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Well, he certainly didn’t waste any time. I’m curious as to what the big problem is and why it’s brought our FBI friend dashing to Hiatus. I slowly stand, going to Ringo and reclaiming my daughter. “Nolan, her pram is in the trunk. Go get it.”
He leaves and we all make our way down to the other office—the office we’re comfortable hosting an FBI agent in. Because it’s not harboring millions in laundered cash. Everyone takes their seats, and I abandon my drink in favor of breast milk for Maggie. Her mouth fumbles around the teat, her little nose wrinkling, her hands thrashing. “Come on,” I whisper, glancing up when Higham strolls in. He looks smart in a tuxedo. Fresh. Less beaten. “Now I know you didn’t get all dressed up just for me.”
“I have a date,” he says, prompting me to look at the clock on the wall. It’s midafternoon. “A gala for the charity my wife and I support.”
“Your wife? So it didn’t work out with the journalist?” I smile. Natalia Potter was one hundred percent with Higham for information and nothing else.
“It didn’t.” He shifts, irritated. “I’m making amends.”
“So I could have killed her after all?”
He rolls his eyes and looks at my arms. “You recruit young, Danny.”
“Let’s be clear, Higham,” I say, looking down, silently willing Maggie to take the milk. “This is the only time you’ll ever meet my daughter.” She’s gonna be a good girl. Rose will kill me if she isn’t. “So what can we do for you?” Maggie finally latches on, and I exhale my relief, relaxing.
“As ever, Danny, it isn’t what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”
Oh? “Did I miss the part when I came to you for help right now?” I won’t lie, my heart is clattering with anticipation. None of us have forgotten the small matter of my wife seeing red and shooting my ex-fuck Amber. Problem is, Oliver Burrows moved the body before we could get rid of it. And the further problem is, Oliver Burrows is now dead, courtesy of Beau’s mother, so we can’t ensure the body of my ex-fuck is never found, therefore I can’t guarantee my wife is safe from prosecution. So . . . is that why he’s here? Has Amber’s body turned up?
Higham looks at the less well-stocked bar. “Mind?” he asks, helping himself before getting a nod. I look at Brad. Brad looks at James. James looks at Ringo. Ringo looks at Otto. It’s a Mexican wave of concerned expressions. Higham seems like he really needs that drink.
And then he flops down into a chair and exhales. I don’t like this.
As ever, Danny, it isn’t what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.
“Talk, Higham.” Brad takes the words right out of my mouth, and James moves in closer, adding a presence. His hands are twitching. They haven’t murdered anyone for quite some time.
Higham looks between all of us in turn, like he can’t decide which one of us he wants to be farthest away from right now. He must decide I’m the lesser of three evils—I’m assuming Maggie in my arms is playing a part in that—because Higham gets up and comes to the desk. Reaching into his inside pocket as he necks the last of his drink, he slaps a bunch of photographs down. Everyone moves in, crowding the wood, looking down, and I tentatively reach forward and disturb the pile.
My stomach turns, and I instinctively pull Maggie in closer to my chest, shielding her from the horror on my desk. A horror I recognize.
“What the fuck?” Brad breathes, seeing what I’m seeing. As expected, James and Otto look pretty clueless, the men in the pictures are just two more dead, mutilated bodies, and, frankly, James has made far worse messes of men before. Ringo, however, has been around my family long enough to know what we’re staring at.
Brad looks up at me. His face. I expect mine is a similar shade of Jesus Christ. I feel my nostrils flaring, rage brewing. Not ideal when I have my baby daughter in my arms. Maggie loses her grip of the teat, starting to get frustrated, and I stand, walking off some of the stress as I battle to help her get hold of it again. But for all the will in the world, she’s not taking it. “For fuck’s sake,” I hiss quietly, as frustrated as she is. “Come on, darling. You can do it.”
“Will someone tell me why the fuck the temperature in here just went from comfortable to icy?” James asks, his tall, built body stiff. Charged. “Who are those men?”
“I don’t know,” I say, as Maggie goes all out demonic and starts screaming. “No, no, no, baby, it’s okay.” I lift her to my shoulder, patting at her back, focusing on her wind. Not the rage. “Daddy’s here, don’t cry.”
“Then what the fuck’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Brad says loudly, to be heard over Maggie. “Is the emblem carved into their chests.” I look across to Brad, his finger on the top picture. “That’s the Black family emblem.”
“And there are only two members of the Black family alive,” I add.
James takes a wary step away, looking between Brad and me. AKA: the only two members of the Black family still alive. “When did these men die?” He turns his attention to Higham.
“At a guess, within the past week.”
“Fuck.”
“Shhhh,” I hush, fighting with Maggie, my mind sprinting, question after question turning over in my head. Who did this? What does it mean? My ears are starting to ring. Nolan smacks the door open with Maggie’s pram.
He reads the room in an instant. “What?” he asks, looking at us all while Maggie continues on her mission to bring the fucking roof down with her cries. Fuck, I can’t think. But who the fuck carved that emblem on those chests and why isn’t my priority right now. I go to Nolan and claim the pram, laying Maggie down. I catch a whiff of what may be the problem. “Where’s her bag?”
“Here.” Pearl appears, holding up Maggie’s changing bag. “Everything okay?” she asks, obviously sensing the tension, the bag lowering.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Brad snaps, taking her arm and guiding her out of the office. She doesn’t protest. She should. In fact, if I were her, I’d punch the fucker on the nose. I can’t even blame his mood on this shocking revelation. This is just Brad lately and, unfortunately for Pearl, she seems to be a trigger.
