Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
ROMAN
Roman kicks the front door shut with his heel and charges up the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t bother calling out to his mum. She’ll be in the kitchen with the radio on, pretending not to notice he’s back. That’s fine by him; he’s got plenty to keep him busy.
He bursts into his bedroom and kicks the door closed behind him there, too. The smell of stale crisps and dirty washing hangs in the air, but there never seems to be a good time to clean up. His mum respects his privacy and doesn’t come in here much, but it’s getting pretty bad, even for him.
His desk is a mess, too—unusual. He’s always kept at least that under control. Tangled leads, two empty cans of energy drink, a laptop half hidden beneath yesterday’s T-shirt and socks. He slings the clothing to the floor, flips the screen open and hits the power.
The screen glows blue. He taps his fingers, impatient.
He’s still prickling at the way the officer at the cordon had tried to shoo him off, like he’s some little kid.
An irritant. He’d nodded and waited until the cop had gone away again and then bang—phone out, a couple of quick shots before anyone noticed.
They can’t stop him seeing what’s right under his nose, and if that copper knew what Roman had on his hard drive, he’d be begging him to take a look.
There was no chance of that. He hadn’t even had time to go through it himself yet.
He clicks open a chat window and fires a message off to Sanj.
ROM4N: u in?
SanjTheMan: whats up
ROM4N: sharpe got nicked. murder chg!!
SanjTheMan: no way. for real?
ROM4N: police dragged him off
SanjTheMan: ur not messing?
ROM4N: would i waste my time?
He attaches one of the shots—blurred but clear enough to see blue tape strung across Orchard Lane, uniforms swarming.
The three dots dance for a second or two. Then Sanj’s reply pings up:
SanjTheMan: ur street is cursed
Roman smirks.
Another ping.
SanjTheMan: we need to get this info passed on asap.
ROM4N: Yeah, but i’m still busy getting the truth
He can almost hear Sanj’s groan through the screen.
SanjTheMan: define truth. This is a paid job don’t forget bro.
ROM4N: relax. I’m laying off oliver for now. too risky with forensic dudes all over his stuff . . . but there’s still Emily.
SanjTheMan: what abt her?
Roman stretches back in his chair, smirking at the ceiling. He loves this part, the hunch before the proof. The police always miss what’s right in front of them. Emily is quieter, sharper. She doesn’t fit the mould of a clueless wife, and quiet women always hide the best secrets. In his experience.
ROM4N: I’ve been going into her emails. Not everything—just the scraps. Old sign-ups, recovery emails. You know the stuff.
SanjTheMan: Be careful, don’t leave a trail. Now police have arrested him they might look into her stuff too.
ROM4N: probs. but curious now
SanjTheMan: seriously. this is dangerous. Don’t blow your cover!
ROM4N: always dangerous. That’s what makes it fun!!
He shuts the chat window with a flourish and rubs his palms together.
The first step is easy, but not always rapid. He likes the slow part, the picking through all the dross. The part most people give up on. This isn’t his first rodeo. He and Sanj have been experimenting with riskier jobs for months—not just pranks.
He already has a starting point. When the Sharpes moved in, Oliver had boasted about how they’d lived all over the UK, never settling. That means Emily’s bound to have a trail of old accounts and Roman knows the trick is to pick at the edges until you find a stitch that doesn’t quite fit.
He types fast, opening databases, scanning lists of leaked credentials he’s picked up on Emily. He jerks his head to the music pumping out of his headphones, his energy fizzing.
On another screen, a notification buzzes—another message from Sanj.
SanjTheMan: I think ur stupid but let me know if you find anytg
He laughs out loud and sends a laughing emoji.
Downstairs, a door slams. He pulls off his headphones, creeps over to the door, opens it slightly and listens.
His mum and dad are both talking in low, tense voices, just like they always do.
He can’t catch the words, but the rhythm is familiar: sharp retorts, long silences, someone retreating before it explodes. He tunes them out. He’s used to it.
Back on screen, Roman continues. Emily Sharpe. Date of birth, partial addresses, the kind of detail that leaks out in property records and old forms people forget they ever filled in.
The internet is a graveyard of the things people thought they’d buried.
He doesn’t think Emily is the architect of any of this. That doesn’t fit at all. But no one lives with a man like Oliver without learning something. Without noticing the gaps, the inconsistencies, the way stories shift and change depending on who he’s telling them to.
That’s what Roman is looking for now.
Not proof that she’s done anything wrong, but proof that she knew what Oliver was up to with Vanessa Lambert. Of whatever caused him to kill her.
He pictures Emily at the window, watching the street through that blind, her face carefully composed. If there is evidence that she understood what kind of man she married, even a hint of it, Roman is fairly sure it will be out there, buried in plain sight.
And if it is, he’ll find it.
Half an hour later, Sanj videocalls him. Roman sighs but answers.
Sanj’s round face fills the screen, his hair sticking up, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Mate, this is stupid. Why not just enjoy the show? Police are literally on your doorstep. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Nope.’ Roman leans closer. ‘This is exactly the time to dig. Everyone’s looking at Oliver, so no one thinks about her.’