Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,115
she uses her shirt to clean the lens before slipping them back onto her face. Whatever she sees on the screen doesn’t change. A moment later, she shifts her surprised stare to me. “You’ve been made Mr. Guthram’s legal executor.”
Oh, Damien, I could kiss you.
“My father, Mary—there’s a reason why he’s been elected PM two terms in a row now. Not a single detail is ever overlooked.”
Begrudgingly, she admits, “Usually there’s a step-by-step patient release process. But”—her jaw clenches—“for the prime minister, I’m sure we can bypass with precautions just this once.”
“You’re an absolute gem.”
Without making further eye contact, she ushers me into a waiting room and lets me know that Robert Guthram will be down shortly. The heavy door slams shut behind her the second that she releases the knob to step back into the hallway.
I don’t allow myself the chance to sink into one of the plush sofas.
Don’t allow myself the luxury of checking Damien’s watch.
My gut tells me that she’s left me in a room decked out with security cameras, and I’d be a fool to give myself away now.
Stay sharp. Stay focused.
Clamping my trembling hands together at the base of my spine, I make a point to pause before each of the paintings that decorate the otherwise blank walls. Five in total. All picturesque landscapes of Berkshire and the towns surrounding Crowthorne and Broadmoor Hospital.
My heart threatens to burst from my chest.
I squeeze my right hand over my left and turn my back toward the closest wall to hide my display of nerves.
Have no mercy.
Damien’s words stay front and center when the door clicks open and swings wide.
And they remain front and center as a tall, middle-aged man steps into the room with his uncuffed hands linked in front of his stomach, as though he’s been instructed to keep them visible. A guard follows directly behind him, looking nearly diminutive behind the lumbering Holyrood agent.
My gaze shifts to a face that may have been classified as handsome before ten years in a psychiatric hospital had its way with him. Impassive dark eyes. Brown hair liberally salted with strands of white that match the growth of his neatly trimmed beard. A flat nose and thin lips, and a scar . . .
It threads through his right eyebrow, splitting the hairs and stretching toward his hairline. I know that scar but from where? Grasping at the slip of a memory, I try flicking through a mental rolodex of the hundreds of people that I’ve met whilst at Father’s side. But this . . . this doesn’t feel like that. The tug at my conscious feels ancient, like a dream swept under the rug, to be forgotten and dismissed in the light of day.
Then Robert Guthram smiles, and, in my veins, I feel only ice.
He steps forward.
I step back and collide with the wall.
“Miss Carrigan,” the guard starts awkwardly, “this is—”
“Oh, she knows me,” Guthram drawls. “We go back years, don’t we?” His voice rings with mocking chastisement. “How you’ve finally grown up, Little Rowan. Your mum would be so proud.”
Oh, God.
No.
Guthram shrugs off the guard.
Another step deeper into the room.
Then he bends at the waist, a glint of hell flickering in his dark eyes, and for my ears alone, he murmurs, “And here I’d lost hope of your father ever keeping his word. Freedom, at last.”
34
Rowena
Terror grips my lungs.
That face lurking in the shadows.
That scar, blood-stained and stark, against pale skin.
That name . . . his name—
A lie. A sham. A complete and utter fabrication.
A cruel sneer lurks at the corner of Silas Hanover’s mouth. “Nine years and counting,” he hisses, low, “and your old man couldn’t even be bothered to show up after all I did for him. The bloody bastard.” Straightening from his exaggerated bow, he shoves his unshackled hands in front of him again, as though the rules of Broadmoor Hospital have been ingrained in his every movement. Mary said that Robert Guthram was a “special case,” and now I know why: he’s spent ten years in a psychiatric ward when clearly it wasn’t for a diagnosable reason.
The sound of madness is deafening, and Silas Hanover is seething with brittle venom.
“And you . . .” His gaze carves a hardened path from my head down to my pumps. “Still a quiet mouse, are you, Little Rowan? Just like your mum. Except, of course, at the end.” Unflinching, he meets my stare. “Such a shame that she didn’t make it.”