Chapter 14 Archive Ghost #3
He moved beside me, close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell that scent that made my focus waver. He read the document over my shoulder, his breathing getting heavier as comprehension settled.
“He deleted the footage,” Dom said. Voice deadly quiet. “Harrow personally ordered evidence destroyed.”
“Yes. Which means he knew something was on that footage. Something that contradicted the narrative he was building.” I photographed the log entry from three angles, pushing down the frustration of not finding James's files.
At least we had this. At least Lily's case was giving us something.
“This is proof. Direct proof. Not conspiracy theory.
Not speculation. Evidence that Harrow actively corrupted your sister's case.”
Dom's hand shot out, gripped the edge of the filing cabinet hard enough to make metal groan. “Who was he protecting?”
“I don't know yet. But this gives us a thread to pull.” I pocketed my phone, started returning documents to their proper places. The empty space where James's file should have been felt like an accusation. “We need to get out of here before someone realises we've accessed restricted materials.”
We cleaned up, restored everything to how we'd found it, slipped back through the hidden door and repositioned the cabinet. By the time the clerk returned to escort us out, we looked like two bored lawyers who'd wasted an hour on tedious research.
“Find what you needed?” the clerk asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” I handed him paperwork he wouldn't read closely, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the disappointment churning in my gut. “We appreciate your assistance.”
He led us back through corridors, through security checkpoints, out into London afternoon that felt like freedom and trap simultaneously. We walked three blocks before either of us spoke.
“Someone's following us,” Dom said quietly.
I'd noticed two blocks ago. Two men. Professional spacing. Not trying particularly hard to hide. “They want us to know.”
“Warning.”
“Demonstration of reach.” I kept walking, used reflective windows to track our tail. “They're not going to move here. Too public. But they want us aware that we're being watched.”
“Your partner's file,” Dom said. “The fact that it's not there—that tells us something too.”
“That they're thorough. That whatever James found was dangerous enough to erase completely.” My jaw tightened. “Or that it's stored somewhere else. Somewhere we haven't found yet.”
“We'll find it.”
“Maybe.” I pulled out a burner phone, sent a text to a number I'd memorised. “Right now we focus on what we did find. We have proof Harrow deleted evidence. That's leverage. That's something we can use.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet someone. A forensic pathologist. She owes me truth more than she owes Harrow silence.” I watched our tail in a shop window's reflection. “She'll meet us at St. Bartholomew's. Public space. Safe enough.”
The hospital was fifteen minutes by foot.
Our tail stayed with us the entire way, maintaining distance but making no attempt at subtlety.
By the time we reached the courtyard where I'd arranged the meeting, my spine was tight with awareness and Dom's hands kept flexing like he was resisting the urge to turn around and confront them.
Dr. Elara Quinn was exactly where I'd asked her to be. Seated on a bench, wearing scrubs under a jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a style that suggested twelve-hour shifts and too much coffee. She stood when she saw me, her expression wary.
“Cal. You said this was urgent.”
“It is. Dr. Quinn, this is Dominic Rourke. Lily Rourke's brother.”
Her expression shifted. Guilt maybe. “Mr. Rourke. I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Tell me what you know,” Dom said. Voice controlled but carrying undercurrent of barely restrained violence.
Dr. Quinn glanced around, checking for observers, then sat back down heavily. “I've spent three years trying to forget what I know.”
“Then remember,” I said, sitting beside her. Dom remained standing, looming, his presence making her nervous in ways I needed to manage. “Please. We found evidence today that Harrow deleted security footage. We need to understand what he was hiding.”
She was silent for a long moment, wrestling with professional ethics and personal conscience. Then she exhaled, and when she spoke, her voice carried the weight of secrets she'd carried too long.
“The forensic report I submitted wasn't the one that went into evidence. It was edited. Key findings removed. Timeline adjusted to match the husband's confession instead of the actual physical evidence.”
My chest tightened. “What did your original report say?”
“That Lily Rourke's injuries weren't consistent with a domestic altercation.
The bruising patterns suggested restraint by multiple people.
The head trauma was too precise, too controlled.
And the timeline didn't work. She'd been dead at least three hours before the 911 call.
The husband's story about a fight that escalated suddenly didn't match the pathology.”
Dom made a sound. Low. Wounded.
“Why didn't you report this?” I asked.
“I did. To my supervisor. Who told me to revise my findings. When I refused, I was told the report would be revised with or without my cooperation, and my employment would be terminated if I made an issue of it.” Her hands twisted together.
“I'm not proud of backing down. But I have student loans.
A mortgage. A daughter. I couldn't afford to lose my job over a case that was already decided.”
“Who ordered the revision?” Dom's voice was barely human.
“I don't know. The pressure came through administrative channels. But Harrow was copied on every communication. He knew the report was being altered. Probably ordered it himself.”
I pulled out my phone, showed her the photographs I'd taken. “Is this the access code that was used to delete the security footage?”
She studied it, then nodded. “That's a prosecutor's office code. Tier three access. Only senior attorneys have it.”
“Harrow.”
“Almost certainly.” She stood, wrapped her jacket tighter despite the afternoon not being particularly cold. “I'm sorry I couldn't help you three years ago. Sorry I let them bully me into silence. Your sister deserved better. You deserved better.”
Dom didn't respond. Just stood there processing information that was rewriting three years of accepted truth.
Dr. Quinn left. I stayed seated, giving Dom space to process, waiting to see which direction his grief would take him.
“She was murdered,” he said finally. Voice hollow. “Not by her husband. By someone else. Someone with enough power to make Harrow cover it up.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet. But we have thread now. Security footage that was deleted. Forensic report that was altered. Chain of custody that doesn't work.” I stood, faced him properly. “We can build this case, Dom. Can expose what happened. But it requires patience. Strategy. Not rage.”
“I want to kill him.” The words were quiet. Factual. “Want to walk into Harrow's office and make him tell me everything before I break every bone in his body.”
“I know. But that doesn't get you justice. It gets you arrested and Harrow gets to play victim.” I moved closer, risky given his current state but necessary. “We do this properly. Legally. We build evidence until it's undeniable. Then we destroy him in ways that last.”
Dom's hands were shaking. The only visible crack in his control. “How do you do this? How do you stay cold when everything in you wants to burn?”
“Practice. Necessity.” I reached out and touched his arm. “You can fall apart later. Right now we need to move. Our tail is getting impatient and I don't want to be here when they decide warnings aren't sufficient.”
He nodded. Started walking. I fell into step beside him, tracking our observers, calculating routes that would give us tactical advantage if this escalated.
We made it two blocks before they moved.
The attack came from a side street, three men emerging from shadow with the coordinated precision of professionals who'd done this before. I caught the movement in a shop window's reflection half a second before they closed distance, enough warning to shift my weight and prepare.
“Dom—”
He was already moving. Had seen them too, his body coiling and then exploding forward.
The first attacker went for Dom with a baton, swing aimed at his head with enough force to crack skull.
Dom caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisted, drove his elbow into the attacker's throat with surgical precision.
The man's windpipe collapsed with a wet crunch.
He went down choking, baton clattering on pavement.
I engaged the second before he could flank Dom.
He was faster than the first, younger, moved like he'd been trained in the same dojos I had.
We traded blows—my jab to his ribs blocked, his counter to my head deflected.
He swept my legs. I rolled, came up with my knee driving into his jaw as he followed me down.
Teeth cracked. Blood sprayed. He staggered back.
The third had a gun. Raised it toward Dom's back while Dom was finishing the first attacker with a vicious knee to the temple. Everything slowed. I saw the finger tightening on the trigger. Saw Dom completely exposed. Saw exactly how this would end if I didn't move.
I moved without thinking. Closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the weapon hand and twisted with leverage and desperation.
The gun discharged, bullet sparking off brick wall six inches from my head.
I drove my forehead into the man's nose, felt cartilage shatter, used his disorientation to complete the disarm.
The gun clattered on pavement. Dom finished his opponent, turned toward the third attacker, and the look on his face made the man step back with hands raised despite bleeding from his broken nose.
“Message received,” Dom said. Voice deadly quiet. “Tell Harrow we're not scared. Tell him we're coming. Tell him to enjoy what time he has left.”
The second attacker was trying to crawl away, jaw hanging wrong. Dom stepped on his hand, ground boot into knuckles until the man screamed. “And tell him next time he sends people after us, they should be better.”
We left them there. Walked quickly but not running, turned two corners and disappeared into afternoon crowds before police could respond to witnesses reporting violence.
My hands were shaking by the time we reached a safe distance. Adrenaline dump. Fear. The reality of how close that bullet had been to my skull catching up now that immediate threat was past.
Dom noticed. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and grounding, thumb pressing against the base of my neck with pressure that felt possessive. “You all right?”
“Fine. Just processing.” I forced my breathing to steady through sheer will. “You?”
“I'm functional.” His hand stayed on my shoulder, grip firm. “Thank you. For the warning. For moving when you did. That was stupid and necessary.”
“We're partners. That's what partners do.” The word felt strange in my mouth. Foreign. I'd spent three years working alone, trusting no one, operating under the assumption that allies were liabilities.
But Dom felt different. Felt like someone who'd watch my back because we shared stakes instead of just using me as resource. Felt like someone I could trust not to sell me out when pressure got high.
Felt dangerous in entirely new ways.
“What are you going to do with it?” Dom asked suddenly. “The photographs. My sister's file. The evidence we found.”
“Keep it. Back it up properly. Build the case methodically.”
His jaw tightened. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes to make it airtight.” I met his gaze.
“I know you want justice now. Want to march into Harrow's office and demand answers.
But that's not how this works. We need more than deleted footage and altered reports. We need to catch him actively corrupting something. Need him to make a mistake we can document.”
“He's made mistakes. He deleted evidence. Altered my sister's autopsy.”
“That was a long time ago. With no witnesses willing to testify.
Dr. Quinn won't go on record—she already told us that. The log entry proves tampering but not motive. Not who Harrow was protecting.” I pulled my hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through despite attempts at control.
“We need patience, Dom. Need to let Harrow think he's still ahead of us while we build the case properly.”
“How much patience?”
“However much it takes to make sure he actually pays for what he's done.” My voice hardened. “And not just for your sister. For my partner. For every witness he's silenced and every case he's corrupted. I've waited three years. I can wait longer if it means getting this right.”
“Your partner.” Dom's expression shifted. “That's what this is really about for you. Not justice. Revenge.”
“Call it whatever you want. The outcome's the same.” I stepped back, creating distance his hand tried to follow. “Harrow destroyed my career. So yes. I want him to pay. Want it badly enough that I'm willing to do this properly instead of rushing in and blowing it because patience is too hard.”
Dom was quiet for a long moment. “You're right. I hate that you're right, but you are.”
“I usually am.” I glanced around, checking for additional surveillance. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine. Ravenswood has better security than your flat.”
He was right. But going to Ravenswood meant entering Adrian's territory, meant explanations I wasn't ready to give about what we'd found and what it meant. Meant exposing myself to scrutiny from people who'd spent years learning to read lies.
But I went with him anyways.