CATHERINE
The air in Kiera's bedroom was cold. She sat hunched over a sleek, matte-black console, her fingers dancing across a touchscreen. A heavy-duty microphone stood between us, and as she spoke, her voice was filtered through a processor that stripped away every feminine lilt, replacing it with the rough, metallic rasp of an anonymous middle-aged man.
"I know what you did to Madeleine," Kiera said into the mic.
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute, a void that seemed to suck the warmth out of the room. We were huddled around the speaker, Dante standing guard by the door while I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands knotted in my lap. This was the "distraction"—the reason Richard had bolted from the lounge, leaving Julian with a clear path to the study.
"Who the hell are you?" Richard's voice finally boomed through the speaker. It was sharp, authoritative, and lacked even a flicker of hesitation. "How did you get my private line?!"
