The game was up. Clement thought, steeling himself to the inevitable when his heart threatened to fail him, made his vision blur at the edges. The game was truly up.
And what was this about Modred being dead? Did the club find out that he had talked? How had they even gotten involved in this matter?
Could it be that his niece's quest for the truth had led her to Modred's doorstep, which in turn had led to the club, and its activities?
He shut his eyes, his fingers trembling where they rested on his knees. Caesar would kill him.
And that's in addition to the public humiliation…
His hands were shaking now. A faint tremor ran through his arms, down to his fingertips. Sweat gathered at the base of his spine despite the air-conditioned chill of the room. His dirty laundry was no longer hidden in dark corners; it was strung high across the sky for all to see, flapping violently in a storm he could not outrun.
