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“I’ve been arrested,” she snaps.
“So, why are you calling me?”
“Because we’re getting married,” she hisses.
I laugh. “You’re clearly delusional. Maybe you should ask them to check your head while you’re there. This has to stop.”
“Remember what I said,” she growls.
“What was that?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I swear, I’ll make that call.”
“Um, but you’ve just used your one call to call me.”
“Arthur, I mean it. I need a solicitor, and I need one now.”
“I can’t help you, I’m sorry. And please, stop calling me.” I hear her cry out in frustration as I disconnect.
Rosey pops her head around the office door. “I have a lead on the hitman. I’ll be back soon.”
“Do you need backup?” asks Mav.
She laughs like he’s making the funniest joke. “If I’m not back by morning, I want a public apology from you at my funeral, Mav. Don’t forget, I love you all,” she says dramatically before rushing off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ROSEY
I tie my hair into a low ponytail and take a seat on the roof edge. Being on rooftops is becoming a real habit of mine. I look down at the streets below, still busy with shoppers and people going out for dinner. The fire exit that opens onto the roof swings open and a man in black appears, holding another man out in front with a gun to his head. Neither spot me, so I sit patiently, watching, waiting for the perfect time to announce my presence.
“To the edge,” growls the man, shoving his prisoner hard. He stops right at the edge, his hands gripping the wall.
“Please, please, don’t do this,” he begs, and I roll my eyes. Don’t get me wrong, I have sympathy, just not for these kinds of men who spend their lives on the wrong side of the law and act surprised or upset when it catches up with them.
The man grabs him by the neck and hisses, “Climb on to the ledge.” His prisoner carefully climbs onto the roof ledge, sobbing to himself.
“That’s it?” I ask, jumping off my spot on the wall and walking towards them. The gun is immediately turned on me, and I hold my hands up. “Don’t shoot, blah, blah,” I say, sounding bored. “Sorry, I don’t really beg.”
“Who the fuck are you?” snaps the gunman.
“Rosey.” I hold out my hand, and he glares at it like it’s poison. I grin. “I think I have ADHD and maybe a touch of autism. I don’t read social situations well, so I don’t know if you want to shake hands or high five or—”
“What the fuck are you doing up here?” he snaps, waving the gun at me.
“I came to see you.”
“What?” he growls, looking confused and irritated.
“You took a lot of finding, but in the end, I got there, Archer.” I smile, then look at the quivering man on the ledge. “And this must be Harry Greedy. Unfortunate name.”
“You’re fucking with my head,” snaps Archer.
“It’s surprising how much I hear that.” I shove Greedy, and he topples, waving his arms like he’s expecting to take off in flight, and then he finally loses to gravity and falls backwards, tumbling over the edge. I lean over and watch him land with a thud. “We have minutes before he’s found,” I explain. “The Chinese next door usually come out to their bins around nine. I’m guessing you’d like to be gone before that happens.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you are or what you want but—”
“I told you, I’m Rosey. And unless you listen very carefully, you’ll be caught on this roof when the police arrive.”
