SEBASTIAN.
The email sat open on my screen.
Alastair did not die a natural death.
It was a simple sentence, yet devastating. I stared at it again, like the words would rearrange themselves into something less hard. But it didn't, because it was real, Alastair Rowe was murdered.
I looked at the floor and the pieces of glass that I shattered earlier were still scattered around, I stared at them blankly before finally pressing the intercom.
“Clean up the mess in my office,” I said flatly when the cleaner answered. “Get a new glass for me.”
“Yes sir.”
The cleaner arrived immediately and got to work, he worked quietly and almost invisibly. I preferred it that way. I sat quietly as another glass of whiskey was poured for me, untouched once again.
My grandfather was murdered. The thought
