Chapter 14 Archive Ghost
ARCHIVE GHOST
CALLAHAN
Dom was waiting outside my building at early morning, leaning against the brick like he'd been carved into it hours ago and the city had simply built the morning around him.
Clerkenwell was half-awake—delivery vans whining at the kerb, a distant siren thinning into the grey, the smell of wet pavement and yesterday's cigarette smoke clinging to the air.
The sky was the colour of dirty linen, light bleeding in slowly as if it couldn't decide whether London deserved a new day.
Dom didn't look cold. Didn't look tired. He looked still—that particular, controlled quiet that made you think of locked doors and loaded guns and men who didn't waste movement unless it served a purpose.
He didn't straighten when he saw me. Just lifted his head slightly, eyes tracking me the way security cameras did—steady, calculating, and already three steps ahead.
“You didn't answer,” he said.
His voice was calm.
I stopped a few metres away, let my gaze run over him with the resigned irritation of someone watching a storm form and knowing it would break whether I acknowledged it or not.
“I was working.”
“You were avoiding me.”
I dug my keys out, because doing something with my hands felt safer than standing still under his attention.
“I don't recall signing up for check-ins,” I said, and moved past him towards the entrance. “If you're going to interrogate me before sunrise, at least do it inside. My neighbours are nosy and I'm not in the mood for gossip.”
Dom pushed off the wall and followed as if I'd issued an invitation instead of a warning.
The stairwell smelled like old carpet and someone's garlic-heavy dinner from two floors down, trapped in the fibres like a secret. My steps echoed softly. His didn't. Even in a narrow building with thin walls and worse insulation, Dom moved like he knew how to exist without leaving evidence.
I unlocked my door and stepped into my flat.
It was dim and cluttered in the way all workspaces were when sleep became optional.
My desk was a sedimentary layer of paper—files stacked like poorly balanced monuments, printed bank statements marked up in angry red ink, photographs half-spread like a deck of cards I'd been losing with for months.
The air smelled faintly of old coffee and overheated electronics.
A mattress sat in the corner, sheets twisted like I'd fought with them. No bedroom. No proper separation between work and living. Just one space where everything bled together because that was easier than pretending I had boundaries.
Dom stopped just inside the threshold. His gaze moved across the flat with the systematic attention of someone cataloguing threat assessments and tactical disadvantages. He took in the lack of furniture, the files everywhere, the single window with its view of the brick building opposite.
Then his eyes found the whiteboard.
It dominated the wall opposite my desk—large, covered in dense writing, photographs pinned at angles, arrows connecting names and dates and locations in a web that looked like madness until you understood the pattern.
Dom stared at it for a long moment, the tension in his jaw tightening in slow increments.
“This is Harrow's network,” he said. Not a question.
“This is what I've been building.” I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it over the chair. It landed on top of a stack of files, sending a few loose pages skittering to the floor. “Everyone he's connected to. Every case that smells wrong. Every witness who changed their story.”
Dom moved closer to the board. His eyes tracked the connections with the focus of someone who understood patterns when he saw them.
“And you didn't mention this.”
“You didn't ask to see my research.” I filled the kettle from the tap, the sound loud in the quiet. “This is the broader investigation. The one that got my partner killed.”
That made Dom turn away from the board. “Your partner.”
“James Crawford. Detective Inspector. My partner for seven years before someone put a bullet in his head and made it look like suicide.” I set the kettle down, met his gaze.
“He was investigating something in Harrow's circuit.
Wouldn't tell me what. Said the proper channels were compromised. Said people were watching.”
Dom waited. Didn't push. Just gave me space to get there.
“They found him in his car. Single gunshot wound. Ruled it suicide within forty-eight hours.” I turned back to the kettle, because looking at Dom while talking about this felt too raw.
“Except James wasn't suicidal. Had a wife.
Two kids. Was coaching his son's football team.
Planning his daughter's birthday party. Those aren't the actions of someone about to eat a bullet.”
The kettle started its low rumble. I watched steam begin to curl from the spout.
“The ballistics were wrong. Angle didn't match self-infliction. Powder burns weren't consistent with contact wound. But the investigation got closed fast. Too fast. With a conclusion that made everyone comfortable except the people who actually knew James.”
“You tried to fight it,” Dom said quietly.
“I tried to investigate it. Got shut down.
Got told to let it go. Got forced out when I wouldn't.” My hands tightened on the counter edge.
“Witnesses who'd seen something that night all recanted.
Couldn't remember what they'd told the first officers.
Evidence disappeared from the case file.
And suddenly James was just another cop who couldn't handle the pressure.”
“But you knew better.”
“I knew James. Knew he wasn't the kind of man who'd quit.
So I started digging. Found patterns. Found other cases where evidence vanished and witnesses changed their stories.
Found Harrow's name attached to every single one.” I finally looked at Dom.
“That's when I understood. James died because he got too close to proving the corruption was systematic. And the system he trusted killed him to protect itself.”
Dom's face had gone harder.
“That's why I don't trust legal channels or proper procedure or anyone who thinks playing by rules will get justice.” I gestured at the whiteboard.
“James believed in the system. Followed protocol.
Documented everything correctly. And they murdered him for it.
Made it look like shame. Like he'd done something wrong and couldn't live with it.”
“I'm sorry,” Dom said. “That shouldn't have happened to him.”
“No. It shouldn't have.” I turned away, busied myself with pouring coffee that would taste like shit regardless.
“But it did. And the people responsible faced no consequences.
So forgive me if I'm not interested in working within systems that have already proven they'll sacrifice good people to protect corrupt ones.”
Dom moved closer. Not aggressively. Just close enough that the small flat felt smaller.
“Is that why you don't let anyone in?” he asked. “Why you live like this, working yourself to exhaustion, trusting no one?”
“I let people in. They die.” I wrapped my hands around the mug, welcomed the burn. “Or they get corrupted. Or they decide protecting their career matters more than doing what's right.”
“Except you.”
I nodded and took a sip. “You've been working your sister's case solo since it happened. Trusting no one. Following every lead yourself.”
“And it got me nowhere,” Dom said.
“What do you want, Dom? Why are you really here?” I said changing the subject.
“Because you've been avoiding me since the museum. We agreed to keep each other informed. You're not holding up your end.”
“I'm working. That's what I do.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell him. “That's not partnership. That's you reverting to old habits.”
I held his gaze, jaw tight. “I don't need babysitting.”
“Tell me what you're planning.”
“I'm going to the courthouse,” I said finally. “Today. To access an archive room that officially doesn't exist. Connected to Harrow's circuit. Where evidence goes to die.”
Dom's expression didn't change. “How are you getting in?”
“Charm. Misdirection. The usual methods.”
“You mean seduction.”
“I mean whatever works.” I met his eyes. “Does that bother you?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“Good. At least you're honest about it.” I moved past him, grabbed a file from my desk. “But I'm doing it anyway. Because this archive contains sealed records from cases Harrow prosecuted. Cases where evidence mysteriously vanished. I need to see what he's hiding.”
“Then I'm coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Dom's voice went flat. “I am not letting you walk into hostile territory alone.”
“You'll compromise the operation. You don't blend. You're too recognisable as security.”
“Then make me blend. Give me a role. A cover identity.” His eyes held mine. “I'm not negotiating this, Cal. Either I come with you, or neither of us goes.”
I stared at him. The stubborn set of his jaw. The determination in his eyes. The particular way he stood that suggested he'd physically prevent me from leaving if necessary.
“Fine,” I said. “You can come. But you follow my lead. Do exactly what I tell you. And if I say run, you run without argument.”
“Agreed. On the condition that if I say you're compromised, we abort immediately.”
“Deal.” I moved to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew two court identification badges.
Fakes, but good ones. Professional lamination, correct formatting, photographs that looked official.
“Put this on. You're a barrister. Corporate law. Boring cases that require access to administrative records.”
Dom studied the badge, then me. “You just happen to have a fake ID ready?”
“I have fake IDs for various scenarios. Preparation isn't paranoia when people are actively trying to kill you.” I clipped my own badge to my jacket. “Change your clothes. You look like security, not legal. You need to look expensive and bored.”
“I don't have expensive clothes.”