A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

D eputy Commissioner Gill’s face shifted rapidly from astonishment to disappointment as he shuffled through the stack of photos Frances had handed him in his office at the RCMP headquarters in Ottawa. On the drive over from Montreal, she’d tried to predict exactly how the man would react to the news. He wasn’t nearly as surprised as she’d imagined. Perhaps in his time on the force, he’d become well acquainted with the various ways a case might turn.

“Beauvais gave you these?”

“No, his subordinate.”

“Just what we need—more scrutiny.” The deputy commissioner tossed the photos down on his desk. “You know, Inspector, sometimes I wonder if we’re more susceptible to this sort of thing because we spend our days in the muck. We know exactly how it’s done and how to cover it up.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“Of course it doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse,” he said, pressing his thumbs against the bridge of his nose. “So, what are we handing over in return?”

“A moratorium on the investigation into Beauvais’s involvement with the Hamilton shipments.” Frances thrummed her fingers against Gill’s desk. “You could say I was somewhat ambushed on this one. Caught between a rock and a hard place.”

The deputy commissioner looked up. “If the commissioner asks, I’ll back your call. I’d say we got off rather lightly, considering. If I’m being honest, I could barely justify sending you out there, let alone the continued man-hours. Maybe Beauvais has done us a favor.”

“How can you say that?” she snapped, forgetting herself. “He was clearly involved, and those shipments were just the tip of the iceberg. If I had more time—”

“Well, you’re out of time, Inspector,” Gill said, gesturing at the pile of photos. “It’s done. I’ll go ahead and officially suspend the investigation. I need you to roll back any active alerts and outstanding surveillance measures you have going. We can’t be seen to be tracking the man—or anyone else for that matter—without legitimate cause. You know as well as I do that our methods have been subject to a considerable amount of pushback in recent years.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to it,” she muttered.

“Look, I appreciate the dedication, but we’ve got to be realistic here,” the deputy commissioner said matter-of-factly. “You had a call to make, and it’s clear—not just to me, but I imagine, very shortly, to a hell of a lot of big players in the government—that this business with Wainwright was the more pressing of the two. I know it’s hard for you to admit when you’re beat, Frances, but it’s time to pull back.”

Not hard—fucking impossible. She’d always pushed through to an outcome that, if not a complete success, was damn near close to it. That was what rattled her about all of this—not just that she hadn’t succeeded but that she’d so clearly been made to look like a failure.

“I’d like you to start tying things up in Montreal. Let the local office take the lead,” Gill said, sweeping the photos into a folder on his desk. “I’ve got a few cases coming up that I could use your help with.”

She’d traipsed off with such bold intentions, thinking she could accomplish what others had tried and failed, only to return months later empty-handed. But the look on the deputy commissioner’s face was enough to make her hold her tongue. The man would not be swayed.

“Yes, sir,” Frances said, quashing her humiliation.

Frances left the office immediately after their meeting. She couldn’t bear to stand around shooting the shit with her old colleagues. She’d be back here before long anyway.

Her mind ground against the disappointment as she drove aimlessly through town, refusing to head back to her empty house. Frances pulled up outside a popular dive bar she and Ethan used to frequent. It was barely five, and the place looked dead. She headed straight for the bar and ordered a vodka tonic, which she knocked back, and then promptly ordered another.

Frances was on her third drink when a well-dressed man slipped into the seat beside her, not bothering to ask whether it was taken. He turned to her, brimming with confidence, and gave her a brilliant smile, his whitened teeth glistening in the dim room. He must have been at least forty, but his laid-back demeanor made him seem younger. She returned the smile—he seemed friendly enough. She wondered how long it had been since she’d engaged in easy conversation that hadn’t been riddled with threats and lies.

Too long , she decided, crossing her legs and giving the man her full attention.

“Drinking alone?” he asked smoothly.

“Not anymore.”

The man’s beer arrived, and he raised it jovially. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses, and he moved in closer. In the back of her mind, she had a sneaking suspicion that he was the kind of guy with a sixth sense for sniffing out lonely women. “I’m Kyle.”

“Frances,” she replied before picking up her glass and downing the remainder of her drink.

The next few hours passed in a blur. She remembered getting up to go to the bathroom at some point, and when she got back, Kyle had leaned over and given her a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, which she returned. The next thing she knew, they were heading out the door together, his arm looped around her waist as she discovered her legs were laughably unsteady. Kyle mentioned that his apartment was nearby, and Frances turned to give him a wide smile.

“I’d love to see it.”

They walked down the street to a two-story block of condos, and Kyle led her into the elevator, his hand moving down from her waist to cup her ass. He fumbled with his keys when they reached the door to his apartment and grabbed her as soon as he managed to shut the door behind them, pushing his tongue into her open mouth. She liked the feel of his hands on her, rough and clumsy as he removed her coat. It felt good to be touched, and even through her drunken haze, she liked that he wanted her.

They collapsed on the sofa, and Kyle popped the buttons of her blouse while yanking it open impatiently to fondle her breasts. He stood and wrenched off her pants then thumbed open his jeans and pulled his cock out from the open zipper. He knelt on the sofa, spreading her legs and moving between them.

“Condom,” Frances said lazily, pressing her palm against his chest to hold him off.

Kyle gave a low laugh. “I think we’re good,” he said, pushing her underwear to one side and thrusting into her, unsheathed.

Frances was struck by a vivid memory—how Ethan would run his fingers down the inside of her thigh as his other hand reached into the nightstand drawer to grab that little square of foil, not wanting to break their rhythm, while at the same time honoring the mechanics of the exchange.

A shot of sobriety flooded her system, and she drew her leg back and kicked Kyle hard in the face, knocking him backward onto the carpet. She got to her feet, looking down at him sprawled on the floor, clutching his nose and gasping. “I’m a cop, you asshole,” she growled. “Don’t you ever fucking try that with anyone else.”

Frances yanked on her pants and grabbed her coat then moved to the front door, let herself out, and slammed it behind her. She ignored the look the other woman gave her in the elevator as she stood, buttoning up her blouse. Once back outside, Frances retraced her steps to the bar and reached into her pocket for her phone, thankful it hadn’t fallen out during their ill-fated encounter. She punched in the number of a taxi service.

“Frances?”

She looked up to see Ethan and a group of his friends about to step into the bar. Her heart dropped. How small is this fucking town?

He motioned for his friends to go on ahead and stepped over. “It’s been a while,” he said with an easy smile.

He’d grown out his beard, and his hair was shorter, buzzed along the sides, but she saw the familiar streaks of gray at the roots. She’d been with him when he’d found the first one, barely containing her laughter at his horrified expression. The gray hair had grown on him, though—just another thing he’d taken on board with that evenhanded steadiness of his. A steadiness she’d taken for granted. He was still the one she compared all the others to, and none of them ever measured up.

Frances felt her chest tighten. “Has it?” she asked, the phone dangling from her hand.

Ethan tilted his head to one side, studying her. “I think you missed one,” he said gently and reached over to fasten the errant button in the middle of her blouse. Frances realized how she must have looked, and her stomach turned.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“No,” she said adamantly.

“Let’s try that again, this time without the infuriating stubbornness,” he said, seeing right through her. “Do you need a ride?”

Frances nodded.

They rode the short distance to her neighborhood and parked on the street.

Ethan let her into her house like he still lived there. He looked around at the empty spots where his furniture had been. “I see you’ve gone minimalist.”

Frances pulled up a stool in the kitchen and sat down. “Keep going,” she goaded him. “How else have I proven you right? Cold, single-minded, career-obsessed… Am I forgetting parts of your breakup speech?”

Ethan sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He wore a faded Wolf Parade T-shirt beneath his unbuttoned winter coat. “Frances, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just peachy.”

“And the bad guys?” he teased, the way he used to, equating her work with some cheesy superhero comic. “Still kicking their asses?”

“Good, bad—I can’t tell the two apart anymore,” she said, her voice curling bitterly.

It was true. The clarity that had always been there, propelling her from one investigation to the next, had abandoned her. She recalled the relief she’d felt when Rayan had appeared in the back room of the warehouse in Montreal. To think she’d been safer with him than at Kyle’s condo…

Ethan frowned. “What’s going on?”

“They’re shelving my investigation. Months of work up in smoke. I’m tanking, Ethan. You left. And my sister, she’s asking about kids, setting me up on dates. I can’t fail at everything. What the fuck do I have left?”

Ethan’s eyes softened. “You’re so much more than the work, Frances. I know that’s hard for you to believe—God knows we fought about it more than I care to remember—but it’s the truth. Honestly, the sooner you get that through your head, the happier you’ll be.” He stepped over, took one of her hands, and gave it a squeeze. “You win some, you lose some. And then you move on.”

“Like you did?”

Ethan gave a short laugh and withdrew his hand. “Yeah, I did.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a vet.”

“Bit more work-life balance, I gather.”

He snorted, and they shared a look—one of their old ones. It felt like only yesterday they’d shared everything—secrets whispered in the dark, dreams for the future, a bed, a home.

“I think it took you leaving for me to realize you were the love of my life,” she blurted.

A pained look crossed Ethan’s face. “Frances—”

“And my job falling to pieces is so hard because it’s what I gave you up for.” They stood in silence until she managed a soft laugh to disguise her embarrassment. “But I’m happy for you,” she lied. “Really, I am.”