Chapter 14
MAEVE
The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards scratch against my nerves. My eyes burn, and my brain throbs against the inside of my skull.
But it’s not loud enough to drown out the memory of Dennis’s last breath.
At. All.
How am I even here right now, sitting at my desk, staring at a blank document, pretending like I didn’t just murder a man two nights ago?
Shouldn’t I be curled up in a ball, hiding in my room, waiting for that familiar sound of sirens to pull up in my driveway? That would make the most sense. Although, it’s not like I can just ask anyone what the normal reaction to murdering someone is.
Well, there is one person . . .
Nope. I’m not going there. I told him to stay away, and that’s what I’m going to do as well.
I still have a job to do. And right now, I’m still here, not in the back of a police car where I belong. Law enforcement could drag me to prison in chains, and it wouldn’t change a thing. Jail isn’t the nightmare here. The nightmare is not knowing. The nightmare is that Dennis took the truth with him.
And I made that happen. There’s no way I’m going back to his house now.
My insides twist themselves into knots. Every look in my direction, every whisper, spikes my heart rate.
My hands shake as I reach for my coffee. I freeze. Is that . . . blood?
The stain clings to me. I scrubbed my hands raw. Twice. Three times. Probably more. But the faint tinge of red, etched into the cracks in my skin still lingers, burying deeper and deeper.
Maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s just my mind refusing to let me forget. A reminder that I’m a murderer.
A figure appears beside my desk, and I jump, spilling coffee over the edge of my cup and onto my white blouse.
“Shit.” I fumble for a tissue and dab at the stain on my chest.
This is great. Just fucking great.
“Sorry,” Lydia says, her voice full of concern. “I thought you saw me.”
I haven’t really seen anything since I woke up. My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me forward.
I drove here this morning, I know that much. I remember gripping the wheel, the traffic lights turning green, but I don’t remember the road. Everything else is just static.
“It’s fine,” I say, my tone clipped.
Lydia plants herself on the edge of my desk, grabbing my chin gently. I yank away, my pulse fluttering.
An image flashes at the forefront of my mind, and all I see is Dennis’s face, his dead eyes, blood pooling beneath his chair.
I blink.
I’m safe. I’m at work.
And Lydia is still staring at me, her blue eyes roaming my face. “You look like hell, Maeve.” She leans in slightly. “Are you sick? There’s a stomach bug going round.” She pauses, biting her bottom lip. “Or . . . is it something else?”
I am sick, just not in the way she thinks.
With a shake of my head, I wave her off, continuing to dab at the coffee stain. It’s no use, but I can’t look directly at her.
“I’m not sick”—not physically—“Haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
That much is true.
Saturday night, after . . . the incident, I tossed and turned. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Or the fact I stabbed a man with a letter opener.
Lydia nods, pursing her lips. “So, you’ve heard the news then?”
My chest tightens, a sharp pressure squeezing the air from my lungs.
I force myself to blink, to act normal.
Dennis was a lone man with no family, no-one to check on him. Has he been found already? I guess the news of his death is going to come out sooner rather than later. Should I just confess now?
“You’re spiralling.” There she is, Bethany, in the back of my mind, just the way I remember her.
Forcing a smile, I raise my eyebrows. “What news?” I say, keeping my voice controlled despite the shaking of my hands.
“Terry’s back,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. “Poor guy looks like he’s seen a ghost.” A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Or met one.”
All the blood drains from my face, my hand clamping around the coffee cup, the ceramic burning against my palm. I don’t let go.
This is worse than Dennis being discovered. So much worse.
“Oh.” My heart trips over itself. Seen a ghost? Met one? I force my lips into what I hope is a neutral shape. “How is he?”
Does he remember who attacked him? Will he blame me?
Lydia shakes her head as she assesses her pink nails. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less.” She huffs out a laugh, poking my upper arm with a pointer finger. “And neither should you. He’s a creep, Maeve.”
I lift a shoulder. She’s not wrong. He is a creep, but he’s a creep who could talk.
“True.” My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip.
Would Terry tell me what happened? He’s come face-to-face with the killer. Maybe he could provide confirmation of what I already know deep down.
It’s been Caleb all along.
I need to know.
Bloody hell. I’m about to lose my cool, and it’s going to be right in front of the entire office, for everyone to witness.
“Maeve.” Holloway’s voice echoes out from the hallway.
Oh, thank God. A distraction.
“Yes, sir?” I shove to my feet, my chair rolling back and hitting the wall behind me.
“Meeting. Now.”
Meeting?
Crap. I totally forgot I’m supposed to be meeting this . . . Mr. Garrett?
This isn’t the distraction I need after all. What if Holloway sees right through me? I’m in no state to deny anything.
“Get it together.” That voice, always there.
Right. I can do this. I’m good at pretending.
Squaring my shoulders, I plaster on a smile, placing a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Chat later?”
She nods, her eyebrows pulled in, but she says nothing else as I dart down the hallway to Holloway’s office, the weight of everyone’s eyes on my back.
“I’m here, sir,” I say, hovering in the open doorway.
Holloway flings his hand around, and gestures for me to sit. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” Head down, I dart into the office, and plant myself in one of two leather armchairs in front of Holloway’s desk.
The office door clicks shut behind me, trapping me inside with the scent of expensive cologne—artificial, suffocating. Like it’s trying to cover up the stench of deception.
Dark steel-grey eyes land on me, assessing and measuring, like they’ve already decided how much I’m worth.
It’s not much, not after the events of the weekend. I’m tainted, blood-stained.
The man’s charcoal suit probably costs more than my yearly salary. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, and there’s something almost reptilian about the way his eyes linger on my face, unblinking and too sharp. It’s like he’s attempting to pick through my brain.
I’d much prefer he didn’t.
“Maeve, this is Mr. Garrett,” Holloway says, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something.
Excitement? Nervousness? I can’t quite place it.
His usual commanding presence is oddly subdued, as if the second man keeps some power in a hierarchy, and Holloway is nothing but the toilet paper he wipes his arse with.
Mr. Garrett extends his hand toward me, the warm smile on his face incongruent with the raw power emanating off him.
I stare at his hand for a second too long before gripping it.
His handshake is measured, deliberate, neither firm nor soft.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lockhart,” he says, his voice smooth and even. “I’ve heard impressive things about your work. Your reputation precedes you.”
I plaster on a smile, even as a chill runs down my spine. A warning, perhaps. “You’re too kind, sir.”
God. I sound like a cliché.
Mr. Garrett’s smile remains in place. It’s practiced, honed over years of meetings just like this one. It’s all fake, a pretence to unsuspecting idiots.
But I’m no idiot. There’s something off about him, an edge in his stare that makes my stomach twist.
“I understand you’re quite thorough in your investigations,” he says, linking his fingers together as he crosses one leg over the other. “That’s exactly what we need, someone who can help the public see the truth about Pinnacle’s work.”
“Of course, sir. Transparency is key in building trust, after all,” I say, the words rehearsed and hollow, even to my own ears.
Still, I’m impressed with myself. Moments ago, I was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. Now, I’m switching gears like I’ve done this a hundred times before.
Much like Caleb does, I suppose. One day I’ll ask him how he does it so effortlessly.
But maybe that’s what I need to do. Compartmentalise the darker parts of my psyche. If I can do that, it’s possible I can function once again.
“Exactly,” Mr. Garrett says, nodding. “And trust is something we value deeply at Pinnacle. Especially in our partnerships.” He leans forward slightly. “I’m sure you understand the importance of discretion as well. Some stories . . . well, they’re best left untold, don’t you think?”
I swallow hard.
Is he talking about Dennis?
His smile lingers like a threat, a warning disguised as polite conversation.
“Breathe, Maeve. He’s just being cryptic. That’s what these corporate types do.”
Holloway clears his throat, snapping me back into the moment. “Maeve has been instrumental in helping Sunhaven Times continue to make a name for itself, Mr. Garrett. Her fresh approach to journalism is exactly what Pinnacle needs in these . . . uncertain times. She’s been working on the Thornhaven murders.” I don’t miss the slight hesitation in Holloway’s voice.
I frown. What he’s not saying is, I’ve dropped the ball and I’m too slow to chase it.
Mr. Garrett’s eyes narrow slightly at Holloway’s words. “Interesting,” he says, his gaze sliding back to me. “And how is that going, Maeve? I can call you Maeve, right? Any interesting leads?”
The way he says ‘interesting’ makes my skin crawl. I resist the urge to shiver, instead forcing my face into a mask of professional interest.
“I have some,” I say, sitting taller, as though the simple act will stop my insides from vibrating.
“I’m curious,” Mr. Garrett continues, “what drew you to journalism in the first place, Maeve? It’s such a . . . volatile field. Dangerous even.”
The way he says my name, it’s almost like he’s tasting it, savouring each syllable like a rare delicacy.
“Nothing specific.” My voice remains steady despite the tremble in my body. “I suppose I liked the idea of digging up skeletons.”
He tilts his head, a small tick in his jaw. “Are you from around here?”
What?
Why? Why would someone like Mr. Garrett give a crap where I’m from?
Unless of course . . .
No.
He can’t know. No-one knows about me. I made sure of that. When I left the orphanage ten years ago, I erased my past. Changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name, built a life that wasn’t tied to that place .
I did everything right. Kept my head down. Stayed off the radar.
And yet, here I am.
Perhaps I’m a masochist, addicted to the pain as much as I claim to despise it.
I straighten, squaring my shoulders. “No,” I say, sniffing slightly for effect. “I’m not from around here.”
Mr. Garrett continues to study me, silent, like he’s peeling back my skin layer by layer, searching for the lies underneath. Then, as if he wasn’t digging through the inside of my head, he blinks and waves a dismissive hand.
“Well, that makes two of us.” He rests an elbow on the arm of his chair, linking his fingers. “To be honest with you, Maeve, these small towns give me the creeps. They really should do something with that old orphanage in Thornhaven. Knock it down. Renovate. I’m not sure it matters, though.” His eyes catch the morning light, sharp and unreadable. “What are your thoughts? It’s an eye-sore, isn’t it?”
He’s playing with me. He knows something.
“Sure,” I say, shifting in my seat, the leather creaking beneath my weight. “If I had my way, I’d burn it down.” The words leave my mouth like vomit, raw and unfiltered.
Rookie error, letting my emotions slip through the cracks like that.
I clear my throat, smoothing my navy slacks over my thighs, wiping the sweat covering my palms.
Mr. Garrett’s eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to Holloway. “I knew I’d like this one, Michael. She’s just delightful.”
I’m sitting right here , arsehole.
Holloway grins, the look foreign on his chubby face. “Excellent. I hoped that would be the case.”
Mr. Garrett turns back to me, his eyes tracking the way my leg bounces. I place a hand on it, forcing it to settle.
“You know, Maeve,” he says with a tight smile. “Since you’re going to be working closely with us, perhaps you’d like to hear about some of our latest medical breakthroughs?”
I nod, keeping my expression carefully neutral. This is what I’m here for, right?
He dives right in, hands flying as he speaks, the words flowing in a near-symphony of medical jargon, and big words. It’s polished, too polished. Every pause, every flick of his wrist is rehearsed. He’s probably delivered the same speech to a thousand other sceptics.
Except this time, he’s watching me, gauging my reaction like I’m the experiment.
“. . . we’ve been making incredible strides in gene therapy,” he says, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Imagine a world where sickness is obsolete. Where intelligence isn’t a lottery, but a guarantee. That’s what we’re working towards.”
Okay, this is some science fiction bullshit, because . . . what? Not only does that sound impossible, but it’s downright inhumane, ethically, and morally fucked.
Next, they’ll be designing babies. The implications are beyond my capabilities.
“That sounds . . . fascinating.” I keep my voice level, my cheeks aching as I continue to hold a polite smile like I don’t want to reach over this chair and shake him into some sense. “How does it work?”
Mr. Garrett’s grin widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, it’s quite complex, but essentially, we’re able to isolate specific genes and either activate or deactivate them. We’ve had remarkable success in animal trials. Curing hereditary diseases, enhancing cognitive function, even extending lifespans.”
He speaks as though he’s pitching a movie, not describing real science. He has the confidence of a man unveiling the future.
Curing genetic disorders? Boosting intelligence? It all sounds too good to be true.
“Of course,” he continues, lowering his voice, “we’re still years away from human trials. The ethical implications are . . . complex.”
Right. Ethics.
I lean in, feigning interest. “I can imagine. But surely the potential benefits outweigh the risks?”
For a split second—so quick I almost miss it—his smile tightens, and his eyes dart to the door behind me. An escape, perhaps. I bet he’s not used to people questioning him.
“Absolutely,” he says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction. “We could create a world free of disease, where everyone reaches their full potential.”
Potential. I file that word away for later.
“That sounds incredible,” I say, my eyes locked on his. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more media coverage of your work. Seems like the kind of breakthrough that could change the world overnight.”
There. The real test. What is he hiding?
Mr. Garrett’s smile tightens further. There it is. A tell.
“Well,” he says, tugging at the collar of his crisp white shirt. “We prefer to keep things under wraps until we’re certain of our results. You understand, of course. The scientific community can be . . . unforgiving of premature announcements.”
I nod, maintaining my facade of casual interest. “Of course. But surely your investors must be eager to see some return on their investment. How do you balance their expectations with the need for secrecy?”
A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and he swipes it away. “You really are thorough, aren’t you?” He lets out a soft chuckle, though it lacks warmth. “I think our partnership will be very favourable indeed.”
And just like that, he stands, buttons his suit jacket, and extends his hand to Holloway. “Michael, a pleasure, as always. Please make sure Miss Lockhart has everything she needs.”
“Of course,” Holloway says, shaking Mr. Garrett’s hand with a smug grin. “She’ll make sure your name remains untarnished .”
I will? That’s yet to be decided.
Mr. Garrett turns to me, his hand outstretched once again. I take it, forcing my fingers to remain steady.
“Well, Maeve, it’s been a pleasure. Our . . . CEO will be very pleased to know the security of his company’s personal information will be very protected. He’s been dying to meet you. I’m sure in time, he’ll make himself known to you.” His gaze lingers on me, as though he’s looking through me, and not at me.
Mr. Garrett’s words are polite. Innocuous, even.
But the way he says it?
It’s not a courtesy.
It’s a warning.
I swallow hard. Why would the CEO of a giant medical research company want to meet little old me?