Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
What do they want from us? If they do have my sisters, if they do have Fran… what will they do next?
The ride to Dublin’s brief, as Ballyhock borders it. We go discreetly with a large team of men, but I’ll be the only one who goes in. When we arrive, it’s like any old business office park, complete with fake trees and a smiling receptionist who looks surprised to see me but maintains her pleasant smile.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Need to speak with whoever’s in charge of publishing,” I mutter. It seems like the stupidest place to start, but it’s the only lead I have.
Fran wouldn’t just dump me and then pull all her books from publication at once. Would she?
As I wait in the waiting area, my phone buzzes. Leith.
Can’t find the girls anywhere.
Bloody hell.
I know in my heart something’s gravely amiss.
The minutes tick by slowly as I wait, pacing the small waiting room, when finally, a petite brunette with flecks of gray in the hair she’s pulled back in a tight bun steps in the room. She’s accompanied by a tall, gangly man wearing a charcoal gray suit and round, wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Mr. Cowen?” the woman says pleasantly. “Come with us.”
I follow them to an office, frustrated my sisters and Fran could be in danger and here I am walking down a carpeted hallway like I’m here to sell them windows. My hands clench into fists, and I do a mental inventory of the weapons I’ve brought. Guns strapped to harnesses; knives tucked away. Seems bloody foolish, since I’m not sure where or how I’ll use them.
We take our seats in a small, utilitarian office. Nothing personal on the walls, nothing personal on the desk. No pictures, no knickknacks, not so much as a ring from a coffee cup on the desk.
This isn’t anyone’s office, then, but a holding place. I watch these two closely.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Cowen?” the man asks, and the woman sits beside him mutely. She’s gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles are white.
Something’s wrong.
I get straight to the point. “I know who the author of your Clan Chronicles is, and I married her last night.”
Neither of them registers surprise. Both expected this.
“She went missing, and we found out this morning that all her books have been pulled from sale. I can’t get in touch with her or find anyone who knows anything about her, but you can at least tell me why the books were pulled.”
The man gives me a placating smile. “First of all, congratulations are in order, Mr. Cowen.”
I want to tell him to shut the fuck up.
“Secondly, sir, we frequently make many choices in the publishing journey. Sometimes, we have to make an unfortunate—”
I lean across the table and in one fluid motion yank his shirt so the fabric’s fisted in my hands. The woman squeaks, but the man only eyes me with wide eyes.
“Do you have a wife?” I ask. “Any children?”
“Yes,” he whispers. “Which is exactly why I can’t tell you anything.”
In one hard motion, I yank his head and slam it against the desk. He winces and grunts as I right him.
“Try that again.”
“They’ll kill me,” he whispers.
“I’ll kill you first.”
He blinks and can tell I fucking mean it. “Someone came to my house last night, demanded we pull the series.”
“Did they have anyone with them?”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t see.”
“What was the reasoning for pulling the series?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t know. I imagined something in the books hit too close to home for someone.” He eyes the woman. “We’ve gotten threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Cryptic things, warnings that the books have hinted too close to truth. And then the visitors…”
I nod. “Aye. What did they look like?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but when I tighten my grip, he whimpers. “They’ll kill my family.”
“I already told you,” I say, giving him the full truth behind my threat. “I will first. Now you tell me everything you know, and I’ll make sure your family is safe.” One call to Keenan is all I need.
He nods. “Okay, alright,” he whispers. He tells me everything he knows. The tattoo marks on the arms of the men who came to him. Their insistence that he call every bookstore and get the books removed from publication. The fact they were driving a silver SUV. I take all the notes and call Leith and Keenan on a conference call.
“Welsh,” Leith confirms. “Our sources say they’re in Ireland, that’s what they’re driving. And they’re the ones who might be at risk with the next book publication.”
“We all are. Were,” I tell him. “But they were pulled. All of them.”
He blows out a breath. “Question is, where are they now?”
“We’ll start by tracing their steps back. He says they made him pull the books from publication, which I’m assuming could’ve been done anywhere but maybe they thought he needed to be here to do it.”