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“I think I preferred you calling me Detective,” I mutter. “The four walls of my cell are suddenly looking like a better option.”
“It would seem your prison walls are ever changing lately.” He lets out a small chuckle at his own joke.
I shuffle in my seat, turning to face him. “What do you want, Mr Kavanagh?”
His eyes drop from my face, and I feel them as they travel down my body. I suddenly feel very underdressed, which I am, still only wearing the vest top and cargo trousers from when I was arrested. “It is not what I want, Roxy, but what you want.”
Brushing off the uncomfortable prickling at my skin, I say, “There isn’t a thing I would want from you. I don’t do drugs, and I certainly don’t whore myself out, so I think our business is concluded, don’t you?”
“It’s good to see you’re not like your mother, although some would disagree. After all, you’re sharing the Lawler b—” My strike almost meets its mark, but Kavanagh catches it, holding tightly to my wrist. “Careful, Roxy.”
I pull away, yanking my wrist free. “What the fuck do you know about my mother?” His comment caught me off guard, and there was no hiding my visceral reaction.
A knowing smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth, and I know I’ve just given him more leverage to hold over my head for whatever it is he wants from me.
“Calm down. I sense a sore point. The fact remains the same, I know a considerable amount about your mother, and I’m not alone in that knowledge,” he states, arching a pointed brow at me. I’m not sure what exactly he’s implying, but I don’t like it.
I’m itching to ask more questions, but I get the feeling Kavanagh won’t give me anything else for now. And I don’t really want to fuel his power over me anymore than I have already, so instead I relax back in my seat and stare out the window. Sometimes silence is the best form of defence.
Taking in the surroundings, I realise we are in Mayfair. I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of being in one of London’s richest boroughs with a man who makes a living from crime and ruining peoples’ lives and is way above the pay scale of any normal working person.
We pull up to a house down Queen Street, and Ethan exits the car, coming round to open my door for me.
I climb from the car and shiver as a chilly breeze blows over my bare arms. “Solicitor, chauffeur, should I watch out for the gun to the back of my head next,Mr Scott?”
“I shouldn’t worry about who’s behind you, Miss Whitmore. I’d be looking at what’s in front of you,” Kavanagh says, as he walks past me toward the house.
Ethan waves an arm out, gesturing for me to go ahead and follow Kavanagh. The period property is over six floors and looks to have been converted into several flats. We enter a communal lobby where a concierge wearing a sharp black suit stands behind a shiny silver counter and offers a nod in greeting to Kavanagh as he passes, turning left down a passage to a black door, which he opens and enters without looking to see I’m following him.
Inside on the left are stairs leading to the floor below and to the right is the kitchen. Directly ahead is a lounge area with sleek black furniture, minimalistic, and white walls. Entering the lounge, Kavanagh points to a sofa and I cautiously take a seat.
I have no phone, and I’m assuming that no one knows where I am. I’ve no clue how Kavanagh managed to get me released without so much as an interview, especially given the evidence, albeit false, against me.
“This is all very nice, but what am I doing here?” I ask as Kavanagh joins me on the other sofa.
“That’s a complicated answer, and one I can only answer in part.”
I’m struggling to get my head around the man before me. He is like the better dressed and well-mannered version of the man I met for a drug deal a couple of nights ago, and it’s unnerving me.
“Can we stop with the pretence, Mr Kavanagh. I don’t care for the flash suit and Mayfair flat that screams millionaire, not when I know how you obtain your money. So cut the bullshit and tell me why the fuck I’m here, or I’ll walk out the door right now.”
“Ha-ha. Very well. It’s Aiden, please. Mr Kavanagh is my father and makes me feel old.” He rubs a hand down his leg before raising it and letting it rest on his knee. “Think of me as a superhero, Roxy—” I snort out a laugh at the utter absurdity, but he continues, “I have an image, a persona, if you will. Very much like you, only I’m not afraid of who I am.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He waves a hand up and down, gesturing to my clothing. “These are not the clothes of an officer of the law.”
“Not a cop anymore!” I snap bitterly. Losing my career has hurt me more than anything else in a long time. But he’s not wrong. I’m very aware that there is another me hiding beneath the mask I wear. She’s been silently and slowly gnawing away at her cage, rattling the bars and screaming to be free.
Noah arresting me and now this, because I have a feeling whatever Kavanagh has to share isn’t going to be good, might be just enough to tip the scales in her favour.
“Yes, a shame too, but ‘twas a necessary one. I’m afraid that what I have to share with you won’t be pleasant, Roxy. What do you remember about the night of your mother’s murder?”
The question hits me right where he wanted it to, but I find myself a little detached from it, more than I have been before. I clear my throat and shift uncomfortably before I respond.
“I remember everything in very explicit detail. What exactly do you want to know?”
“And what about the case? Were there ever any suspects?” I shake my head. “As I thought.”
