She pouts. “I can take care of myself, you know!”
“Step back from the rail!” I unlatch carabineer after carabineer, trying to free myself from the ropes, but each time I’ve disconnected them all, I find more. I’m stuck in the blasted thing.
The sky opens, and heavy rain pulverizes us. It’s raining so hard, I can barely make her out. Between the steep slope of the walkway and the pouring rain, my boots start to slide beneath me. We need to get down.
“We need to go back,” I yell. “It’s not safe.”
“But the view is spectacular!” She jumps up just as a nasty gust of air blasts between us, making her stumble back. She winks. “Oops, that was close.” She turns then leans over the rope rail. “We’re awfully high up here. Will you catch me, Oxford? With you save me if I fall?”
“Step back, Lily! Between the wind and the rain, we need to get you out of here.”
She smiles, so sweetly, then shrugs. “You didn’t get to me in time.”
She leans back over the rail and falls. I finally break free of my ropes only to watch her plummet.
Lily!
My forehead crashes into something hard and pointed, and the resulting gash stings like a bitch. My eyelids feel as if they’re glued together. I have to rub them aggressively to pry them open. When I can finally blink, my vision is hazy. It takes me a few moments to realize what’s going on.
I’m not on the top of O2; I’m on the floor of the study at Hampstead. Bloody hell. It was just a dream.
When I stretch and yawn, an empty scotch bottle falls from my lap then rolls across the hardwood floor. The same bottle I broke the wax seal on no less than twelve hours ago. No wonder my mouth feels as though it’s been coated in glue. The smear of blood on the corner of the coffee table explains the pain in my forehead. I’ll have to remember to sleep away from furniture with sharp corners next time I get too hammered to make it back to bed.
A clanging of dishes sends a painful jolt straight to my hungover brain. I cover my ears with my hands. My muscles scream at me as I push myself off the floor to see who the bloody hell is clamoring around. I punished my body with too much scotch and by sleeping on the sofa, so today, my body’s punishing me.
Mason comes around the corner with a tray of tea and biscuits. “Good, you’re up. You have visitors.”
He places the tray on the coffee table in front of me. The smell of the tea turns my stomach, so I slide to the other side of the sofa. “What do you mean I have visitors? Who knows I’m here? And at this hour?”
“It’s well after noon. A group from MI5 just arrived to take your statement, and I’ve set them up in the library. I told them you would be with them shortly, so I suggest you get upstairs and shower. I could smell you all the way across the room.”
As much as I have no desire to relive yesterday’s horrors, I know I have no choice. I push myself off the sofa, rubbing the knot on the back of my neck. “Ring my solicitor. Max got a sketchy feeling about the chap in charge of the investigation, and my brain has been marinating in booze all night. I’m in no shape to do this on my own.”
“Mr. Southway is waiting in the lounge,” he replies. “Now, besides having the hangover from hell, how are you?”
Rubbing the scruff on my chin, I say, “How the hell do you think I am? I’m gutted. Thoroughly wrecked.”
He picks up the pot of tea and pours a cup. “When my sister died, I found mornings, or”—he looks at his watch—“early afternoon as the case may be, the hardest.”
“I dreamt about her,” I reply as I wipe the sleep from my eyes. “She was in danger, and I couldn’t save her. I’d step closer, and she’d do something to put herself in greater danger. I’d try to help, and she’d look at me like I’m an overbearing ninny. She slipped right through my fingers.”
He pours some honey into his tea then stirs it. “This isn’t your fault. I know you want it to be so you can hate yourself for it, but it’s not.”
Not wanting to listen to him try to cheer me up, I walk toward the door. “I’d better shower.”
He pulls a folder from beneath the tea tray and holds it out to me. “That was just couriered over from Mrs. Smythe at Edwards. Heaven forbid you take a day off to mourn.”
“Leave it on my desk, please. I’ll look at it later.” Something tells me I’m going bury myself in work over the next few months. Anything to distract me from life without Lily.
I go through the motions: shower, shave, change. Mason delivers a Scotch egg and pickles to my room. I cut it in half, but I can’t bear to eat a thing. What I really want is more scotch, but I at least have enough wits about me to stop myself. I’m tying my shoes when my mobile rings with “Queen Bitch” by David Bowie. Max must have landed and told Em.
“Emily,” I answer.
“Tell me he’s lying,” she says in a voice so artificially calm, I can sense she’s about to break. “Tell me this is some cruel trick he’s playing to get back at me.”
I drop my derby shoe on the floor and lie back on the bed. “I wish I could.”
“Fuck you,” she spits. “I don’t believe you.”
“Would I ever do something that cruel?”
She sniffs then clears her throat. “How did you let this happen? You were supposed to protect her! You promised you’d keep her safe. You’re Mr. Big Bad Defense Contractor with contacts and weapons. If you’re so damn good at your job, then why is my best friend dead?”
A lump forms in my throat. “You’re right.” My voice cracks. “I’m so sorry, Emily.”
“‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it! Your apologies won’t bring her back, will they? She fought so fucking hard to break free of cocksucker, and in the end, he still got her killed.” She screams, and I hear glass shatter. “Why the fuck did I introduce them in the first place?”
“Emily, stop. You couldn’t have known how it would turn out. No one could have predicted this. Don’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t,” she says snidely. “I blame you.”
Her statement feels like a knife to my gut. I’m at a loss for words. What could I possibly say?
“Shit, Gavin. I don’t mean that.” She sighs. “Maybe I do. I blame her, and I most certainly blame Ash. But I can’t yell at them, so you get to be their proxy.”
“You have every right to blame me. I failed her. Feel free to direct it all toward me.”
She stifles a sob. “Look, I can’t do this. When you can plan the funeral, call me. I’ll come and plan the whole thing. I’m a doer, a fixer. This emotional, existential, ‘why is the world so cruel’ shit, I—I just can’t do it.”
“Is Max still with you?” I know they’ve had their ups and downs, but I think they need each other right now.
“No, I kicked him out. Weren’t you just listening? I can’t be the one who dries his tears. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. I don’t have it in me to coddle him.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
She sniffles then offers a pathetic excuse for a laugh. “Am I ever alone? You know my dance card always has a waiting list.”
“I’m not talking about your playthings and party friends, Emily. I know you have plenty of people with whom to sip cocktails and waste time with superficial dribble, but that’s not what you need right now. ”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I need superficial. My ‘playthings,’ as you call them, don’t get slaughtered and tear my heart out. They’re the safest bet. Look, I’ve got to go. Call me when you need me.”
She’s gone before I can say another word.
Hopefully, Max won’t give up that easily. They need each other. Emily may have friends all over the world, but there are very few people she’s actually let in past her tough exterior. She keeps everyone at a safe distance. I’m not entirely sure why, but I can say with certainty that one day, the isolation will become too much for her, and I worry she’ll have pushed everyone so far away, she won’t have anyone left to catch her w
hen she falls. Once I finally take down the cartel, I’ll fly to Boston and spend some time with her. For some reason, she’s allowed me to see beyond the socialite, beyond the academic.
Mason knocks on my door, announcing that my solicitor, Ewan Southway, awaits me in the study.
Ewan extends his hand when I approach. “Mason gave me the basic details. I’m so sorry for your loss. What a horrific tragedy! I wish I could say that this will be easy, but I can’t. They’re going to ask about everything. We could be here for quite some time.”
“I understand. I want to cooperate, so I’ll answer whatever questions they have.” I gesture to the hallway. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Mr. Hodges and a few other lackeys stand as I enter the library.
“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” I ask.
Mr. Hodges unbuttons his suit jacket. “Mr. Edwards, we know this is a difficult time, but we must take your statement.”
I sit down and fold my hands on the table. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Let’s begin,” Hodges says.
The conversation starts friendly enough. I go over the details of the day, and Isaac is brought in to present any potential threats that could come from my work at Edwards or my personal life. But after a few hours, the tone of the meeting shifts. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was an interrogation. Considering I was in the SIS building when Lily was killed, I certainly can’t be a suspect, but that doesn’t stop them from treating me as such. Hodges doesn’t hold anything back. He thinks having two ladies in my life die in suspicious circumstances warrants a thorough investigation. From his perspective, I can’t say I blame him. The disdain with which he glares at me from across the room pales in comparison to the contempt I feel for myself.
I sense he feels this case could be his ticket to success. A high-profile case such as this could make his career, make him a household name. With the way his lips curl up a little when he glares at me, the endless bouncing of his foot under the table, he looks like a little boy getting a bite the first time he goes fishing. Little does he know that all he’s caught is a boot.
The longer he carries on, the more it wears on me and the more energized he becomes. Perhaps he senses that the weight of my guilt is breaking me emotionally and spiritually, but feeling guilty and being culpable are two very different things. I’ll already pay for this crime every day for the rest of my life—I don’t need to be behind bars to do it. If I’m locked away, I can’t hunt down the real killer. From the looks of things, Hodges couldn’t find a killer with a confession, a GPS, and a big blinking sign that says, “Murderer hiding out here.” Thank heavens I called Nigel.
I maintain my decorum and don’t let them fluster me. Mason, being the clever man he is, stopped bringing fresh water, tea, and coffee at about hour three. If they want to grill me, they won’t get refreshments whilst doing it.
Once the clock strikes eight, Isla storms in, badge in hand. Jaws drop as they take in her attire. They’re accustomed to women in frumpy dresses and pantsuits. Women dressed in tight leather pants and sheer jumpers are mythical creatures only to be read about in magazines or shown on the tele. From her smirk, I can tell she thrives on men’s reactions to her. I suppose that serves her well professionally on undercover missions and feeds her ego the rest of the time.
“Gentlemen, Isla McGregor, Interpol. I just left a meeting with the task force, and based on the evidence provided by the FBI, the direction of this investigation has shifted. From here on out, we’re looking at the cartel connection exclusively.”
Hodges picks his jaw up off the floor as the lust vanishes from his eyes. No one wants their case taken away, especially in such a humiliating fashion. Anger replaces his desire as Isla takes my place as the most hated person in the room. “If there had been a change in directive, I would have been informed.”
She walks across the room and leans against the table next to Hodges. “Check your mobile.”
Hodges fishes his mobile from his case and searches for a few moments. His eyes go wide, then he scowls. “Oh. I see.” He places his mobile on his notepad then steeples his hands. “Mr. Edwards, thank you for your cooperation. Please don’t leave town as we may have further questions.” He gathers his belongings and drops them into his case. Deflated, he stands and picks his case off the table. “No need to get up. I can show myself out.”
As soon as Hodges and his lackeys leave, I turn to Isla. “I didn’t know you were part of the task force.”
Isla says, “I rang them this morning and offered my services. You’re welcome. I’m sure you’ll find a way to pay me back later.” She winks then walks to the door.
“Ewan, what do you think?” When he doesn’t respond, I turn to him and notice his gaze is locked on the sway of Isla’s hips. I punch his arm. “Can we focus please?”
“Huh? What?” he stammers.
I growl.
He takes one last look at Isla then says, “I’m not worried at all. I looked Hodges up this morning after I received the call from Mrs. Smythe. He has a history of reaching for sensational cases and ending up with egg all over his face. You’d think the poor sod would learn by now. There’s no way his boss lets him pursue this, especially now that Interpol is involved. I’d expect a call from him later tonight where he’ll be kissing your ass and begging for your help.”
“Whilst I’m relieved he’ll be off my back, I’m infuriated this jackass was assigned Lily’s case. If I weren’t—”
He holds up his hand. “Don’t finish that statement. I don’t want to know.” He looks at his watch. “Damn, I need to get out of here. Keep me in the loop, all right?”
Once I hear the click from the door closing, I lie on the sofa. My brain is a cesspool of false accusations, guilt, and grief causing an unrelenting throbbing in my skull. I can barely think straight, let alone plot my next move. The fight against my heavy lids becomes a losing battle.
The moment sleep starts to take me, Mason enters the room. “Nigel and the rest of the lads are waiting for you in the theatre room. Shall I tell them you’ll be on your way, or would you like some time to yourself?”
“No, I’m awake.” I muster what little energy I have left and sit up. I rub my hands over my face, trying to wake up. The course scruff reminds me of how disheveled I probably look. Not that I give a shite. It’s time to get moving.
Sleep would have been a waste of time anyway. I would have just dreamt of Lily and been shattered to wake up to a nightmare.
Chapter Six
Lily
I was tangled up with Gavin in the most blissful dream when I slammed into the back of the trunk.
The car’s stopped.
From the cobwebs in my brain, I either have a concussion or I’ve been asleep for a while. Nothing like a little carbon monoxide poisoning to lull a girl to sleep. I wish I’d stayed awake though. I’d be more alert and maybe have some idea of how long we’d been driving. We could be in the outskirts of London or in Spain for all I know.
Car doors slam, shaking the car. I clench every muscle in my body in preparation for a fight. The trunk pops open, and I’m momentarily blinded by the interior trunk light. A filthy rag is stuffed in my mouth. I try to force it out with my tongue, but he ties it around my head. As an added bonus, strands of my hair get caught in the knot, pulling at my scalp. The rag tastes of sweat, dirt, and from the smell, I’m guessing gas.
“You tied her up?” Potato Nose says to Crazy Eyes. “Ropes cause cuts and bruises, esé. No dañar la mercancía.”
From my limited times in Tijuana and Nogales, I’m pretty sure that means “Don’t damage the merchandise,” but I could be wrong. To say my Spanish is limited is generous. I took French in high school and college. A lot of good that’s doing me now.
Crazy Eyes steps closer. He really doesn’t look good. He’s pale and sweating buckets. “Fuck it. She’ll still sell. Now get her inside.” Regardless of how weak he looks, Crazy Eyes is clearly
in charge.
Potato Nose pulls me out of the trunk. I fight as much as I can, but considering I’m hogtied, I’m far from a worthy adversary. I’m flung over a shoulder and carried across a parking lot. I crane my neck, trying to take in my surroundings. It’s a dark night. Thick clouds blanket the sky, blocking out any moonlight. Not a landmark to be seen. The parking lot backs to woods, and I can’t see anything through the trees. Not even a damn street sign or anything that would help me figure out if I’m still in the UK. I tilt my head, trying to get a better look at what we’re walking toward.
We’re at a storage facility. Not one of the nice ones with lots of bright lighting and security cameras, but one of the sketchy ones where people store chopped-up bodies. Most of the light bulbs are burnt out, the parking lot and sidewalk are crumbling, and the exterior wall looks as if it might tumble if the wind blows too strong. Potato Nose bends and pushes up the door to a unit. He pulls the rope on the bulb hanging from the ceiling, bringing a dim light to the unit, then tosses me in the corner like a bag of trash. With a creepy smile, he pulls a giant hunting knife from his pocket. Crouching in front of me, he runs the point of the blade down my cheek, along my neck, down the center of my chest. The knife never breaks my skin, but with the crazed look on his face, he could just be scaring me or preparing to gut me like a fish. My heart pounds as if it’s trying abandon ship as his dank, stinky breath tickles my neck. His grip around the knife tightens, and my body tenses in preparation. He draws the knife back and slices the ropes around my wrists.
Once the rope is cut, he pulls a bottle of water from his cargo pants pocket and drops it in my lap. “Drink.”
Still stunned from escaping what I was sure was sudden death, I’m too shocked to move, and I just stare at the bottle.
He pulls a gun from the back of his pants and points it at my forehead. “I said drink.”
I’m dying of thirst, but am I a complete moron if I drink it? What if it’s drugged? Poisoned? With a shaky hand, I pick it up. It doesn’t look tampered with, but what do I know? If it’s drugged, I die. If I don’t drink it, he shoots me. Lose-lose.
When Fates Align Page 5
