The Adviser

by Sydney Presley

  Edwin wasn’t sure. On the one hand he needed to be alone, but on the other, he was afraid of what that might entail. Too much time to think by himself, too many awful scenarios to entertain—but wasn’t that a good thing? Wouldn’t that make him prepared for what might happen?

  “I have no idea what I want,” Edwin said. “I want you here, I really do, but I’m worried it’ll distract me. I mean, what we talk about might distract me. Because I have a feeling we’d talk about everything except the issue, and I feel like I need to talk about the issue because then I’ll have covered everything in my head and have it straight in here.” He tapped his temple. “The bloke in question—I don’t even want to say his name; and isn’t it stupid that it feels like he’s listening? Like he knows that something’s off?”

  “That’s guilt or whatever.” Stuart selected a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, holding them up, probably gauging whether they’d fit.

  Edwin stared at his back, at the way the muscles moved. Yeah, he’d seen his back at various stages throughout their lives—paddling in the stream as cubs, whenever they’d shifted, and sunbathing on the field behind the pack house during summer to name a few—but he’d never seen it as broad and inviting until now—now that their cards were on the table and Edwin knew that he’d get to touch it at some point. Touch it in that way.

  “That’s because you know what’s going to happen.” Stuart tossed the jeans onto the bed. “And even though he’s an arsehole, and you don’t particularly like him, it’s like you’re betraying him.” He slid the T-shirt off the hanger then put it on. It was a little big.

  How was it that Stuart knew him so well? Or, rather, Stuart understood emotions better than anyone else Edwin knew? He was right, Edwin did feel like he was betraying Farrow. And why should he feel bad about doing that? Farrow was evil, yet at the same time he’d given Edwin a job when he’d needed it most, and he’d been so grateful at the time that he’d possibly put Farrow on a bit of a pedestal.

  But he doesn’t belong on it anymore. Doesn’t deserve the elevated status.

  “I’ll just have to get over that, then, won’t I,” Edwin said.

  Stuart grabbed the jeans then slipped them on. They fitted well, what with Edwin’s lower half being smaller than the top and a similar size to Stuart. But where Stuart was slender all the way up and down, Edwin’s torso kind of didn’t match his legs. Self-conscious, he moved the quilt up again to cover himself.

  “You will.” Stuart replaced the hangers then closed the wardrobe door. “Listen, I’m going to make some coffee. Want some?”

  Edwin nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “And don’t beat yourself up while you’re in the shower.” Stuart smiled as he turned at the doorjamb to look at Edwin. “You’re doing the right thing. You’re possibly saving your life. I say possibly, because although I think you’d beat the shit out of anyone if you really had to, your opponent, if you were in a fight-to-the-death situation, might be a hell of a lot bigger and stronger. So think about that. It’s either do what you have to do, or face another shifter in combat. I know which one I’d choose.”

  Stuart left then. The sound of his footsteps as he went down the stairs had Edwin feeling so alone, as though he was floundering. Stuart had always been his rock, the dependable one, there for him to lean on, and today was no different. Except he’d never needed Stuart so much in his life, and it worried him to think that he’d been prepared to run and not have that support anymore.

  He shook off those thoughts—they weren’t something he needed to dwell on any longer. Like Stuart had said, the past was gone. There was nothing he could do about it now except make amends, make things turn out the way they should have been in the first place—no Farrow out there supplying drugs and loans, no Farrow out there ordering killings. Oh, Edwin knew some other drug person would come along—they were everywhere, poisoning the world—but perhaps on a lesser scale and easier to catch.

  In the shower, he did what Stuart had suggested and didn’t beat himself up. He went for being positive—what he was about to do this afternoon was a good thing. He’d be saving the lives of those yet to get hooked on whatever shit Farrow was selling, and doing a favour to those already hooked by stopping their supply.

  There was a bright side to everything.

  Instead, he thought about how deep Farrow’s business went. How many people that one man affected. He suspected many lived in fear of not being able to pay the man what they owed—and even those people who just worked for him, like Edwin, who knew what was going on but were forced to turn a blind eye, they were living in fear, too. So many townsfolk, playing the outward game that Farrow was a good person, yet knowing inside that he wasn’t—and probably wanting to tell someone but worrying they wouldn’t be believed. Farrow was an infection, spreading through so many that it was a wonder anyone had the strength to carry on each day.

  Out of the shower, Edwin dressed, made the bed, then joined Stuart in the kitchen. The coffee smelt good, as did some toast piled high on a plate, and Edwin almost convinced himself, for a few precious seconds, that everything was normal. This was glimpse of what life would be like afterwards, when Farrow was locked up and Edwin and Stuart had progressed in their relationship.

  Edwin wanted it so much he could just about taste it.

  “Sit yourself down, eat, drink, and then we’ll thrash this all out.” Stuart placed a tub of butter on the table along with a knife. “If you want me here, that is.”

  Edwin knew he did. “Stay with me.”

  “All right.”

  And they ate, they drank, they thrashed it all out.

  By the time they’d finished, Edwin felt stronger, ninety-nine percent ready to face anything. If things went wrong, they’d agreed on what Edwin should do. He didn’t want to think about the implications of it, so he cleared his mind as much as he was able.

  “Remember, above all, you must get a verbal confession of some sort,” Stuart said. “That’s all Roberts needs to move forward on this shit. It should be easy. Anyway, it’ll be natural for you two to discuss what happened last night. Especially after you tell him about seeing the police cars outside the funeral parlour.”

  Edwin nodded and glanced at the clock. Christ, where had the morning gone? Had they really been talking for so long? In an hour he needed to show up for work. He rose, the toast and coffee from earlier seeming to form a messy ball in his gut.

  “I should change into my suit,” he said.

  Stuart stood, too. Held his arms out.

  Edwin walked into them. Grabbed Stuart. Wished to God he could stay in that embrace forever. His throat was tight, and he shut his eyes and pretended.

  Pretended that nothing weird was going on and that he wasn’t about to walk into the lion’s den.

  Lions. Lyons.

  It was never going to leave him, was it, this speck of time in the hopefully long stretch of his life. It would always be there, like a small stone in his shoe. Irritating, rattling around causing pain then embedding itself.

  Stuart pulled back and looked Edwin in the eyes. “You can do this, you know you can. You have to. The alternative isn’t something we can even contemplate.”

  Stuart was right on that score.

  Edwin sighed. “We’ll be okay after, won’t we, me and you?”

  “We will.” Stuart gripped the tops of Edwin’s arms, squeezed, then released him with a gentle shove. “Now go and put that suit on. It’s time to bring that motherfucker down.”

  Chapter Nine

  Roberts stalked up and down in front of his desk in the main pack house. He was wearing his police uniform, which didn’t usually bother Edwin, but today it did. His hair was as black as his outfit, although there were patches of grey at his temples. Roberts had been talking about various ways to catch Farrow, but Edwin’s mind had wandered and he hadn’t taken everything on board.

  “We’ve also considered putting spyware on Farrow’s phone so that we can listen in, read his e
mails and texts, and even keep track of what he’s doing on social media, but that’s risky.” Roberts grimaced and scratched his head. “We’d need access to his phone in order to download the spyware app, and that hasn’t been possible so far.” He stopped and stared at Edwin, lowering his hand to his side. “Until now.”

  “Um, no, sir,” Edwin said, doing a fair bit of pacing himself. “That’s also risky. I can’t get hold of his phone for any amount of time. It’s always on him or close by. He’s got eyes like a bloody hawk. So if today doesn’t pan out, if he doesn’t talk with me wearing a wire, that phone-spy option isn’t something that could be done.” Besides, stealing Farrow’s phone for however long it would take for some copper to do what needed to be done would scare Edwin shitless.

  But if it’s the only way? Would you do it then?

  You know I would.

  He halted the conversation going on in his head. There was no time for it now.

  “Indeed, hence the ‘wire’,” Roberts said. “Which won’t be an actual wire, by the way. We don’t want Farrow getting suspicious and ripping your shirt open like in some damn episode of CSI. You’ll wear cufflinks”—he laughed wryly—“equally something used in episodes of CSI, I know, but marginally better. We can hear everything going on, we can record it, and Farrow will be none the wiser.”

  “I don’t usually wear cufflinks. It might be something he takes notice of.” Edwin’s stomach wasn’t coping too well, what with all the churning it was doing.

  “Well, it’s all we’ve got. This town’s police budget doesn’t run to other, more discreet devices, so unfortunately, we’ve got to do the best we can with what’s on offer.” Roberts leant his arse against the edge of his desk and crossed his ankles. He rested one arm over his belly, propped his other elbow on top, and stroked his chin. “If he says something about them—the cufflinks—tell him they were a gift from your girlfriend or whatever.”

  “He knows I don’t have one.” Edwin smiled. “And anyway, I think he suspects I’m gay. Something he said recently about me being bent and that I just didn’t know it yet.”

  Roberts chuckled. “He might have meant that in another way, cub—bent; crooked, a criminal. Might not necessarily have been directed at which way you swing.”

  Edwin acknowledged that he might have been too sensitive when Farrow had said that, but who could blame him? People said nasty shit like that a lot. “So, the cufflinks?”

  He wanted to get this show on the road now. Get it out of the way so he could move on and try to live the best life he could despite whatever nightmares loitered inside his head, ready to play out the second he fell asleep.

  Roberts shoved himself off the desk then walked around to one of the grey filing drawers behind it. He took out a black velvet box, which he opened, and removed a pair of cufflinks—silver squares with indented diagonal stripes; nothing flashy or something most people would notice. He came to stand in front of Edwin, gesturing for him to lift his arms. Edwin did so, and Roberts attached the cufflinks.

  “Now,” Roberts said once he was done. “It’s imperative that you act normal.” He held up one hand. “And before you say anything, I know it’s going to be difficult, but like you said last night, you’ve been acting with him for quite some time, so just go into that mode and you’ll be fine.”

  Fine? Seriously? This isn’t the same thing. This is totally different.

  “All right,” Edwin said, realising how he’d literally just slipped into saying something that belied what he was feeling inside. He could do this, then. Couldn’t he? “At least this time I know I’ll have you close by if anything goes wrong. Before, I was on my own, only had myself to rely on.”

  “Correct. Myself and a few officers will be on hand. We already know the layout of his office building, so when it’s time for us to come in, it’s just a case of walking into reception, escorting Margaret outside to safety, then entering Farrow’s domain.” Roberts shrugged. “It should be plain sailing. I have a suspicion that Farrow will play the innocent man right down to the last knockings when we arrest him, so any form of violence isn’t really something we’re expecting. He’ll want to maintain his good-man persona for as long as he can. He isn’t going to admit to anything. I doubt he even will once he knows we have the evidence we need—evidence that will come from his own mouth.”

  Edwin widened his eyes. “But how can he deny it when it’ll be his voice that’s been caught on tape?”

  Roberts smiled. “Oh, you’d be surprised the lengths these types of people will go to, believe me.” He clapped and stood upright. “Okay, best you get going now.”

  If Edwin’s stomach churned any more, he’d be sick. “Fuck it. Right. Okay.” He turned to leave the room, his legs wobbly and his mind spinning with all the possibilities he’d envisioned before this moment. None of them were good. He’d get caught. Farrow would throw a fit. Produce a gun. Edwin would be shot and—

  No. It won’t go down like that.

  He shook himself back into reality. “I’ll see you when I see you, then.”

  “You will.” Roberts nodded. “Take care, cub.”

  Damn the Alpha for saying that. Edwin’s eyes stung, and he blinked while walking out of the office. Once outside, he jogged over to his cottage where his car was parked. In the car, he started the engine, telling himself this was just an ordinary day where he’d be giving Farrow advice. While he was backing out of his space and onto the street, he forced himself to think about what he would have for dinner, maybe sharing it with Stuart along with a glass of wine.

  Or two.

  Or a bottle, depending on what happens.

  As he pulled away, he spotted Stuart sitting in his own car beside the kerb. Christ, what was he thinking? Of following Edwin? Getting involved somehow? Edwin shook his head at him, warning him with his eyes not to do whatever it was he intended, but Stuart looked away.

  Bloody hell!

  There was no time to fuck about here, and if Stuart had it in his head to follow, he’d do it no matter what Edwin said. With no alternative but to continue on his journey—time was running out and he couldn’t afford to be late—Edwin prayed that Stuart would be okay. Roberts wouldn’t allow him to get in the way or put himself in danger when they arrived at Farrow’s office—Edwin had to believe that.

  With a glance in his rearview mirror, he saw Roberts in his vehicle behind him, his personal silver Ford and not a police one. Edwin didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he made his way to town where, as they’d discussed, he drove past the funeral parlour, where a police car was parked.

  This shit was real.

  Oh, God…

  Edwin swallowed then continued on. At Farrow’s place, he got out, locked up as usual, and surreptitiously glanced around to see where any policemen might be hiding. The only thing he spied was a small white van outside another office building, and even though the situation was dire, he smiled. Were the police in there, just like CSI, hiding in the back while waiting for Edwin’s conversation with Farrow to come through to their listening equipment?

  Who the fuck knows.

  He entered reception, oddly relieved to see Margaret sitting behind her desk. She appeared exactly as she always did—unruffled, grey hair-do done in perfect waves, her red lipstick just so. She had on her black suit and a dark-grey blouse. He glanced down. Yes, she had her grey shoes on, her ankles crossed, her skin-hued stockings a little ruched there.

  “You look nice today, Margaret,” he said and hoped his smile seemed genuine, that his voice sounded sincere. And normal.

  “Oh.” She patted the sides of her hair as her cheeks flushed. “I was supposed to be going to Mrs Toppins’ funeral this morning, but it’s been delayed.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Is that the woman whose coffin Mr Lyons was put in?

  Edwin shivered at the thought. “Any reason given?”

  Is that something I would have asked if I didn’t know what I know?

  I doubt
it.

  Shit.

  “No idea,” she said. “I just got word from the family that it would be next week now.” She tapped her short nails on the desk. “Such a strange thing, to have a funeral rescheduled when a date was all set. Never heard of anything like it in my life.”

  “Me neither. Friend of yours, was she?”

  Why did he want to know? To torment himself with it later?

  “I’ve known her since we were children. Went to school with her,” Margaret said. “A lovely woman. And it was such a shock when I heard she’d died. Don’t you remember it being in the paper? The home invasion in Randolph Street?”

  Fucking hell… Home invasion? Really? Did Farrow have a hand in that?

  Oh, come on. What the hell threat was an old woman to Farrow?

  “No, I don’t read the paper,” Edwin said, wanting to get away from her now. But he couldn’t. He always sat on the sofa in reception when he arrived at work. Not doing it might seem weird. Then again, would he do that if he had to tell Farrow something important?

  No.

  “Oh, yes,” Margaret trilled on. “Rumour has it that it was something to do with her grandson. Bit of a wayward type, him. Well, if you want to know the truth, he was a little bas— A not-nice person.” Her cheeks grew redder. “I shouldn’t gossip.”

  Edwin smiled. “We’re only chatting, and I won’t be telling anyone what you said.” Change the subject. “Anyway, is the boss in, because I need to speak with him.”

  “Yes, I’ll just buzz him to let him know.”

  Edwin sat on the sofa, just in case Farrow didn’t want him in his office right away. But with Margaret’s nod to him, he was up on his feet again within a couple of seconds and on his way to Farrow’s door. Fear raged inside him, but he reminded himself, as he knocked on the door, that the police had his back.

  “Come in,” Farrow called.

  This is it. No going back now.

  Edwin turned the handle then entered the room. Farrow had a face like a slapped arse, all red, and his eyes were narrowed to the point they appeared almost closed. Going for panicked, Edwin rushed over to the seat in front of the desk, dumped himself into it then gripped the armrests.