Seven p.m. came and went.
Isla sat in the museum of a living room, watching the clock on her phone tick past the hour Killian had promised to be home. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. Eight. No text. No call. No explanation—just silence from a man who'd held her like she was precious twelve hours ago and vanished before sunrise.
At eight-thirty, she called him.
Straight to voicemail.
"Killian, it's me. You said you'd be home at seven. I'm—" She hated how her voice shook. "I'm worried. Call me back."
She hung up and stared at the bloodstained shirt on the coffee table. Evidence in a crime she didn't understand.
By ten o'clock, she'd called twice more and reached Luca, who answered on the first ring and told her something she didn't expect: he didn't know where Killian was either. His last message, sent around noon, said he'd be unreachable for a few hours. That was eight hours ago.
