Kynan McGrath stands behind the desk, his piercing blue eyes locking onto us the moment we enter. He’s as commanding as I imagined from our brief call this morning—tall, broad and exuding an air of authority that makes it clear he’s in charge.
“Penn Navarro,” he says, his British accent crisp and efficient. “Big fan of yours.”
We shake hands and Kynan’s attention goes to Mila. “And you must be Mila Brennan. Welcome.”
He gestures to the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
As we settle in, I can’t help but feel like we’ve just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.
And I think things are about to get a hell of a lot more interesting.
Kynan leans back in his own chair, hands steepled before his broad chest, eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses me and Mila. He’s not one for unnecessary pleasantries, and I can tell he’s already calculating the risks and potential threats we’re dealing with based on what little information he’s been provided by Van.
Malik leans casually against the far wall, arms crossed, but his body language is deceptive. He’s laser-focused, eyes sharpas they scan Mila and me, already piecing together the puzzle before we’ve even spoken a word.
Kynan’s gaze shifts to me first. “So, tell me everything.”
My mind works to put our story into a timeline he can understand. I tell him as succinctly as I can about the hazing incident, how Nathan died, and how both Mila and I knew who was involved. I explain that it was our testimony that ensured those who killed Nathan were punished, but that our names were never given to the public.
“I’m assuming some people knew you and Mila were the ones who turned them in?” Kynan asks.
I nod. “It leaked, got around to the teammates. We never talked about it… never confirmed or denied, but people in our community knew.”
“And they weren’t happy,” Kynan says. A statement, not a question.
“The success of the hockey team was more important than a kid dying,” I reply bitterly. “At any rate, I’ve been harassed over the years by former members of the Wraiths. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But Mila’s getting serious threats now.”
Kynan’s gaze moves to Mila, waiting for her story.
“It started a few months ago,” she says, soft but steady. “At first there were texts, then the emails started. All anonymous. All increasingly more violent, but I couldn’t tell who they were coming from.”
Kynan’s jaw ticks. “How violent?”
Mila’s voice quavers slightly. “The first ones were… warnings. Threats calling me a liar. But lately…” She swallows, her fists tightening in her lap. “They’ve been worse. More direct. They said I’d pay for what I did. That I wouldn’t see it coming. That I’d suffer before I die.”
Kynan’s eyes harden, but it’s Malik who speaks first. “Jesus Christ.”
“Have you reported these threats to the police?” Kynan asks, all business now.
Mila nods. “I did. But they said without any concrete evidence or a clear suspect, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Typical,” Kynan mutters, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk as his piercing gaze locks onto Mila. “I assume you still have the messages?”
“Yes.” Mila’s hands tremble slightly as she pulls her phone from her pocket. She unlocks the screen and hands it to Kynan. “All the texts are there as well as the emails.”
He takes it without hesitation, his expression unreadable as he scrolls through the messages. His eyes narrow, and I see his jaw flex as he reads the chilling words that have haunted Mila.
“Malik.” Kynan hands over the phone without a word, and Malik’s easygoing demeanor vanishes as he steps forward, eyes scanning the screen with a sharp, practiced focus.
“Burner numbers without a doubt,” Malik mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Untraceable. And the emails… all routed through VPNs, I’m sure. Whoever’s doing this knows how to cover their tracks, but we’ll run this through Bebe and she’ll be able to locate the source.”
“Really?” Mila asks hopefully.
Malik offers her an encouraging smile. “We’ve got the best and brightest electronic forensic analysts, but I’m giving this to Bebe Grimshaw, who is at the top of her field. If anyone can locate the source, it’s her.”
“Have you detected any patterns to the messages?” Kynan asks, his gaze flicking to Mila.
“Not that I can tell,” she says. “The messages are random. Sometimes a few days apart. Sometimes weeks. But they’re getting more frequent.”
