Page 119 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 7

CILLIAN

I’ve taken to smoking outside these days.

Two reasons for that.

Meisie doesn’t smoke. As an ex-non-smoker, I know how disgusting it can be.

Also, the closer we get to this wedding, the more my house is starting to feel like the fucking YMCA.

It started with the dressmaker and her witless assistant. Then the woman who’s making the cake popped by to see Sarah. Then all the girls needed French manicures. Or maybe it was Spanish. I don’t know, but Idoknow there’s a very good reason the bride and the groom spend the night before the wedding apart.

We’re days away and it’s only going to get worse.

For once in my life, Cole’s place is starting to feel appealing. Especially considering that he’s staying here with Sarah tonight.

With any luck he’ll pass out soon, or get bored and leave in search of a house-party.

I light my cigarette and pull my phone out of my pocket, taking myself for a walk around the front of the house. Patrolling the perimeter, that’s a decent excuse. I can’t stay still, and that’s a sure sign I need to have this conversation.

Seeking out Derek’s name in my recents, I hit call and put the phone to my ear.

He answers on the third ring with a, “Haul,” the lazy Scottish version of hello.

“Give me something.” I kick a stray stone against the side of the house while I wait for him to reply.

“I still need to confirm the details.”

“Then give me what you’ve got.”

He clears his throat on the other end of the line. “There’s a holding company with ties to Ford. That company makes an annual donation of twenty thousand pounds to a charity. It started four years ago with a lump sum, which checks out with hospital records from Joburg.”

“And the charity?”

“Richbrae’s Hope. It’s connected to—”

I cut him off with a curt, “I know it,” shaking my head.

A children’s home in the North-East of the city. We spent three years there when we were teenagers. It was an absolute shitehole, but still some of the happiest memories I have of growing up.

“Richbrae Children’s Home,” he finishes.

“Hidden in plain fucking sight. It checks out.”

“It does,” Derek agrees.

This is good. Very good. It’s an hour’s drive away from my house. I can only hope the same woman still runs it. She used to have a big old soft spot for a certain lovable rogue.

Anne-Marie also helped me and Cole find our first apartment, the one with the ice on the inside of the windows and the pub on the corner. She tried, bless her.

“What about Alex?”

“I need to confirm, but I think we’ve got him traced to a prison in Joburg.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Order the hit anyway. Now. You can confirm once he’s dead.”

“Aye. Alright. Leave it with me.”