Page 106 of Heir of Illusion

“What’s going on?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s father,” my brother answers. “He was found in his room this morning.”

“Okay?” I drag out the word, not understanding what he’s getting at.

“His throat had been slit,” Baylor announces.

My brain accepts this information without protest. There’s no denial or despair. Only a deep well of nothingness. They both watch me, searching for signs of shock. I do my best to appear appropriately distressed.

“Do we know who did it?” I try to make my tone sound somber.

“That bastard left a message,” Baylor fumes. “The word ‘mercy’ written in your father’s blood.”

Everything spins as I try to follow his meaning.

“The Angel of Mercy killed your father.”

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Della startles as I storm into her office. She jumps up from the sofa, releasing a high-pitched squeak as her hand flies to her throat. Chest heaving, she scowls at me as her shock melts into anger.

“What do you think you’re doing, Iverson?” she demands.

My hands shake as I shut the door behind me. “Have you heard?”

Her head tilts to the side as she eyes my disheveled appearance. “How did you get in here? The back door is locked.”

“Through the front,” I explain, frustrated that she’s wasting time with inane questions. “That doesn’t matter. Did you?—”

“The front?” she exclaims, her brown eyes wide. “Someone could have seen you!”

“But no one did!” I snap. “I’m not an idiot. Obviously, I used an illusion.” I force myself to take a deep breath as I push a piece of hair out of my face. “Did you hear what happened?”

“Your engagement? I’m sure everyone’s heard by now.” She rolls her eyes as she grabs a glass of brown liquid from the side table and raises it in my direction before knocking it back. “Congratulations. You’re finally getting everything you ever wanted.”

Nausea stirs at the mention of my betrothal, but I can’t think about that. It’s too much. Too overwhelming.

I shake my head. “No. About my father’s murder.”

A sentence like that should be full of emotion. Sorrow, grief, or at the very least, anger. But I speak the words blandly. His death means nothing to me. I’m only bothered by the method his killer employed. I don’t know what that says about me, but right now, I don’t think I care.

“What?” she gasps, her eyes bulging. “When?”

“Last night. Someone slit his throat after the party.”

She sits back down, observing me in a way I don’t appreciate. “Do they know who was responsible?”

“The killer wrote ‘mercy’ on the wall in his blood.”

“Iverson…” She drags out my name, accusation heavy in her tone.

I bark out a humorless laugh. “It wasn’t me.”

“You sure about that?”

“If I’d killed him, it wouldn’t have been a quick death. His pain would have lasted for hours.”

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