Page 7 of Breaking the Code

My parents—gone.

My sister—gone.

My grandparents—gone.

That left me with nothing more than a bed in an overcrowded orphanage.

That’s where I met him.

Simon.

The man I love.

The man who wasnae in the kitchen that day over a week barreled through the door that day to the kitchen, only to be met with disappointment. The housekeeper was there instead.

She looks up at me in surprise as I rush into the room. “Can I help, ye, Yer Lordship?”

“Simon,” I say. “Have ye seen him?”

“Aye, milord, he left some time ago with several other men.”

I looked at the security tapes and Simon did indeed leave the house with several other men. One o' who looked suspiciously like a man in the papers my grandfather sent. Several days later, Simon turned up, but not in the way I’d hoped.

The car that took him from me returned him to me, beaten, bloody, and with death rattling in his chest. He lasted long enough for me to gather him into my arms and kiss his nearly unrecognizable face.

The Order o’ Death took from me and all I’m left with is the man in the casket who is about to be lowered into the ground.

Simon was my everything. Without him, I am adrift in the abyss.

I’m lost without you, min kärlek.

I look out over the people gathered around the grave to celebrate Simon’s life, and I’m pleased to see how many people’s lives he touched. Simon was the best thing in my life—the only thing, really.

The Order robbed the world o' Simon’s refreshingly sunny outlook on life. Everyone loved him. And they took him from me. They orphaned me and now they’ve widowed me.

Now, they’ve taken everything. They killed my grandparents. Then they killed my parents and sister. And because I searched for them, they killed Simon, too. All because I loved him and they wanted to make me pay.

And for that, I will kill every member o' the Order I can. They will die by my hand or I will die by theirs.

Once everyone leaves me to my grief, I lock myself in the library with a bottle o' Jameson. I uncap the bottle and take a swig. Simon, if he were here, would roll his eyes at me before handing me a glass.

The tears I’ve fought for days well in my eyes. As I gaze into the fire, I realize that one o’ the servants set it before leaving for the day. There’s also a vague memory o’ the housekeeper saying she left me dinner as well. I’ve nae eaten anything without her shoving it into my hands since Simon was dumped onto the front steps.

I take another drink from the bottle in my hand and turn toward the desk. The sofas in front o’ the fire hold too many memories. The pages from Simon’s research into my parents’ and Maeve’s deaths sit on the desktop.

Opening the drawer, I pull the envelope from my grandfather out o' the drawer. It’s ratty and frayed. The papers inside have become worn and fragile from my frequent handling. Tear stains dot the pages from where I read and re-read them.

I pour through both sets o’ documents, looking for the clues Simon saw that I dinnae.

“I dinnae know why I’m reading these again, Simon,” I say as I sit at the same desk I sat at the first time I read these papers.

I know Simon cannae hear me. He’s been gone for days. Maybe I’m going batty, but who else am I to talk to? Simon was the last person on this planet who gave a shit about me.

Truth.

That’s what I told Simon is in these documents.

I’m not sure there is such a thing anymore. Every time I believe I’ve uncovered the truth, all I find is more conniving, more manipulation, more subterfuge.

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