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Fear. It’s one of the things Aunt Zinnea has worked so hard to push out of me. I haven’t the heart to tell her it hasn’t worked. I don’t fear death anymore, but I fear life. I fear I’ll never be rid of this bitterness. Never be rid of the pain. Never be able to keep my mind clean. Never be able to look in the mirror and like what I see. It’s such an effort, an everyday struggle. And the answer to my problems is always haunting me. Everywhere I look, I see a way out.
Zinnea is my crutch.
I can’t bring myself to leave my crutch. She was Mom’s crutch too. And the object of my father’s scorn.
I breathe out and return my eyes to the clouds, feeling around on the grass beside me when I hear my cell. I look up at the screen, rolling my eyes at the strange number that I’ve become familiar with today. “Isn’t the sex party doing it for you?”
“You mentioned you paint,” he says, seeming to completely miss my quip.
My smile is hesitant. “I did.”
“I’m looking for a painter.”
He doesn’t sound too sure about that. In fact, he sounds agitated. “What do you want painted?”
“My bedroom.”
“Is it worn out from all the sex parties?”
“How much?”
This is getting plain weird. “I’d need to take a look in order to quote.”
“Tonight?”
Tonight? “I’m visiting my mother.”
There’s a long silence, and once again I’m checking to see if he’s still on the line. He is. “Tomorrow night?” he eventually says.
I nibble my lip, wondering how to approach this. Work is sparse. I’m not concerned, it’s not like I need the money. Just the distraction. The calm I find in painting. The closeness to my mom. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.” I’m being instinctively wary, naturally. This is all quite odd. His calls. The conversation. I should hang up.
“Is that a no?”
“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.
