TWO
Gigi
The chill in the spring air is harsh against my skin throughout my gut-wrenchingly boring work shift. It isn’t as fun as it’s made out to be, working at one of these department stores that sells … well … pretty much everything.
Same job. Same shitty commute. Same crappy hours. Every day at 5.10 p.m. I throw a right onto Regent Street, pass the likes of Ted Baker and All Saints , and catch the tube from Oxford Circus, either via the Bakerloo or Victoria line, to Surrey.
But alas, as if confronting my intruder in the middle of the night screwed all my morals, today I turn the opposite way and opt for the long route towards Tottenham Court Road station. That’ll add a bit more oomph to my day.
My best friend Mia Allen would say I’m heading back to work too quickly after the incident.
Are you out of your goddamn mind? she’d say.
And if the strain on my back from sleeping on Greg’s mattress the past few nights is an indication of anything, maybe she’s right.
You’d have thought I would have figured out my life by now, but here I am, stuck in a dead-end job – the last thing I expected to be doing at twenty-four. I’m still waiting for my big break. Nothing quite sparks my interest more than fear, but what do I put on my CV? Thrill-seeker? They’ll think I’m some kind of cliff-jumper, and that’s most certainly not the kind of adrenaline I’m after.
What I’m trying to say is … my life lacks purpose. For a while I thought my calling could be in criminology. God knows I’ve spent more time around the Metropolitan Police than anyone. I’m practically on a first-name basis with them, but not from petty crimes. That was Jack’s doing. He was always a naughty kid. Time has seemed to slow since he died. The past four years have dragged on me like nothing else. People say time is the greatest healer; I say it’s fucking bullshit.
What’s holding me back from fully grieving is the fact his death was so insanely suspicious it sets my teeth on edge. I have this bone-rattling feeling someone’s withholding dark secrets. You’re telling me there was a fatal collision and no eyewitnesses? Yeah, right.
My parents complain I’m holding onto the past, but there’s no past to hold onto when you don’t even know if you buried the right person. I’m not saying my parents are hiding something from me … but I’m not not saying that.
The thought of Jack makes me release a long sigh and hug my jacket a little closer to my chest as I approach the train station. Whether it’s to conceal myself from the cool London chill or to prepare myself for the meeting with my parents, I have no clue. The shared Google Calendar alerted me to a “family meeting” tonight, courtesy of my mother. Tea will no doubt be accompanied by side glances and awkward conversations.
I need to move out, but there are two issues. The first is that as soon as I have nothing holding me to that house, my parents will keep it that way. They’re pushing me away with age, and I’ll be damned if I allow them to kick me out before I’ve sought justice for my brother. The second – and possibly most important – reason … I don’t have the money. Sure, my parents could easily lend it to me – and trust me, they’ve offered it plenty of times – but it isn’t mine. I didn’t earn it. But a part-time job at a department store isn’t forgiving on London prices —
For fuck’s sake.
Bright yellow caution tape blocks my path to the tube station. The sight causes hair to rise on my arms and a shiver to race down my spine. A small crowd has gathered round a shop front that’s been broken into. The red-and-blue lights of police cars flicker against the shattered glass fragments decorating the pavement.
It’s as if the danger can’t escape me recently. How damn predictable.
Orders are bellowed for onlookers to pass since they’re interrupting an active crime scene.
“These fucking gangs,” some Nosy Nelly mutters, walking past. “They should be ashamed of themselves.”
“How’d you know it’s a gang?” another asks.
“This isn’t a one-man job,” one man says. “The crime rate is getting out of hand nowadays.”
“I heard they hit that fancy-ass jewellery shop last week. Cleared the place bare, apparently …”
I bow my head and walk on past the entrance to the station, which the crowd is now blocking.
Once I finally manage to catch a train elsewhere, it takes me just short of an hour to arrive at the red-brick detached house that holds many haunting memories, and which I have the disadvantage of calling my home.
Sleeping on Greg’s uncomfortable mattress suddenly feels ten times more appealing.
When I enter the front door and turn the corner, my mother stands motionless, and I still my steps. I recognise myself instantly in her eyes, and it chills me every time, like it’s my own reflection staring back at me. Thick brown hair. Deep brown eyes. Olive skin. Jack and I always were the spitting image of her.
“Help set the table,” she says. “I’ll be dishing out tea in ten minutes. ”
The dinnerware is already laid out on the dining-room table as I place down the cutlery and the placemats. My father sits in his usual seat, glasses positioned on the edge of his nose as he reads the morning paper. As I pass him, my eyes land on the front page of The Telegraph .
TERROR STRIKES AGAIN
London jewellery store ransacked as Britain’s most notorious crime group attacks Covent Garden branch. A victim details the shocking events of Tuesday’s tragedy …
“How was work?”
Eyes still focused on the paper, I mumble, “Hmm?”
“How was work, Gigi?”
“Oh.” I stifle a laugh and tear my gaze away. “Same old, same old.”
“Any pay rises we should know about?”
“Not yet.” I grind my teeth.
My father looks up from his paper, acknowledges my presence, and then returns to his reading.
Placing down a fork, I ask, “How was Paris?”
“Ask your mother.”
It’s the first night I’ve been home since the break-in. Damn it, it’s the first time I’ve seen my parents since the incident, and their go-to topic of conversation is about work. I squeeze my eyes shut, crescent moons imprinting into my palms as an outlet for my anger.
“Gigi,” my mother sighs, carrying in a hot dish, “you didn’t finish laying the table.”
“Right, sorry.”
There’s lingering tension in the air once we‘re seated. Every chink of cutlery catching against the porcelain plates grates at my resolve to stay calm .
“Paris was wonderful,” Mum speaks up. “Wasn’t it just fabulous, Husband? We saw the Eiffel Tower, you know. I’ve seen it plenty of times before, but it just feels so much better in spring.”
I nod along, unbothered, but still she persists to tell me about fucking France.
“There’s something about spring in Paris that I just adore.”
“Just a shame it had to be cut short,” I say.
“Yes.” Her lips tighten. “Such a pity.”
“I’m fine, by the way … thanks for asking.”
Silence swarms the table as we continue to eat our food, but the tightness with which my mum holds her cutlery portrays the true emotion hiding behind her fake smile.
Deciding to test the waters, I say, “I think the person who broke in knew Jack.”
My mother’s face pales, and her shaking hands suggest she’s seen a ghost. “What would make you assume something so ridiculous?”
I laugh bitterly. “They were in his room … They left the whole house untouched. There were no signs of a break-in. Why else would they want to be in there?”
She pulls herself together with poise, straightens her shoulders, and then says, “You and your theories again, sweetheart. You’re getting carried away. They weren’t in Jack’s roo—”
“They were! I saw them.”
The fire in her eyes dissipates as she regains composure, forcing her usual fa?ade. My eyes flicker over to Dad as he digs into his food without bother. My mother’s jaw tightens.
“Did you tell these … strangers what you saw?”
“You mean the police?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever they’re called. ”
I stab at a piece of broccoli. “I didn’t.”
“Well then …” She looks up at my father. “The intruder couldn’t have possibly been where you thought they were. Don’t you think, William?”
“I swear—”
“Stop it now, Gigi.” She rubs her thumb and forefinger against her temples. “I sense an oncoming migraine.”
I screw my eyes shut, attempting to regain my composure “But—”
“I said stop.”
“You can’t keep acting as if he didn’t exist.” My eyes fly back open. “We need to talk about this. I really think something bad—”
“ENOUGH!”
I drop my cutlery to my plate. Dad continues eating away at his tea, acting unfazed by the outburst, whereas Mum stills completely, as if she’s locked eyes with Medusa and turned to stone.
“Get out,” she finally says.
My jaw drops. “I live here. You can’t just kick me out.”
“It’s best if you stay away from me and your father for a while.”
I sputter, “Where am I meant to go?”
“Greg’s, no doubt. Aren’t you there all the time anyway?”
“That’s not the point.” I sigh, lowering my gaze. “I can’t just expect to stay there.”
Speaking with his mouth full, Dad says, “Your mother’s right. It’s best if you leave.”
I open my mouth, stammering on word vomit, but before I can do or say anything I’ll regret, I stand, causing the wooden legs of my chair to screech against the hardwood floor. I throw the napkin onto my plate, turn, and leave.
Tears blur my eyes as I drive in silence, causing the headlights of oncoming traffic to flicker like a kaleidoscope. I feel like I’m going utterly insane. I’m racked with guilt over my brother’s death, and aside from Mia, no one is fucking helping me. My own family is convincing me I’m mad and forcing me to second-guess everything I see.
Amid my panic, the edges of my vision darken and my chest starts to heave unforgivingly. It’s a miracle I’m making it to my ex-boyfriend’s house in one piece.
When Greg opens his door, his smile is full of sympathy.
“I’m so sorry to do this to you again,” I say, hauling in my luggage.
“Don’t apologise. I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else.”
I hide my grimace since I’m no fool. My being here is giving him a false illusion about the two of us. The issues between us can be resolved another night, but tonight I’m just happy I have a place to stay that isn’t the back seat of my car.
“What happened?” he asks, taking a bag from my arm.
I follow him up the creaky wooden stairs, trudging after him as he places my belongings beside his bed. He sits down on the edge of the mattress, patting the empty spot beside him. I take it reluctantly, wiping a hand down my face in frustration.
“They got all anal about Jack again.”
He sighs, rubbing my back. “You know what they’re like … Why do you keep persevering?”
“You don’t understand. They’re keeping something from me, Greg. I know it.” I grip the sides of my hair and pull at the root. “I’m his only living relative who cares enough to find out the truth. I’m not giving up now.”
He sighs, leaning his head down to mumble into the piece of hair I just abused. “Mia said she’s gathered some more information she wants to show you tomorrow.”
Of course, it’s Monday tomorrow. Mystery Monday. Mia and I have been looking into the circumstances of Jack’s death for the past five years, dedicating every single Monday to the cause. That means anything from meeting at a coffee shop to talking on the phone – even if we discover nothing. We’ve never missed a day. Not once.
“You know you can always stay here,” Greg says, brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “With me.”
His father is never around, so the house is empty. His mother died during childbirth, and he has no siblings to keep him company. I should just accept the offer – he’d never charge rent, and I’m only a short drive from my family’s house. But I’m not prepared to rely on yet another person my whole life.
“I’ll think about it, okay?” I try to make my smile look convincing. “I swear.”
Whether he believes me or not is uncertain, but he smiles regardless. Leaning down slowly, Greg presses his lips to mine and pushes at my chest. My back hits the mattress as he fits himself between my legs, grinding against my core.
“I’ll give you a reason to stay.”
It’s been hours. My mind is awake, mentally reciting the conversation with my family. The scene auto-plays in my head, running a storm of images across my brain and keeping me far away from the comfort of sleep.
Greg’s snoring echoes round the bedroom, vibrating off the walls. It would be stupid to wake him, and frankly, I quite like being alone. After little deliberation, I leave the bedroom in silence and head downstairs towards the kitchen. The room would be pitch-black, if not for the soft glow of the moon and the flickering light from the oven that reads 3.10 a.m.
After I pour myself a drink I rest against the counter with a heavy exhale. The marble countertop is cold against my back, and the glass frosts against my fingertips. Getting lost in thought, I brush my thumb across the condensation, wiping the wet residue away with the pad of my thumb.
Everything with Jack is starting to tear my family apart.
Maybe it’s about time I stop living in the past—
Greg’s front door swings open, rattling on its hinges. It smacks against the wall with a loud thwack , the harsh action making an imprint in the drywall as it threatens to swing shut again. A stranger barges through, throwing open the closing door while mumbling curses under their breath.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms until I start to see weird shapes, but I still come to the same conclusion. There’s definitely a stranger standing in the middle of Greg’s living room.
There’s something oddly fascinating about the person who just stormed through the entryway. They walk and carry themselves with the confidence of someone who lives here. Throwing a duffel bag onto the kitchen table that sits partially in the living room, they start unpacking their belongings with a sense of urgency.
“Where the fuck is it?” a low, intimidating voice grumbles.
The voice definitely came from a man. As my vision focuses on the stranger, I notice, even from his hunched position, his size is extremely intimidating. He must be reaching at least, like, seven feet and a thousand inches, his wide shoulders blocking whatever’s so important in that bag of his.
Peering up the stairs, I wonder how easily I can alert Greg. The likelihood of this man missing my attempt to escape is minuscule, but it’s the only chance I have at avoiding confrontation with him. Before I have a chance to weigh up my decisions further, he turns round, and a gasp slips past my lips.
He snaps his head in my direction.
Moonlight shines across his face, lightening his features and highlighting tousled black hair and a lone strand hanging in the centre of his forehead as if it has a mind of its own. Piercing green eyes lock with mine, and under the light his chiselled jawline looks capable of slicing gold. Blood runs from a wound in his hairline, coating his cheek, his jaw, and the length of his throat. He looks rugged. Masculine. Godly. Like every man my parents ever warned me to stay away from.
He looks like every bad decision I have yet to make.
And I crave him desperately.
“Who the fuck are you?” he bellows, knocking me out of my trance.
I take back everything I said.
I hate this man.
“Who am I?” I scoff. “Who are you ? Do you even know where you are right now?”
He glances at his surroundings and nods, then he turns towards me, his gaze stern. The man stalks over to me, pinning both his hands on the cabinet on either side of my hips and blocking my escape. As I’m forced to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, I realise he’s so close I can smell the iron of the blood trickling down his face.
“Care to explain what you’re doing in my house, princess?”
His smirk is cocky and distractingly handsome. It makes me want to punch him square in the face. It’s intimidating enough to make me trip over my words. Hell, it’s capable of eradicating every useless word that’s ever left anyone’s mouth – except his.
Mentally retracing my thoughts to what he just said, I rear back, hitting the counter behind me. “Your house?”
He nods, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “You should be nice to me,” he says, leaning in closer. “I could evict you for trespassing.”
Before I get sucked into his vortex, I shove at his chest. “Get the fuck off me.”
He doesn’t budge. He simply runs his tongue over his top row of teeth in amusement.
“What’s going on here?” a familiar voice asks .
I break my gaze from the stranger to see Greg peering down from the upstairs railing. He’s wrapping a dressing gown round himself urgently to hide his boxers. I turn back to the man in front of me, but he’s staring, refusing to divert his attention from my face.
“Greg—!” I try to explain.
“Don’t know where you happen to keep your first-aid kid,” the man asks, keeping his eyes on mine.
Greg sighs. “Under the sink.”
What the fuck?
“You know this man?”
Said man winks before pushing himself off the cabinet, leaving my hips feeling particularly cold. He heads over to the sink and pulls open the door in search of medicine. I take the opportunity to hurry towards where Greg is descending the last few steps.
“Greg!” I hiss. “What’s happening?”
He sighs and walks further into the kitchen. “Harry, this is Gigi. Gigi, this is my brother, Harry.”
“What!” Harry and I both ask in unison.
“You have a brother?” My voice is frantic.
Silence fills the room. Greg bows his head shamefully and drags a palm down his face, releasing a low grumble.
This is going to take a hell of a lot of explaining.
“Gigi …” the man – Harry – repeats quietly in that lethal voice of his. He nods as if he’s piecing information together.
I turn to Greg. “Why would you never tell me that?”
Harry scoffs, but when I whip my head towards him, his focus is on that flimsy medical box. His long fingers fumble with the contents, pulling out some gauze and rubbing alcohol.
Greg takes my elbow, pulling me towards the stairs. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Let’s just go to bed.”
Hell no. I want answers now .
“Is this his house?” I ask as if Harry’s not standing just a few feet away, amusement spreading across his face even with his head dipped.
“Yes,” Greg sighs. “Come on, please. Let’s just head upstairs.”
I desperately want to refuse.
Weighing up my options, I realise I only have two. I can sit in the kitchen with this stranger, who may or may not kill me, or I can flee to the bedroom and survive another night.
I choose the latter.