“No.” But instead I leave an opening, because my curiosity is raging. I damn the part of me that hasn’t yet got the memo that I’m no longer a cop.
“So when can you look?”
“Let me just check my calendar,” I say, pulling my cell away from my ear for a few seconds, rolling my eyes at myself. I look across to Mom. I know. Pathetic. “Monday evening?” I ask once I’ve left it long enough to check my empty schedule.
“Eight,” he says, but it isn’t a question. He’s not suggesting. He’s telling me.
And that gets my back up. “Seven. I’ll need your name and address.”
“Eight. I’ll text it to you.” He hangs up, and I stare at the screen of my phone, slightly stunned.
“Okay then,” I say to myself, frowning at the sky, ignoring the part of my brain that’s asking me what on earth I’m doing. The bigger part of my brain is too enthralled.
And distracted.
“Oh look,” I whisper, lifting my cell and pointing it at the sky. “That one looks like the shape of Britain.”
5
JAMES
Suicide it is, then. My skin tingles. I know what that means.
Danger.
Goldie wanders into my office and clocks my mobile resting on my cheek. “What the fuck are you playing at?”
She knows. Of course she knows. Since the moment I ripped a bloke off her at the back of a London boozer and battered the fucker, she’s not left my side. That was six years ago. She never went back into the Marines. Their loss. My gain.
I get up, tossing my mobile on the desk and rounding it, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. “Have you eaten?” I ask, my way of telling her that this isn’t up for debate. Because how the fuck am I going to explain it to her when I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing myself?
“No. Answer me. That woman was the next exciting thing to come out of the academy. She fucking flew through her Phase One, for fuck’s sake, just like her mother. They called her—”
“Lara Croft,” I murmur. “I know.”
Goldie’s nostrils flare. “So what are you going to do? Kill her?” She snaps her mouth shut quickly, her eyes unusually wide. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re worried about her?”
I scowl as I pick up my feet, passing her. “I don’t worry about people. I kill people.” But the truth is, if Beau Hayley doesn’t give up on her relentless need for justice, she could be opening a whole new can of worms I can’t be fucked to deal with. She could also end up dead. “I’m ensuring my immunity.” I need Beau Hayley to stop digging, and I haven’t a fucking clue how to achieve that.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” I swipe up my car keys and march out of my office, willing myself to get my head on straight quickly before I send everything I’ve worked for to shit.
I get in my elevator, the doors close, and I stare at myself in the reflection. I see them clearly. The devil on one shoulder. An angel on the other.
The devil speaks louder. The angel never made it.
I blink, looking away from the man staring back at me.
The stranger.
Yet the person I know best in this world.
The doors open, and I see Otto look up from the desk in the lobby. As I pass, I glance at the bank of screens before him, footage from every angle of my building. Every empty floor, watched. Every entrance, watched. The roof, watched. “I’m expecting someone on Monday evening. Beau Hayley. Send her straight up.”
Yep. Straight-up suicide.
“Beau . . .” Otto fades off, catching his tongue. But the tone in which he spoke her name was loaded with concern. “No problem.”
By the time I’ve made it to the garage, I’ve still found no sense. I get in my car, start the engine, and tap in Beau Hayley’s address into the sat nav.
And by the time I pull into her street, still no fucking sense.
I park up across the road and turn off the engine, resting my elbow on the door, my eyes lasers on the house. An hour passes with no signs of life. Nothing. Not even a shred of sensibility for me.
And then there’s something. A taxi pulls into the street, and I sink lower in my seat. Lower still when it pulls into the space directly in front of me. She’s in the back, literally meters away. She could look into my car and see me clearly. Seen.
I watch her, tense, once again wondering what the fuck I’m playing at, as she stares at the house for what seems like days. What is she doing?
Eventually, she gets out and stands motionless by the side of the cab for a few minutes. Then she gets back in, and the taxi pulls out quickly. I breathe for the first time in minutes, scrubbing my hands down my face. “Don’t follow her,” I warn myself, starting the engine, looking in the rearview mirror at the taillights getting farther away. A quick three-point turn has me facing the wrong direction. And only seconds after that, I’m two cars behind the cab.
I follow it to the supermarket where it drops her at the store entrance. I get out and jog across the car park. Stop. Turn around to go back to my car. Turn back. “Fuck,” I breathe, following her in. I take a basket and tail her as she wanders aimlessly up and down every aisle in the quiet supermarket. But I keep a safe distance.
Safe? Being in the same country as this woman isn’t safe. “Leave,” I order myself, studying her browsing the aisles. But she puts nothing in her basket. She doesn’t seem to be here for anything in particular.
Unlike me.
I’m here for something.
Damage control.
And yet I feel like I’m losing my grip on all control.
6
BEAU
On Monday evening at eight, I push my way through the glass doors into the lobby of James House, a space-age, ultra-modern twenty-story building on the east side of town. I’m immediately alarmed by the number of mirrors I’m confronted with. Every wall, every door, even the elevator.
The concierge glances up. “Can I help you?” He’s a giant, with a startling number of piercings on his face and an impressive beard. Is he the concierge? Security? None of the above?
“I’m here to see James Kelly. My name’s Beau.”
“He said to send you straight up.” He heads toward the elevator as I follow, avoiding all of the mirrors, and I peek at the desk as I pass, seeing dozens of screens. Security cameras. Everywhere. It isn’t odd. But so many?
He swipes a card through a reader and the doors ping open. I’m faced with more mirrors. Stepping inside, he punches a few buttons on the panel. “It goes straight to the top floor.” He holds the doors for me to enter.
“Thank you.”
He nods pensively, the doors close, and I’m confronted by my reflection. I squint, stepping forward, looking closely at my eyes. Usually empty eyes that are now overflowing with curiosity. “What are you doing, Beau?” I ask quietly. “Leave.” I rake a hand through my loose, dark blonde hair, combing through the long ends with my fingers, pulling the masses over one shoulder. It’s wavy. Unmanageable. I sigh and pull it up into a messy ponytail, pulling the sleeves of my oversized shirt down and tying the tails into a knot.