Chapter 3
Iclose the door to my office behind me with a quiet click. Crossing the small room, the weathered floorboards creaking under my feet, I edge around my desk and drop into the squeaky leather of my chair.
The small square room is every cliché you’d expect of a private investigator’s office with its frosted glass door, scuffed wooden floor, and plain walls.
Heavy metal file cabinets line one side, and a low, sagging crimson sofa backs up against another.
In front of the window is my desk, which faces the door and is piled high with paperwork, under which is buried my laptop. Somewhere.
I snort at the thought. My black hair is longer than I used to always wear it, no doubt messy since I constantly run my hands through it, either in frustration or to keep it out of my eyes. It’s so far away from the man I used to be.
I barely recognise myself these days.
I unconsciously trace my fingertips down the length of the scar running from the corner of my eye down past my cheekbone.
Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to go back to being that man. I can’t.
My hand drifts to my ribs, and I rub at the phantom pain there.
It’s been almost a year since the vicious attack that almost took my life—or maybe that’s exactly what it did.
I may have survived physically, but my life as I knew it was over.
Friends and family turned their backs on me, and I was fired from my career as a detective for the West Yorkshire Police.
I snort quietly although there’s no amusement in the sound. Yeah, my life is exactly what it took.
But maybe that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’d been happy. I could have carried on that way and never known any different. But I do know now. The world is not what I thought it was.
My physical injuries healed, but I learned things I never would have believed existed. That brush with death left me irrevocably changed and able to do things that should be impossible.
As crazy as it sounds, the past year has been like a superhero’s origin story…or a villain’s. I haven’t decided which yet.
I toss the large envelope I’m still holding on the desk and several very explicit photos spill out. Rubbing my face tiredly, I lean down and open my desk drawer, then pull out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a glass.
What the hell, might as well complete the stereotype, I think as I pour myself a drink. Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a sip and let the notes of spice and smoke dance over my tongue as I eye the damning pictures.
Another unfaithful spouse, another divorce, which seem to be my bread-and-butter clients these days. I shrug and take a deeper gulp, savouring the burn that warms my throat.
At least it pays the bills, I suppose.
It’s not like this was my dream. I’d had plans for my career, but all that changed in one fateful night. Now those old dreams feel like a badly fitted suit. The truth is, I don’t know what I want from my life.
As soon as I was released from hospital, I gave notice on my flat, packed up, and headed far away from Leeds.
London had been a logical choice. I was used to living in the city, and there are plenty of chances to earn money here.
It also offered the option of anonymity, where my scarred face would be lost in the crowd.
Where my life goes from here is the question though. I feel like I’m standing at a crossroads, and I don’t know which direction to take. Or if it even matters.
I lift the glass and drain it, then make myself place it and the bottle back in the drawer.
A single drink in the middle of the afternoon is one thing; after that, it’s a slippery slope.
Given what my grandfather was like, I would do well to use him as a cautionary tale.
My own personal beer-swilling Jiminy Cricket to keep me in check.
Scooping up the photographs, I tuck them neatly back into the envelope. Time to drop these off and get paid. But as I shift, my gaze drops to the manila folder on top of the mess of papers littered across my desk.
It was a favour for a friend, the one person left over from my old life. The man who had my back even though it cost him. I owed him. It didn’t take me long to find what he’d been looking for, but I’ve hesitated to call him back.
I haven’t seen anyone else I knew from before, not since I left Leeds.
Danny left just before me. He’d lost his job at West Yorkshire Police too, all because he’d stood up for me.
The last time I’d seen him, I was lying in a hospital bed, battered and hooked up to machines, and I’d barely been able to look at him.
The guilt had been too much. Him speaking out for me had cost him the job he loved and made things difficult with his family.
Fortunately, he managed to land himself a job with New Scotland Yard and moved to London.
Maybe I should’ve looked him up long before now, but I couldn’t.
I wasn’t ready. What do you say to a man who went to bat for you and almost lost everything because of it?
I pick up the manila folder along with the envelope of photos and push up from my desk. I guess this is the least I can do. Heading out of the office and locking up behind me, I step out onto the busy street and pull my phone from my pocket.
“Sam,” he greets as soon as I call. The deep burr of his northern accent gives me a quick and unexpected pang of sadness for everything I left behind. “That was quick. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
I shake off the pensiveness and project an air of upbeat confidence into my tone. “Yeah. Well, what can I say? I’m very good at what I do.”
“You found something?”
“More than something,” I murmur, my thoughts drifting to the rabbit hole I’d fallen down tied to Danny’s current investigation. “Let’s just say Maeve Landon’s real name is just the tip of the iceberg. You’re not going to believe what I dug up on her.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
I glance at the tide of people flowing around me and shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “Not over the phone,” I reply, looking down at the folder in my hand. “Can you meet me?”
“You’re not in Leeds?” he says, and I can hear the surprise in his tone.
Feeling another echo of guilt, I draw in a breath. “I’m in London, have been for some time.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” he asks, and I’m sure I’m not imagining the note of hurt.
“I–” I hesitate for a moment, but this is Danny, and he deserves honesty from me. I owe him that and much more. “I had some stuff I had to work through first, but that’s part of the reason I’d like to see you face-to-face. There are some things I need to say.”
There’s a short pause and then, “Okay, where are you?”
“I’m at Charing Cross at the moment.” I glance down at the envelope of photos pressed against Danny’s file in my hand, then tilt my wrist to get a look at my watch. “I have something I need to do first, but can you meet me in Covent Garden in about an hour?”
“Sure, where?”
“There’s a coffee shop called The Black Penny on Great Queen Street.”
“I’ll find it,” he rumbles.
“And Danny?” I say impulsively.
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” I mutter. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says quietly.
He mumbles a goodbye and hangs up. I sigh and slip my phone back in my pocket. This is a meeting that’s long overdue. I guess it’s time to start facing my past and figuring out if I have a future.
I arrive at The Black Penny before Danny.
The café has a laid-back urban vibe to it, with blackened cladding and exposed brickwork, and is lit by Edison-style lightbulbs.
I briefly pause at the long galley-style counter and get myself a black coffee.
Taking a seat at one of the free tables in the back, I set the folder on the table and wait.
My stomach is churning, the whiskey sitting like lead, or maybe it’s just the thought of seeing Danny and rehashing my past. I shift in my seat and as I glance up, I see him approaching.
He looks just the same, dressed in a neat two-piece suit that seems to be the staple of any police detective.
His blonde hair is short and swept in a side parting, and his blue eyes are filled with warmth.
As he reaches me, I stand slowly. “Danny.”
He sets his own mug down on the table and pulls me into a hug. I’m not expecting it, and for a moment I stiffen, then relax.
“Sam.” He pulls back and studies me, those deep blue eyes of his serious.
I know what he’s seeing. He may not have changed, but I have.
I was always well-built, maybe a little soft around the middle, but in the past year between my recovery and moving, weight has just fallen off, leaving me a bit too thin.
My past short dark hair and clean-shaven face have been replaced with a perpetual dark stubble and shaggy hair that John Wick would be proud of.
But the thing that makes my stomach tighten is the way Danny’s gaze lingers for a moment on the jagged scar that slightly drags the corner of my eye and runs down my cheek.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, and I relax a little at the obvious sincerity in his voice.
“Yeah.” I nod and lower myself back into my seat. “You too. You look good.”
“Thanks.” He smiles, taking the seat opposite me.
“London agrees with you,” I mutter as I study his face with just as much scrutiny as he gave mine.
“I guess it does.” His mouth quirks as he takes a sip of his coffee.
“Or maybe it’s the cute pathologist you’re practically shacked up with.” I give him a wry smile.
He raises a brow. It might have taken me a while to work up the courage to meet with him, but it’s not like I don’t keep tabs on the people who are important to me.
“And how would you know that?” he asks in amusement.
“Because I’m very good at what I do.” I chuckle. “Did you really think I’d come to London and not look you up?”
“No, but I’d kind of expected a phone call at the very least.”