Chapter 11
Having Clare next to him in the confined space of the car was challenging every ounce of his composure.
Oliver cast a glance sideways to see her hands sandwiched between her thighs, as though she was trying to restrain herself.
Probably from slapping him, he decided. Frankly, he would welcome the sting of pain on his cheeks.
It would be easier than the gnawing guilt. The constant longing to touch her.
As he started up the car, he had the ridiculous urge to confess. To tell her the whole messy story behind why he’d left that night.
Maybe he’d even point to his cheek and invite her to slap him, as many times as she chose. Luckily, reason won out.
They had three months to get through at most. Let her continue to hate him.
He wondered whether he’d tell her the truth on their last day together.
No. Fuck it, why? Why try and make her see him in a better light?
Oliver Hale, blood addict. Attacker of innocent humans.
Yeah right. Even if he explained why he’d turned from a civilized young vampire with decent values into a blood-sucking vermin, she would never be able to see past that.
And to what end? So she would forgive him? Consider seeing him again?
He didn’t do relationships. Casual fucks, that was all he’d allowed himself, and even they were a thing of the distant past. He’d dated the occasional fae in his early years as a police officer. He could resist their blood. But even that had become burdensome, so he’d chosen celibacy instead.
Her words interrupted his thoughts. “How did Saul persuade you to take the job, sir?”
“He didn’t. Grayson did.”
She glanced at him. “As in, Grayson Lightfoot?”
“Yep. He told me Matteus Kominsky had been sighted recently.”
“You never did get to solve that crime, did you sir?” She gave a dry laugh. “Was it your ego that brought you back to Motham?”
Her comment stung. And it was cheeky as fuck. He’d always liked that about her, her bravado. “Guess there could be an element of that,” he grudgingly conceded.
“And maybe not enough challenges in Selig?” she added lightly.
He turned the question back on her. “I could ask the same of you, about Tween.”
“Agreed, Tween is not a hive of criminal activity.”
“Neither, it seems, is Selig.”
“Guess there’s not much point being a detective without any crimes to solve.”
He found himself chuckling. “Very true.”
Her posture wasn’t quite as rigid now that they were talking, and the tension in his own shoulders eased somewhat.
He cast her profile a quick glance. These past three years had added a maturity to her features, as though her innocence had been robbed from her.
A sadness played around the contours of her mouth, in the fan of fine lines around her eyes.
Had he done that to her?
“It’s going to feel strange, going through Natalie’s apartment when I haven’t seen her in years,” she mused.
“You were close?”
“She was the only friend I had at school. We were inseparable back then.”
“Dropping you like a hot cake doesn’t sound like the act of a good friend.”
She was silent, and he realized his blunder. Gods, he was as tactless as Saul.
After a moment she said, “I think she believed I was deserting her.”
“Were you?”
“No. But I needed a bigger canvas to paint on, and Tween couldn’t give me that.”
He refrained from asking why she’d gone back to work in Tween after he left. He suspected he knew why: because she needed to get away from the memories of that night just as much as he did. He shifted in his seat as he recalled their final interaction.
The morning after the PD dinner, he’d gotten into work early. The first thing he’d done was to pick up the phone and accept a job that had been sitting on his desk for weeks, an opportunity to head up the investigations bureau in Selig.
The second thing he’d done was not of his choosing. Because when he looked up, Clare was standing in the doorway of his office, her hand gripping the doorknob so hard her knuckles were white. Her green and gold eyes blazed with unmistakable anger.
“Yes, Clare?” he managed out of suddenly parched lips.
“Did you get waylaid, sir?”
He raised an eyebrow. “When?”
“Last night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Did something hold you up—sir?”
He knew he deserved her anger, her contempt. And gods damn it, she sure had courage, coming in and confronting him like this.
Shuffling papers on his desk, he growled, “Something did come up, yes.”
“I have a phone. You could have called me.”
When he didn’t answer she ground out, “Nothing came up, did it? You just chose not to return.”
“There was no point continuing something we would both regret in the cold light of day.”
She nodded tersely. Didn’t budge, just stood there, a ball of beautiful rage, like an avenging angel.
Hardening his heart, Oliver said tersely, “Come in for a moment.”
She stepped into his office, closed the door, and stood ramrod straight against it, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
He willed himself to lean back in his chair and drawled, “You may as well be the first to know. I am leaving Motham PD.”
Color washed over her cheeks, then faded, leaving her white as a ghost.
“I see.”
“I’ve been offered a role as head of the investigations bureau in Selig.”
She stared at him, her face void of expression. “How very convenient.”
He shrugged. “The offer came in weeks ago, I’ve just decided to accept it.”
Her lip curled. “Are you afraid I’ll report you, sir?”
He arched his brows. “For what?”
“You are my superior—need I say more?”
Anger flared in him to match her own. It was so much easier than the shame. “I gave you the option to say no. More than once.”
She blanched.
He twisted the knife. “I believe you are an adult, capable of the word no.”
She didn’t reply, but he saw her hands clenching tight.
“It’s for the best that I leave here,” he said finally, staring down at his desk.
Finally, flatly, she’d said, “You’re right, sir. It would be impossible to work for someone I have so little respect for.” She turned to go. “And don’t worry, I wouldn’t stoop so low as to make a complaint. I take responsibility for my actions. Sir.”
He’d nearly run after her as she strode away, wanted to swing her round to face him in front of the whole department, drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness.
But of course, he hadn’t.
He’d let her walk away, and a week later, he’d left without even bidding her farewell. He’d packed a small bag and gone to live over the mountains. And there in Selig, he’d let his heart burn to a cinder in his chest and his emotions die on the embers of his self-hatred and remorse.
And now here they were, three years on.
And time had done nothing to heal his pain or slake his longing for Clare Doyle.
He realized they’d driven the last mile in silence, his mind grinding over memories while Clare stubbornly stared out of the passenger window, face averted. He wondered if the same memories were playing through her mind.
He drew the car up abruptly as a neutral female voice on the navigation system announced, “You have reached your destination.”
“Okay, let’s do this,” he said curtly.
She gave barely a grunt of acknowledgement.
Damn the woman, let her sulk.
He got out and slammed the car door, then heard hers slam too.
Then he heard her soft footsteps follow him up the steps of Natalie Spriggs’ apartment block.
Clare stared around the interior of the small apartment. It was so like Natalie, neat and orderly. Although she clearly hadn’t chosen the large and rather ugly goblin furniture, she’d left delicate little tokens of herself all around.
The dried flowers in a vase, a neon sign above the dresser that read “believe in yourself.” Her favorite teddy propped up on the pillows. Clare’s mouth twisted; she remembered that teddy. Natalie had been a sweet superstitious soul, believing in talismans to keep her safe.
Except they hadn’t in the end, had they?
Clare shivered, realizing she’d thought of her friend in the past tense.
Did she believe that Natalie was dead?
No, but she feared it.
She opened the door of the closet. Some hair ties and scarves, and her clothes hanging a little haphazardly.
All very Natalie—little puff sleeve dresses with bows, in pastel colors, low-heeled pumps to match.
One dress at the back, a party dress in black lace, clearly figure-hugging with a plunging neckline, gave Clare pause.
This was out of character for the girl she knew, and a dramatic departure from the other frilly outfits in Natalie’s wardrobe.
It was svelte, sophisticated, and sexy.
Below it, on the shoe rack, was a pair of black patent stilettos. Clearly to go with the dress.
“This dress is out of character for the Natalie I knew,” she remarked as Oliver joined her.
“Certainly different from the other garments.” He took it off the hanger, then snorted.
“What?”
“The label. Vlad Kominsky Couture.”
Clare had personally never bought anything at Vlad Kominsky Couture, but a lot of humans did these days. Wearing dresses designed by a vampire was the ultimate sign of being woke and trendy. If you wanted to be anyone in Motham’s monster/human scene, you wore one of these gowns.
“Vlad will probably remember when she bought it, and what for.”
“She may not have told him.”
“True, but Vlad never forgets a client, and he’d have been working out how much money he could squeeze out of her.”
Just then the landlady knocked on the door. “Everything alright in there?” Oliver walked to the door, and they started to chat, Oliver charming her easily.
“On the last day you saw her, did you notice anything unusual?”
“Oh no, she was her usual sweet self, quiet, polite.”
“Did she go out much? Like, in the evenings. Night times?”
“Rarely. Not that I knew.”
“No boyfriends, girlfriends, friends?”
“She was shy. Certainly no sexual liaisons, I don’t allow that kind of behavior here. So she’d have to go elsewhere.”
Clare went over to the little desk as they talked, and flicked through papers. There was nothing of note—a bill for dry cleaning, a couple of receipts. She opened a drawer; it was full of underwear. Mostly they were cotton, plain, except one pair of panties in red silk, and a matching bra.
Clare frowned. The red silk made her recall her own red dress. She silenced the thought. Had Natalie been trying to impress someone on a night out?
She was about to close the drawer when her eye caught on the edge of a card sticking out from the silky red knickers, with scalloped edges and gilt lettering. She pulled it out.
It looked almost like a wedding invitation. Clare’s eyes scanned the words quickly:
You are cordially invited to
a cocktail party.
Meet and greet monster business leaders
and kickstart your career in Motham City.
7.30 Friday, 13th September
Venue: The Den
RSVP
Emmaline Shaw
Director
Humans4Monsters Recruitment
Her senses pricked. The event was a month ago. Three weeks before Natalie disappeared.
Had Natalie bought the black dress to attend that event?
She glanced at Oliver, still charming the landlady with his easy laugh and his velvet tone, effortlessly getting tidbits of information out of her.
But not this tidbit.
Swiftly, she slid the card into her purse. She’d raise it with him later. After they’d visited Vlad about the dress.
Maybe then there would be some sense to be made of it. Right now, with the landlady spouting on about moral values in young people, she decided to keep quiet. She didn’t want salacious rumors to spread about her old friend.
Oliver came back. “Have you found anything else of note?”
Something made her say “Nope.” And she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was to claw back some power in the situation. She resented that he seemed so casually indifferent to her, while she was struggling to stay even remotely sane and rational in his presence.
“Bring the dress.”
She unhooked the dress from its hanger.
“Grab the stilettos, too. Could be useful to check the dust on her shoes.”
Once they were out in the street she said, “So are we going to see Vlad now?”
“I am. You’re not.”
“W—what?” She stared at him, brows furrowed.
“I’m dropping you back at the station. You need to set up times to interview the families.”
“But you told me to stop.”
“And now I want you to start again.”
She almost whined like a petulant child that he was being grossly unfair. Instead, she adjusted her vocal cords and said in a gruff voice, “My preference would be to stay and investigate what’s happening here, sir.”
“This is not about your personal preferences,” he snapped. “You are the only human working on the case. If we have any chance of the families talking, it will be to a human. You need to go to Tween and interview them.”
“And you? What will you be doing in the meantime?”
“I will investigate leads in Motham. This dress, for a start. Here.” He took the garment and shoes from her.
He must have sensed she was fuming, because he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing. Sir,” she muttered as he placed the shoes and dress in the boot.
He gave a huff of a sigh as he returned and looked at her across the top of the vehicle. “It has to be you who interviews them, Clare. High Tween humans would not take kindly to a vampire knocking on their door. My presence in Tween would spell the death knell for our investigations.”
There was truth in what he said, but she didn’t want to interview humans. She wanted to be here in Motham, in the nitty gritty chaos of it all.
You want to be here with him.
No! Absolutely fucking no way!
She yanked open the passenger door and got in, ignoring him as he got in beside her and started the car.
She tried desperately to reason with herself, but all the while her skin smarted with humiliation. It felt like she was being sidelined, while he took on all the juicy, interesting stuff.
Or worse, was he sending her to back to Tween because he didn’t want to be anywhere near her.
And shame to say, that thought cut deepest of all.
Clasping her purse on her lap, the invitation felt like it was burning a hole in the leather. Of course it was a vital clue. One that she should share with her boss. Immediately.
Except, damn him, she wasn’t going to mention it. Not yet.
Not after he’d summarily dismissed her.
Clare pinned her lips and didn’t say a word all the way back to the station.