Chapter 1 - The Protocol of the DeadThe red light inside the brass lamp flashed once, silently, in the cavernous dining room of the Wycliffe estate.
Across the city, in a dimly lit office cluttered with old case files and multi-monitor setups, Detective Damon Rourke’s phone didn't just ring—it emitted a high-pitched, automated data pulse that cut through the silence of the night like a scalpel.
Damon stared at the screen. The encrypted notification was direct and unambiguous: Emergency Medical Distress Triggered. External Backup Feed Verified. Location: Wycliffe Estate, East Wing Dining Room.
He didn't hesitate. He reached for his service weapon, grabbed his heavy woolen coat off the back of his chair, and sprinted down the precinct stairs.
“Hold on, Evelyn,” Damon muttered under his breath, turning his unmarked cruiser into the sheets of relentless rain lashing against the asphalt of Manhattan.
Back inside the dining room, Constance Wycliffe stood up slowly from her kneeling position beside my body. Her hands were pristine. Her silk blouse hadn't a single wrinkle. She looked down at me with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing an insect trapped beneath glass.
“It should be over soon,” Constance said calmly, turning her attention back to Graham, who was still trembling on his knees beside me. “Clean up the teapot, Graham. And stop looking like a coward. You did what had to be done to save Wycliffe Capital.”
“Mother, she’s... she’s not breathing properly,” Graham stammered, his fingers twitching toward my wrist before pulling back as if burned.
“People die of sudden allergic reactions every day,” Constance replied coldly, walking toward the grand double doors of the dining room. “The private doctor will sign the certificate in the morning. We will tell the police she ate something at lunch that she shouldn't have. It is a tragedy. We will mourn appropriately.”
She exited, her footsteps echoing down the long, hollow hallway.
Graham looked down at me. The scales over his eyes seemed to fracture slightly, replaced not by genuine love, but by the terrifying realization of what he had allowed his mother to turn him into. But self-preservation quickly overrode his guilt. He stood up, grabbed a linen napkin, and began wiping the stray drops of scalding tea from the floor, muttering frantic rationalizations to himself.
Keep listening, I repeated silently in my mind, fighting the darkness closing in around my vision. Stay awake.
The sound of screeching tires echoed from the front courtyard, cutting through the storm.
Graham froze.
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Heavy boots pounded against the front stone porch, followed by the deafening splintering of the grand oak front door being kicked off its hinges.
“Police! Federal Task Force! Nobody move!” Damon Rourke’s voice roared through the estate, sharp, authoritative, and terrifyingly close.
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