Every loss had been anticipated. Every delay had been watched. The cameras in the corridor, the kitchen, the stairwell—Marsh had been running a continuous operational picture of Marcus’s household for two years. Not a conspiracy of passion or impulsive greed. A conspiracy of patience—meticulous, cold, and long-planned.
“Catherine loved that dog,” Marcus said quietly, alone in his study that night. Titan lay beside the desk. Wren had brought him there on a loose lead, a careful reintroduction to the house. The dog lay with his great head on Marcus’s foot, breathing slowly.