Sacrifice (The Venus Chronicles #1)

Chapter 3

Three

It was sunlight stabbing through the gap in her bedroom curtains that prodded Eve from sleep. She squinted at it and winced.

Jesus. Why didn’t I close those properly?

Eve’s head throbbed like a bastard. An east-facing bedroom was a bitch when it came to the morning after the night before.

What the hell happened?

She fumbled a discarded jumper up from the floor and dropped it over her face to block out the light and groaned. A headache like this hadn’t been seen since the ill-advised New Years of peach schnapps. Her stomach didn’t feel too bad, though. That was weird.

What had she done to earn this head? She rewound it to the last thing she could remember. Work.

OK, so there’d been a pretty average day under the Gestapo management of Gilbert in the museum gift shop. The new girl hadn’t shown up, and Eve had been persuaded to cover the 2-6pm shift as well – despite the sixteen hours of overtime she was already owed.

She huffed mentally.

One day, Gilbert would appreciate her. He might not yet, but one day he was going to see what a gem he had in his employ. She was worth more than that part-time contract and needed better money if she was ever going to get her own place.

The doorbell rang downstairs, and its singsong chime stabbed pain right through her eye into the back of her head. She rolled to one side moaning and pulled the jumper tight over her face. Her mother’s voice and another that was unfamiliar rumbled low in the hallway.

A minute later, her bedroom door cracked open.

“Eve, sweetheart, are you awake?” Her mum spoke softly through the gap.

Eve groaned.

“There are some policemen here.” Her voice rose in a squeak. “They want to speak to you.”

Eve peeled the jumper from her face to squint at her mother. “Policemen?”

“Come down. Can you come down?”

“I guess.”

Her mother eased the door closed with a click, and Eve sat up, sending her head into a spin. It felt like she’d been hit by a train. The muscles in her neck and back were rigid in some kind of spasm. This was like no hangover she’d ever had before—more like the result of ten rounds in the ring.

She stepped out onto the landing. Talking drifted up the stairs.

“Is there a problem, officers?” her mother asked in her telephone voice.

“Just a routine enquiry,” one of the men responded. His voice sounded familiar, but Eve couldn’t quite place it. She lumbered down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister and shielding her eyes.

She squinted at the men in the doorway. They were in silhouette, sunlight glowing at their edges like a halo. The nearest was tall and as she got nearer could see he had disheveled hair and striking blue eyes, the kind that could look into your soul. He wore dark jeans and a leather jacket, not a uniform. He didn’t look much like a policeman to Eve.

Light flickered around the man and Eve recognized the signs of yet another approaching migraine attack. She cursed inwardly.

Awesome.

He watched her slow progress down the stairs, eyes narrowing as she approached, and Eve wished that he wouldn’t. She was way too hungover and fragile for close examination.

“You don’t look much like policemen,” she said defensively and folded her arms over her chest.

The man took out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Michaels. This is Detective Constable Thorne.”

The other man stepped out from behind Michaels to flash his own card. He, too, was tall and disarmingly beautiful with perfectly smooth brown skin and the whitest teeth. Eve blinked at him.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said and bowed his head slightly. Light shimmered at the edges of Eve’s vision. The migraines could be quite trippy. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” asked Michaels.

Eve threw a glance at her mother, and DC Thorne moved into the hallway. “How about a nice cup of tea, Mrs Areli?” he suggested and took her mother gently by the arm. “I’m quite partial to a chocolate digestive too, if you’ve got any?”

Eve’s mother beamed pathetically and gave Eve an apologetic shrug. She was a sucker for a charming man. They swept off together for the kitchen.

“The lounge then, I guess,” Eve said and led the way.

“There was an incident last night,” Michaels began, sitting on the sofa and taking out his notebook, “On Hammersmith Bridge. Can you tell me what you remember?”

Eve curled herself into the armchair and tucked her feet beneath herself. She rubbed her temples, trying to unravel the grey fog surrounding the memories of the night before.

“Hammersmith Bridge? Was I there?”

DI Michaels looked back at her blankly. Those eyes really were exceptionally blue. She closed her own and wracked her brain. She’d looked over the railing of that bridge more than once and romanticized about throwing herself in. Had she done that last night?

“I don’t remember.”

What had happened after work? She scoured her memory for a clue; then, it came to her in a flash.

“Drinks. Christmas drinks. I work in the gift shop at the British Museum. It was a work party at a pub near Earl’s Court.”

Jesus, I must have got totally wasted.

Eve scoured her brain for more information. “What happened at the bridge?” She couldn’t remember anything about it.

“Do you remember falling in?” The detective’s expression gave nothing away, but an unemotional certainty in his voice seemed to clear away the fog.

“Yes. No.” Eve’s hands came reflexively to her mouth. She’d been cold, desperately cold, and unable to breathe. Her heart rate stepped up as her brain floundered for the memory. “I fell in? Yes, I think that makes sense.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Did she? “My clothes, they weighed me down.” She could remember the terrifying feeling of being trapped underwater. How had she escaped the river? Her head pounded with the blood her heart was pumping wildly around her body. “I think I lost consciousness.”

“What do you remember between that moment and now?” The policeman’s voice had lowered, and his words drew her in, softly coaxing her to answer. His eyes bore into her, and Eve felt, for the most bizarre of moments, as if she knew what he was thinking.

He doesn’t want me to know what happened .

Her mouth dried. “Do we know each other?” she asked.

Michaels shifted his gaze to the notebook in his hand.

“You were pulled out of the river at Fulham Reach. There was another incident close by, and we’re looking for witnesses. Do you remember seeing anything unusual?” His tone of voice had become all business.

“I can’t remember, sorry. Am I in trouble?”

He shook his head, and a strand of blond hair fell across his face. “Not at all.” He swept it to one side and took out his business card. “I’m duty-bound to offer you counselling services should you feel that you need to talk to someone,” he said and handed it to her.

Does he think I tried to kill myself?

She took the card, and as he pulled away, her fingers brushed against his. The echo of a memory rose from the murky pool of her subconscious.

There had been a man. Strong and sure of himself. Her body replayed sensations that ran goosebumps over her skin. He’d touched her in a way she’d never felt before. Exquisite pleasure danced at the edges of her memory, but the details eluded her. Had Michaels rescued her from the river? She looked into his face and searched for the truth.

No, not Michaels.

“Thanks.” She got up from the chair and turned her face away to hide the heat racing across it. “I was just drunk and stupid. Is there anything else? I need to get ready for work.”

She could feel him looking at her.

“Do me a favor, Miss Areli. Don’t wander around on your own in the dead of night. The streets aren’t safe.” He stood up and tucked away his notebook. “You never know who you might meet.”