The darkness was coming. Thunder and lightning, pushed by the winds of life, moved with precision, led by faith. In their hands, they carried weapons of death.

Before anyone in the Kazersdale house could prepare themselves, they were already there, standing at the front door and knocking. The guards gazed down at them with fear. Those who knew the men understood what happened when you crossed one of them.

It was the Doyleys. Max opened the door, wondering why the guards stationed there hadn't done so themselves. Standing before him were Cobb and Carl.

Cobb was nonchalant, as he always had been and always would be. Carl, on the other hand, wore a smirk that suggested he was going to enjoy whatever business had brought them there.

Without hesitation, Max let them in. The Kazersdale house was their house too—not legally, of course, but when your life was on the line, even your wife could become their wife.

Max led the Doyleys to the meeting room, a space furnished with a long brown wooden table and numerous chairs. Bottles of wine sat on the table, waiting for someone to give them a reason to be opened.

“I'll let Alex know you're here,” Max said.

Cobb took a seat while Carl poured himself a drink. He glanced at Max.

“Bring Raymond too. I get confused about which of the two is the leader.”

Carl rested a hand on the back of Cobb's chair as Max left the meeting room.

“This place is like an entire company disguised as a house. It's insane,” Carl remarked, pouring himself another drink.

Cobb looked at him.

“Eh, what is it, Doyley?” Carl asked.

“You shouldn't be drinking,” Cobb replied.

“They say an insane man is dangerous when he's drunk,” Carl said.

Cobb exhaled.

“No killing. The Kazersdales are important. Without them, the Worldfare delivery stream will collapse,” Cobb said.

“But they're not part of Worldfare,” Carl replied.

“Although Worldfare's members and clients rely on them.”

“Can't we just shake hands, make them sign a contract, and bring them onto the team?”

“We can't. They're Kazersdales,” Cobb said.

Alex entered the room.

Her eyes immediately settled on Cobb, who had taken the chair reserved for her. It was the only chair in the room with her name written on it. Alex had a problem with ownership, and she was about to explore it when Raymond entered behind her and smacked the back of her head.

“Behave,” Raymond said.

He took a seat opposite the two brothers. Once everyone was seated, Carl was the only one left standing. He pressed his palms together in a gesture of prayer and closed his eyes.

Seconds passed.

Cobb acted as though he hadn't noticed.

Alex was already halfway down the road to insanity, but Raymond was always nearby, ensuring she never got the chance to lose herself completely.

Carl finally opened his eyes and abandoned his prayer pose.

“There's nothing like prayer before a funeral,” he said with a smile, deliberately locking eyes with Alex.

“Alex Kazersdale, you were there, weren't you?” Carl asked, pointing at her.

Alex said nothing.

Raymond pinched the side of her stomach, prompting her to speak.

“Where was I?” she asked, her voice dripping with sass.

“At the Kingsbat Saloon, when the van had an accident. Right when the gold was stolen from the Stephenhod house. They say you took Thomas Pembroke.”

“I was there, and I recall being drunk, mind you,” Alex replied.

“Nice. Very nice.”

Carl walked towards her, looking directly into her eyes.

“Do you smoke?”

“No,” Alex answered.

“Your lungs are beautiful, then.”

Carl sat beside her and exhaled.

“Comfy,” he remarked, looking up at the ceiling.

Then, without warning, he slammed a gun onto the table. The sound cracked through the room.

Carl looked back at Alex.

“The van Thomas was driving contained gold coins. High-value goods. If they aren't recovered, many people will die. And you seem to have helped Thomas out of his little game. What do you have to say about being part of a robbery that could get your entire family killed?”

“I didn't help him. I liked him, so I took him with me. I didn't know anything about the gold coins. It would be nice if you called them my gold coins. Sounds much cuter,” Alex said.

“Worldfare isn't going to like this,” Carl remarked, glancing at Cobb.

“I know,” Cobb replied.

“Oh, it's Worldfare's gold coins,” Alex said.

“Gold, Worldfare, murder, van, and robbery,” Raymond said. Everyone turned to look at him.

“So, the van had the gold. The van is ours. It was delivering something to Dizzydean, yet somehow Thomas was involved, and Alex kidnapped him. The van had the gold because Thomas robbed the Stephenhod house.”

“Seems you're seeing the bigger picture. I'm flattered,” Carl remarked.

“But who drove to Dizzydean, and who was Thomas with? We can't just rob a house alone. And why did the van have an accident?” Raymond asked, turning to Alex.

“Oh, yeahhhh. I remember. They say it killed someone,” Carl said.

“Yeah, someone,” Cobb added.

“I think his name was Simon,” Carl said.

“Nope. It was Calson,” Cobb corrected him.

“Calson?” Carl repeated.

“Calson,” Raymond confirmed.

“Calson,” Carl echoed, nodding his head.

“He managed to stop the car with his body. Pretty helpful, actually, because now we can find my gold.”

Carl picked up the gun from the table.

“Oh,” Raymond said.

“I'm sorry. It was a mistake,” Alex said.

“On the other hand, you also know about Worldfare gold, you weasel,” Raymond remarked.

“I'll tell you more once the fine gentlemen have left,” Alex replied.

Carl was breathing against the back of her neck. She shifted her shoulder away from him and stopped talking.

“You smell lovely,” Carl whispered.

“You're a creep,” Alex replied.

“Can we go on a date?”

“I'm out of your league.”

“I'm the owner of the league.”

“Have a nice day.”

Alex stood up and left the room.

The two Doyley brothers exchanged a look before turning towards Raymond, who appeared to be looking past Cobb.

“We'll take our leave,” Cobb announced.

“Don't get lost. It's a big house,” Raymond said. The brothers stood up and left.

Ten minutes later, the Doyley brothers were walking outside.

“I like Alex,” Carl said.

“Yeah, but she only likes those who are beneath her,” Cobb replied.

“How could you tell?” Carl asked.

“I've seen a lot of scandals about her.”

“Let's go rain over the Pembroke residents. I'm itching. Haven't killed anyone in a whole week,” Carl said.

“It's been two days,” Cobb corrected him.

“It's the same as a week, Doyley.”

The brothers continued across the yard and left the property.

Meanwhile, Alex and Raymond watched them through Raymond's bedroom window.

“Basically, those guys work for Worldfare. They're hired by other Worldfare members to do jobs for them. As you now know, their current job is to find the stolen gold coins,” Alex explained.

“I seeee,” Raymond replied.

“Yeah, that's all I know. Sorry about Calson.”

Alex turned and walked towards the door.

“Try not to do anything reckless,” Raymond said.

“I should be saying that to you, because Hugo is part of Worldfare. Those guys will kill us if they find out you want to kill their gold coin maker.”

With that, Alex left the room.

22 Avenue, Hatters Residence

Philip was in his bedroom.

It was a magnificent room, the sort that made a person wonder whether the owner had acquired his wealth through hard work, inheritance, or the discovery of a particularly generous gold mine. The soaring ceiling featured recessed panels illuminated by warm lights, while tall arched windows overlooked the bare trees outside. Heavy navy curtains framed the windows, and the glossy black panels behind the bed reflected the room's chandeliers, creating the illusion that the luxury extended much farther than the walls allowed.

A king-sized bed occupied the centre of the room, dressed in layers of charcoal and grey bedding. Several girls lay asleep upon it, apparently exhausted by whatever activities had preceded their slumber. Empty and half-empty bottles of wine and other alcoholic beverages were scattered across the room, some resting on tables and others occupying places where bottles had no business being.

The polished cream-and-gold marble floor gleamed beneath the warm lighting, partially covered by an ornate rug. Deep navy armchairs sat in the foreground, and a dark, gold-trimmed console stood against one wall, decorated with a bouquet of white flowers.

It was a beautiful room.

It was also missing a door.

This was not an architectural choice, nor was it a fashionable statement about the unnecessary barriers between people. The door had been knocked down by Lucille during one of her drunken episodes. Nobody had bothered replacing it, which was perhaps understandable. Some people preferred to wait until a storm had passed before repairing the roof.

Lucille entered through the open doorway—or what remained of it—and found Philip lying down.

Her eyes went straight to the bed.

She studied the sleeping girls for a moment, apparently unaware that their host was lying on the couch nearby.

“I'm over here,” Philip called.

Lucille turned towards him.

Her eyes settled on him with the sort of intensity that could make a person question the wisdom of having invited her into the room in the first place.

“Do you have to look at me like that?” Philip asked.

“It's how I look at everyone, sir.”

“Sometimes I feel like you're going to kill me.”

“I will, sir.”

Philip laughed a little.

It was difficult to tell whether he found her honesty amusing or whether he had simply grown accustomed to the peculiarities of the people he employed. Either way, he seemed remarkably comfortable with the prospect of his own murder.

“So, what do you have for me? Is Hugo dead?” he asked.

“Raymond is going to deal with him this coming Tuesday. He had problems with the Doyleys.”

“The Doyleys? The Worldfare advocates?”

“They're advocates, but yes. Them.”

Philip sat upright on the couch.

For a moment, the movement suggested that he had finally decided to take the conversation seriously. He reached towards the collection of bottles on the table, searching for one that still contained something worth drinking. After inspecting several candidates, he found one with a little wine remaining and took a sip.

“Come,” he said, gesturing towards himself.

Lucille rolled her eyes but walked over.

“Drink with me.”

“I'm not an alcoholic,” she replied.

She took the bottle from him and drank anyway.

Philip watched her with the satisfaction of a man who had successfully disproved an argument without needing to offer a counterargument.

“I want Hugo dead,” he said.

His voice had lost some of its earlier amusement.

“I can't work with a man who killed my father, even if they were partners in the mines. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir. But I can personally kill Arabella for you. No payment required.”

Philip looked at her.

“Oh, no. Don't kill her.”

Lucille said nothing, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I need her. Arabella and I will be the next generation of partners in the gold mines. That's how it works.”

“Yes, I remember. You told me the contract was signed by your grandfather, blah, blah, partnership between the Hatters and the Cavendishes.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“I'm leaving.”

Philip seemed unbothered by her lack of enthusiasm. He reached for a collection of gold coins and began tossing them towards her, one after another.

“Take these. Buy me a lot of guns.”

Lucille caught the coins as they came, each landing neatly in her hand without a single one slipping through her fingers.

Philip tossed her a tenth coin.

“And buy yourself a car from JesseCars.”

Lucille caught that one too.

“Thank you, sir.”

She turned and left the room, carrying the coins with her.

As she walked towards the room Philip had temporarily assigned to her while she worked for him, she glanced down at the money in her hand.

“My tits are too nice for my life to be like this,” she muttered to herself.

Alex was in her room, sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand.

For a while, she stared at the screen before finally making a call. The phone rang several times before someone answered.

“Who is this?” a woman asked.

“It's me, Mom.”

“Oh, Alex, honey. Are you okay? Did you do something bad, or are you in jail?”

“No, I didn't. Well, I did get Calson killed.”

“Alex!”

Her mother's voice came through the phone, devastated.

“Don't worry. It was by a car last week, I think,” Alex added.

There was a brief silence.

“Why did you call me?” her mother asked, sounding a little irritated.

“Raymond Vandenhill.”

“So he found out.”

“Yes, he did, Mom. And he might call to ask you about Father. You were the one telling him stories about the Kingdom of the Rich.”

“You're making it sound childish. How adorable. It's been a while since I've spoken to my childish Alex.”

“Mom, I miss you.”

For a moment, Alex's voice softened.

“And Raymond wants to kill Hugo. Yeah, it's all him,” she added with a smile.

“I know that when you behave like this, it means you're involved too.”

“I'm not.”

“If you say so. I didn't want him to know any of this. It'll only put him in danger.”

“Mom? That's very insulting.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to insult you, honey.”

“Whatever. I'm hanging up, Mom.”

“Just be safe, and try not to let him get pulled into this miserable life that swallowed your father. Be a good sister.”

“I'll try, Mom.”

Alex ended the call and exhaled.

“Be a good sister,” she repeated, mimicking her mother's voice.

Then she threw her phone against the wall.

The impact cracked through the room. The phone struck the wall and fell to the floor, its screen shattered.

The door opened.

A housekeeper stood in the doorway, looking at the broken phone and then at Alex.

“Are you okay, ma'am?”

“Bring me another phone.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The housekeeper left.

Alex remained seated on the bed.

Lucille was in her room, wearing one of Raymond's shirts.

She had managed to steal it during one of her previous visits to his room. The shirt was the only thing she wore as she lay on her bed, surrounded by the glow of two televisions.

The first television displayed four camera feeds, each showing a different angle of Raymond's room.

He was there now, taking off his clothes and preparing to go to the bathroom.

“A man I'd die for,” Lucille murmured.

She bit her lip, wrapped her arms around herself, and drew her legs closer.

“He overwhelms me with heat.”

On the screen, Raymond moved about his room, apparently unaware that he had an audience. He was muscular, his physique accentuated by the room's lighting. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and even his hair appeared to have developed a personal relationship with the wind.

Lucille watched with an intensity that suggested she had forgotten the existence of everything outside those screens.

“I will shit on everything you love, my love,” she whispered.

Romance, as one might observe, came in many forms. Lucille's happened to require surveillance equipment and a troubling amount of hostility.

She turned off the television.

“I shouldn't ruin this yet.”

Her attention shifted to the second screen, where she opened the BountyZone app.

She began scrolling through the platform's most popular listings. The testicle bounties had been booming for the past six months. They were a particular category of contract in which bounty hunters were paid to castrate specified targets.

For reasons that probably deserved an investigation of their own, adultery-related contracts had become especially popular.

One listing, Adultery Hazelnut, occupied the highest position in the rankings.

“Annoying,” Lucille muttered.

She began cancelling every accepted bounty involving people who had cheated on their partners, whether the contract demanded the death of the unfaithful partner or that of the person they'd cheated with.

One by one, the contracts disappeared from her list.

Lucille continued scrolling, her expression growing increasingly irritated.

She had no interest in spending her time hunting down unfaithful lovers.

She had a much more personal obsession to attend to.

Raymond had finished bathing and was dressed for the afternoon.

He stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his beige linen shirt. The outfit was simple, consisting of a matching shirt and a pair of loose-fitting trousers in the same soft, oatmeal shade. The shirt had a band collar, its top button left undone, and its sleeves were rolled up to three-quarter length. The fabric fell naturally across his frame, its wrinkles giving it the sort of effortless appearance that some people spent considerable money trying to achieve.

His trousers hung loosely around his legs, secured at the waist with a drawstring. A dark wooden bead bracelet rested on one wrist, while a silver watch occupied the other. Dark leather sandals completed the outfit.

Raymond examined himself for a moment.

He wasn't particularly interested in impressing people with his appearance, but there was little harm in making an effort when one was about to take a woman on a date. Even a man with a complicated family and a growing collection of dangerous problems was entitled to a pleasant afternoon.

He picked up his phone and made a call.

“Afternoon, Bella.”

“Ohhh, Mike. It's nice to see you calling for once,” Arabella replied.

Raymond smiled faintly at the sound of her voice.

“Well, I'm calling because I want our date to be today. In two hours.”

“Oh, today? I... I will definitely come.”

Arabella wiped a splash of blood from her face with her shoulder.

She was standing in a basement.

The room was poorly lit, its concrete walls holding the cold, stale smell of a place that had not been designed for pleasant company. A man lay at her feet, and the axe in her hands was buried in his skull.

The cheerful voice she had used on the phone seemed to belong to an entirely different woman.

“Where will we be having this date?” she asked, still sounding delighted.

“Troysand Beach,” Raymond answered.

“I'll be there in two hours.”

“Good. I'll see you then.”

Arabella ended the call.

For a brief moment, the smile remained on her face, as though it had forgotten that the conversation was over. Then it disappeared.

Her expression became cold.

She tightened her grip on the axe and tried to pull it free from the man's skull.

It wouldn't budge.

Arabella tugged harder, but the blade remained firmly lodged in place. She shifted her stance, planted one foot against the dead man's face, and pulled with both hands.

Still nothing.

The situation was becoming undignified.

“Let me help you, madam,” said a man standing beside her.

He wore a black suit and had watched her struggle with the weapon without offering assistance until now. Whether this was because he had been waiting for her to ask or because he had simply wanted to see how long she would persist was a question best left unanswered.

Arabella stepped aside.

The man approached the body.

“Just clean the place,” she ordered. “I have a date, and I haven't even prepared.”

The man looked at her, then at the body.

“I wouldn't want you to be late.”

“Neither would I.”

Arabella turned and left the basement, abandoning the axe to the man in the black suit.

She had two hours to prepare herself for Raymond.

And she had no intention of letting a dead man ruin her afternoon.

Troysand Beach

An hour and fifty minutes later, Raymond had parked his car in the parking lot at the top of the hill.

Below him lay Troysand Beach, stretching along the coast beneath the afternoon sky. The ocean moved in long, unhurried waves, each one rolling towards the shore before collapsing into white foam and retreating. The breeze carried the smell of saltwater, and the sand shifted beneath Raymond's bare feet as he walked along the beach.

He was alone.

There was something peaceful about the absence of people. No conversations to maintain, no questions to answer, and no one demanding that he explain himself. Just the ocean, the wind, and the occasional cry of a seabird somewhere overhead.

Raymond admired the water as he walked, his hands resting comfortably in his pockets.

He had chosen the place for a reason. Troysand Beach was his favourite spot in Kingsmere whenever he had things to think about or words he needed to say. The ocean had a way of making problems feel smaller, even when it did absolutely nothing to solve them.

Unfortunately, he had invited Arabella Cavendish to join him.

And Arabella was not the sort of person who made problems feel smaller.

Up in the parking lot, Arabella had spotted his car.

She approached it, expecting to find Raymond inside. When she discovered the vehicle was empty, she looked around, her expression briefly clouded by confusion. Then she glanced down the hill.

There he was, walking along the beach, apparently admiring the ocean.

Arabella smiled.

She made her way towards the stairs leading down to the sand, careful not to lose her balance in her high heels. By the time she reached the bottom, Raymond had noticed her and was already walking towards her.

“You made it. I thought you'd be late,” he said.

“Oh, come on. I wouldn't make you wait too long.”

Raymond looked down at her shoes.

“Let me help with those.”

He crouched in front of her and gently removed her high heels.

“Barefoot?” Arabella asked, looking at him with mild surprise.

“It's nice. You'll love it, trust me.”

“I trust you.”

She smiled at him.

Raymond looked up, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in her expression. For someone who had spent much of her life surrounded by complicated people and complicated arrangements, Arabella could make a simple smile feel like an agreement to something neither party had properly discussed.

“I care about your interests,” she said. “Please, don't be quiet.”

Raymond stared at her for a moment, confused by the sudden declaration.

Arabella flipped her hair over her shoulder, still smiling as though she had said something perfectly ordinary.

He rose to his feet, took her hand, and led her down towards the water.

The sand was cool beneath their feet. A breeze swept across the beach, stirring Arabella's hair while the waves continued their steady approach and retreat.

“The beach is the most peaceful place in Kingsmere,” Raymond said. “It's my favourite place when I have things to say.”

“I thought the cemetery was the most peaceful.”

Raymond kept his eyes on the ocean.

He was beginning to suspect that bringing Arabella here had been a bad idea. Unfortunately, he had already committed himself to the date, and there were few things more exhausting than trying to escape a situation one had willingly arranged.

“I didn't know your father was Hugo Cavendish,” he said.

“Yes, he is my father. He's a lovely father at times. What about him?”

Arabella's smile remained in place, bright and almost unnaturally enduring. She looked at Raymond with the fondness of a woman who had been waiting for an opportunity to spend time with him, rather than someone who had recently left a basement where a man had died.

“Do you perhaps know when he'll be free?” Raymond asked.

“I do. I think he said Monday. He'll be resting, or something about a cigar being delivered.”

Raymond absorbed the information without changing his expression.

Monday.

He filed the detail away in his mind, careful not to let his interest show too plainly.

“But we're on a date,” Arabella continued. “Shouldn't we be talking about love and stuff?”

“We should, but I was just asking questions. Being curious, that's all.”

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh.”

Arabella's expression shifted as the explanation seemed to settle in her mind.

“I give a fuck,” she announced. “I give lots of fucks. Actually, I'm a prostitute of feelings and caring about what you're curious about.”

Raymond looked at her.

There were moments in life when a person could do little more than accept the words presented to them and hope that time would eventually make sense of everything. This was one of those moments.

He had questions about Hugo. He had questions about Monday. He had questions about several matters that could potentially get him killed.

And now, apparently, he had a woman who was prepared to prostitute her feelings in exchange for the privilege of answering them.

“I understand, Bella,” he said.

Arabella smiled again and touched his shoulder.

“Let's go find something to eat,” Raymond suggested.

“I'm very hungry. I didn't eat.”

“I'll treat you well, then.”

They walked back towards the parking lot, Arabella holding tightly onto Raymond's arm as though she feared he might suddenly change his mind and disappear into the ocean.

Raymond didn't comment on her grip.

He had more important things to worry about, although he was beginning to suspect that Arabella herself might eventually qualify as one of them.

Once they reached the car, he opened the passenger door for her. She climbed inside, placing her high heels beside her before settling into the seat. Raymond walked around to the driver's side and got in.

For the first time that afternoon, they were heading somewhere that resembled an ordinary date.

The car pulled out of the parking lot and began its journey towards the town.

“I heard you're a lawyer,” Raymond said as they drove. “Besides being a lawyer, what do you like doing?”

Arabella turned towards him.

“I am naturally good at doing what I'm not supposed to be doing.”

Raymond glanced at her.

“I've noticed.”

“Really?”

“Really. I've noticed it many times.”

Arabella's smile widened.

Raymond returned his attention to the road.

He had come to Troysand Beach hoping for a peaceful walk and a chance to ask a few questions. Instead, he had found himself holding hands with Hugo Cavendish's daughter, listening to her discuss the prostitution of feelings, and preparing to share a meal with a woman whose definition of an ordinary afternoon was probably best kept away from the authorities.

Still, the date had only just begun.

There was plenty of time for things to get worse.