Chapter 8 Grave Truths
GRAVE TRUTHS
DOMINIC
The text came through while I was three sets into deadlifts at Rafe's gym, chalk dust coating my hands and sweat soaking through my shirt. An unknown number. I almost deleted it without reading, but something made me stop.
Pub near Embankment. The Anchor. Noon. Come alone. We need to talk about your sister.
My grip tightened on the barbell hard enough to make my knuckles crack. The weight felt suddenly irrelevant, the routine I'd built to keep myself grounded dissolving into white noise that couldn't compete with the roar building in my skull.
Your sister.
I set the barbell down with more force than necessary, grabbed my phone, and stared at the message like it might reveal something beyond the words on the screen. No name. No explanation. Just a location and a demand and the two words that could make me stupid faster than anything else in the world.
I should have ignored it. Should have deleted the message and gone back to my training and pretended some stranger hadn't just weaponised my grief to pull me into a meeting.
But my hands were already moving, towel around my neck, gym bag over my shoulder, car keys pulled from my locker with the numbness of someone who'd stopped thinking and started reacting.
Rafe looked up from the front desk as I passed. “Leaving early?”
“Something came up.”
“You alright?”
“Fine.” The lie tasted familiar. I'd been telling it for three years. “Just need to handle something.”
He didn't push. Rafe understood boundaries better than most, understood that men who lifted the way I did were usually running from things that couldn't be outpaced but could be temporarily buried under iron and discipline.
I drove through London on autopilot, mind working through possibilities. Who had my number. Who knew about Lily. Who would be bold enough or stupid enough to use her death as bait. The answer crystallised with uncomfortable clarity somewhere around Westminster Bridge.
Cal.
My jaw tightened. If he thought using my sister to manipulate me was smart strategy, he was about to learn exactly how wrong he was.
The Anchor sat tucked between newer buildings near Embankment station, a pub that had survived gentrification through sheer stubborn refusal to update anything beyond the beer selection.
Dark wood, low ceilings, booths built for privacy rather than comfort.
The lunch crowd hadn't started yet, leaving the space mostly empty except for a few regulars nursing pints and ignoring each other with practised skill.
Cal sat in the back corner, positioned so he could see both entrances and the street beyond the windows.
Exits mapped, angles covered, the posture of someone who'd learned to always know his way out.
He looked different in a place like this — less like the ghost who'd appeared in shadowed corridors and more like someone who existed in the real world with all its harsh edges and unforgiving clarity.
A dark jacket over a fitted shirt. Hair slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it.
Those mismatched eyes tracking my approach with assessment that felt both clinical and hungry.
He didn't stand when I reached the table. Just gestured to the seat across from him with one hand while the other stayed wrapped around a pint glass, his fingers loose but ready.
“You came,” he said. No surprise. Just acknowledgment.
“You used my sister to get me here.” I sat, didn't bother hiding the anger threading through my words. “That was a mistake.”
“Was it? You're here, aren't you?” His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “Sit down, Dom. You're drawing attention, and I'd rather keep this conversation quiet.”
“Start talking. You've got five minutes before I decide whether this was worth my time.”
“Charming.” He took a sip of his pint and set it down with deliberate care. “Though I suppose charm isn't required for what we need to discuss. Just honesty. Think you can manage that?”
“I can manage a lot of things. Including walking out of here if you keep wasting my time.”
“Fair.” He leaned back. “Let's skip the posturing then. I know about your sister. Lily Rourke. Died three years ago. Domestic violence case prosecuted by Harrow. Husband confessed, got convicted, everything wrapped up neatly in six weeks.”
Hearing her name from his mouth made something twist in my chest. “How did you know her name? How did you know about the case?”
“I'm a private investigator. Finding information is what I do.” His gaze stayed level, unflinching. “And Harrow's cases are my speciality. When your sister's name appeared in sealed files connected to him, I took notice.”
“You've been investigating Harrow.”
“Obsessively.” No hesitation, just fact delivered with the same clinical detachment he'd shown in the alley. “He's corrupt and your sister's case fits the pattern.”
My hands curled into fists on the table. “What pattern?”
“Cases that closed fast and clean despite inconsistencies that should have raised questions.” He pulled a folder from the bag beside him and slid it across the table. “Lily's case has all of those markers.”
I stared at it like it might bite me. “What's in there?”
“Photocopies of documents that were supposed to be sealed. Witness statements. Forensic reports. Timeline analysis.” His voice stayed steady, professional. “Evidence that suggests your sister's death wasn't investigated properly.”
“Her husband confessed.”
“Did he? Or did he sign a confession after four days of interrogation by people who'd already decided he was guilty?” Cal's expression didn't shift. “Confessions can be coerced, Dom. Especially when someone with power wants a case closed quickly.”
“You're saying Harrow fabricated evidence.”
“I'm saying he shaped the narrative. Controlled what evidence was examined and what was buried. Prosecuted the case personally instead of delegating, which is unusual for domestic violence cases.” He gestured toward the folder.
“Read it yourself. Tell me if the timeline makes sense.
If the forensic analysis matches the husband's confession. If any of it feels like actual investigation instead of performance.”
I opened the folder with hands that wanted to shake but didn't, because I'd spent years teaching myself to stay steady when my mind was chaos.
The first document was a witness statement I'd never seen, a neighbour reporting that they'd heard arguing the night Lily died, but the voices were wrong.
Too many of them for just Lily and her husband.
The second document was a forensic report noting bruising patterns inconsistent with the falls described in the official narrative. Defensive wounds on Lily's hands suggesting she'd fought someone, but no corresponding injuries on her husband's body.
The third was a timeline showing seventeen minutes missing from security footage near Lily's flat, dismissed in the official report as a technical malfunction.
I read through them all, my memory cataloguing every detail with the clarity that came from recall I'd never asked for and couldn't turn off. Each document built on the last, painting a picture that looked nothing like the story I'd been told.
“This doesn't prove anything,” I said finally, voice rough. “It's inconsistencies. Questions. Not proof.”
“No. But it's enough to suggest someone didn't want those questions asked.” Cal's gaze stayed on mine. “Do you believe your brother-in-law killed her?”
I'd asked myself the same thing a thousand times in the three years since Lily died.
“I don't know,” I admitted. “The evidence said he did. He confessed. The court convicted him. But something about it never felt right. The speed of it. The way nobody would answer my questions. The way the case got sealed before I could even request the full file.”
“Your instincts were correct.” His voice softened slightly, though his expression stayed controlled.
“Harrow doesn't just prosecute cases. He controls them.
Decides what truth looks like. And your sister's death threatened something or someone important enough that he made sure the investigation ended before anyone could dig deeper.”
“Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”
“I want Harrow.” No hesitation. “I've been building a case against him for three years. Gathering evidence, tracking patterns, identifying every judge and clerk and cop he's corrupted. But I can't touch him alone. He's too well-protected, too connected. I need resources I don't have.”
“You want to use me.”
“I want to work with you.” The distinction felt deliberate.
“You have access to Adrian's network. Connections to people who won't talk to a disgraced PI.
Protection I can't get anywhere else. I have years of investigative work.
Evidence you can't obtain legally. Witness statements that were buried. Together, we might actually take him down.”
“I don't work for people,” I said carefully. “If you're looking for muscle or someone to follow orders, find someone else.”
“I'm not looking for an employee. I'm proposing a partnership. Equal stake, shared intelligence. You bring resources and connections. I bring evidence and investigative expertise. We coordinate instead of competing.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then we both keep spinning our wheels separately.
You keep hitting walls because you don't have the evidence to prove what you already know.
I keep gathering evidence without the protection to use it before Harrow's people find me.” He leaned forward, the movement casual despite the intensity in those mismatched eyes.
“But Lily deserves better than both of us failing because we're too stubborn to cooperate.”
Anger spiked hot in my chest. “Don't use my sister's name to manipulate me.”