, her mind already racing ahead to the logistics. “Do you have any fake IDs or something that could get us in?” she asks, her voice a blend of hope and practicality.

Rian shakes his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “No, nothing like that. But, if the body is being claimed by a possible family member, there might be a way to gather enough information to aid our investigation without needing to sneak in.” He moves to a small fridge and extracts three frubes, offering one to me and the other to Selene. I decline again, just like I did the day I met him, and he doesn’t seem put off as Selene declines, too, with the curl of her nose. I’m not sure how he can eat when we are talking about a dead body.

“Why does milk turn into yogurt when you take it to a museum?” Rian reads the joke before he rips off the top of the plastic.

“I don’t know,” Selene says.

“I’m intrigued,” I say.

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