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“You mean Nath hasn’t given you every detail of each of our coffee dates?”
“I don’t see him much lately. He’s working like a madman.”
“Like you?”
“There’s a lot of dead bodies cropping up recently.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and I have a fleeting moment of missing my old job. The adrenalin. The thrill. The brilliant people I used to work with. But that was destroyed. “So . . . how are you?” he presses again, as if he needs to ask.
I blink myself back into the room. “Good,” I say, sounding as convincing as I meant. “Really good, actually.”
“And the new job?”
“I enjoy it.” I shrug, knowing many find it hard to understand. Although my current project isn’t exactly enjoyable. More compulsory.
He motions around the room. “Anytime you feel like it, help yourself.”
I gaze around, seeing Mom up the ladder when we moved in, coating the kitchen walls with a vivid blue. It’s no longer blue. It’s an insipid shade of taupe. I see me at the counter making coffee. Mom at the table chatting to me as I did. Ollie tossing pasta in a pan. My friends drinking wine while I sat on the countertop fastening the straps of my heels. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I say quietly, swallowing, blinking back the memories. All happy memories.
Ollie’s phone rings, and he audibly sighs. “Agent Burrows.” He stands and takes his cup to the sink, tipping the rest away. “On my way.” He hangs up and turns an apologetic smile my way. He doesn’t have to. I know the job, and I imagine it has only intensified since he joined the FBI. “I’ve got to go.”
I stand. “I never did congratulate you.” I walk to him, reaching on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m proud of you. I know you always dreamed of joining the Bureau.”
Before I know it, I’m enveloped in his arms, being squeezed to his body. It’s warm. It’s Ollie. He inhales and exhales, and I deflate with him. “Yes, pulling severed limbs out of a crushing machine is everything I dreamed of.”
I smile weakly and step back. “Enjoy.”
“You want a ride?” he asks. “I’m heading to the old scrapyard by the docks so I’m passing Lawrence’s. Or is he Zinnea today?” He checks his watch.
“The scrapyard by the docks? That’s Reg’s place.”
“Who’s Reg?”
“He’s saved me and Dolly a few times. That’s where Dolly is now. New engine. He said to collect her in the morning, but he should be done by now. I’ll come with you.”
“Afraid not, Beau.” He rolls his eyes. “You should know I can’t take guests to a crime scene.”
I pout and he shakes his head. “I only want my car.”
“I’ll tell Reg you’ll be there to collect it tomorrow, if it doesn’t interfere with the investigation.” He slips an arm around me and leads us toward the door, something he’s probably done hundreds of times before. His presence is calming, but it doesn’t feel right for him to offer me comfort. “Anyone would think you’ve forgotten how to be a cop.”
“I’ve tried,” I admit, and immediately regret it. I can feel Ollie looking down at me with concern. I always noticed things other people wouldn’t notice. Saw things other people didn’t see. Unraveled irrelevant things and made them relevant. I achieved 98% in my Phase 1 Test. That would have made me a pretty sharp agent. I’ve always prided myself on reading characters well, knowing when to trust and when not to. When to avoid danger.
And yet I’ve just spent two days with a man who seems dangerous.
Oh how the mighty—the once wise— have fallen.
14
BEAU
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t jump out of my skin when I start Dolly. “She purrs,” I say, smiling, and Reg laughs.
“She’ll never purr, Beau. And it’s only a secondhand engine, so don’t expect any miracles.” He walks off, his coveralls blending nicely with the oil-covered scrapyard.
“I heard you had company last night,” I call.
“Swarming with cops,” he yells back, throwing an arm in the air toward the end of the yard, where police tape seals off the back end. “Turned the crusher on yesterday and the damn thing spat half an arm out. An arm!”
Don’t do it, Beau.
But before I can stop myself, I’m out of Dolly, leaving her running, and walking across the uneven ground toward the back of Reg’s scrapyard. I duck under the tape and round the corner, coming to a grinding halt when I’m intercepted by a uniformed officer. He doesn’t get a chance to warn me away. He recognizes me, and his stern police face softens. “Beau? Fuck me, it’s Lara Croft.”
“Hi, Jed,” I say on a forced smile, looking past him.
A forensics van and endless police cars—marked and unmarked—swarm the area. “How have you been?” I ask mindlessly.
