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“What?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know much—our team was contacted by a small attorney office in New York. They’ve sent some paperwork over. I’m having it forwarded to you. Tomorrow we can—”
“Forward everything they’ve sent over now. I want the name of the office and an address. Book a hotel suite, one of our usual places, and have one of our jets chartered for tomorrow at the earliest. Don’t meet me here, meet me on the airfield—you’re coming with me to New York.”
“Sir, are you sure—”
“And bring cash, Woodrow. Enough that I can buy out every lawyer in that office and the building their office sits in if I need to.”
A resigned sigh. “Yes, sir.”
New York isn’t acity I enjoy. It’s just a bigger London without any of the history and dignity. A big beast of steel and concrete, a newborn thing still growing into itself. I’m not there to see the city, though.
As soon as we land, after a quick shower and change, I send Woodrow to the hotel, and I take a private cab straight to Lexington Avenue, where Sadowski and Hurst Law Firm resides on the seventh floor of a large brownstone building.
At the front desk, I give the receptionist my name. She looks up at me, eyes wide, and immediately picks up the phone.
“Mr Fletcher-Lowe is here about the Lynch case. Shall I…? Yes.” She hangs up and stands. “If you’d like to follow me, Mr Fletcher-Lowe.”
She guides me down a long corridor, then left, our steps quiet on the smooth brown parquet. She opens the glossy wooden door before I can scan the golden plaque on it, but I don’t need to. I step into the office, with its tidy shelves and impeccable filing cabinets, and the receptionist closes the door behind me.
And then I’m face-to-face with the attorney who’s decided to fight Willow’s case for her—the only attorney in the world I could never pay off or buy out. She looks up at me, mirthless and formal as I’ve ever known her, stone-cold through and through.
“Hello, Luca.”
“Hello, Sutton.”
53
Bad Riddance
Willow
It’s a sunny afternoonin New York, the warmth of spring welcome after a long dark winter. All the windows in the tattoo studio are open, and I sit on the balcony with one foot propped on the edge of my small metal chair, my sketchbook balanced on my lap, a cigarette between my lips. It’ll be dark by the time I finish work, so I’m getting my vitamin D while I can.
“You always draw the gnarliest shit,” a voice says above my head.
I look up, and the woman standing behind me bends down to take the cigarette from my lips, puffing a quick drag of smoke before putting the cigarette back in my mouth.
Her hair is a short pixie dyed white, and the sharp bone structure of her face always makes me double-take when I see her. Jace was one of the first friends I made when I arrived here.She was kind enough to get me a job in a bar, and later, she was reckless enough to let me hang out at her tattoo parlour.
Eventually, she started teaching me how to tattoo oranges. Part of me thought it might be too late for me to learn anything other than pour pints and mix drinks, but Jace didn’t agree. It helps that she has the patience of a saint.
I like her a lot, and I fancy her a little bit, and sometimes I have to stop myself from wondering if I fancy herdespitethe fact she looks like a certain psychopathic rich fuck I once knew, orbecauseof it.
I raise my sketchpad up to her, proudly displaying my sketch of a girl’s open thighs and the long forked tongue between them.
“My therapist told me it’s healthy to process trauma through art.”
Jace reveals all her perfect teeth in a surprised grin. “You’ve started therapy?”
Have I fuck. I worked too hard to burn the past down and bury away the pain to bring it all back flaring to life just so a very well-dressed professional can tell me I have issues.
I shrug. “It’s an expression, Jay-Jay. As if I can afford rentandtherapy.”
“That’s because you’re living well above your means,” Jace comments, shrugging off her sweatshirt and treating me to a nice flash of hard abs. She begins getting the studio ready for afternoon appointments. “Still don’t understand how you can afford your flat.”
My flat is a cosy loft downtown with exposed brick walls and enough space to fit in all the crazy new furniture I’ve filled it with. Jace isn’t wrong—it’s well above my means. It was my gift to myself when I arrived here, paid for with my cache money and whatever was left of my hunt bonuses.
