Border Control (Outcasts of Oloria #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

LAURA

Today feels like it’s out to get me.

My hair, usually tamed into something resembling order, flies loose and wild, strands sticking to my cheeks as I push them out of my eyes.

The strike of my Christian Louboutin heels ring on the pavement like gunshots as I hurry down the street, my work bag sliding across my hip.

One glance at my watch makes my stomach sink.

Shit. Late. Today of all days, when I’m supposed to be the calm, professional face in the room.

“Fuck it all,” I mutter, and push harder. My pulse races from more than just the walk.

I’ve got my eyes on the damn second hand ticking around my Dior watch when I slam into someone, hard. The lid flies off my coffee, splattering brown heat across both of us.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—” My throat catches, the words colliding. I open my bag to check my files. Phew, they aren’t soaked. The paper cup is crumpled in my hand, dribbling more coffee down my sleeve. My shirt is drenched.

My heart won’t slow. I can’t breathe right.

“Fucking hell!” the finance bro I smacked into yells, glaring at me up and down before marching away. He can afford a dry clean.

I shoulder past other commuters, forcing myself to keep going. Faster, faster. Just a few more steps and I’ll be in the building. If I hurry, I can get to the bathroom and salvage some semblance of control. I have a spare shirt there, too.

A hand grabs my arm. Hard.

Yanks me sideways.

I stumble, the rest of my things crashing to the ground. The world shrinks to brick walls, litter, the sour smell of rot, and a guy with lank hair. My stomach lurches.

“Let me go!” I wrench against his grip.

He doesn’t release me. His dark eyes are wild, bloodshot. His hands tighten, desperate, like he’s on a cliff edge. “You’re working the case, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at the pre-inquiry shit.”

My chest squeezes. His face clicks into place: he’s been outside the hearings before, always at the back, carrying two little boys with him.

What does he want?

His voice shakes. “She… she’s gone. She couldn’t handle the accusations, the… the news called it ‘From Carer to Criminal’.”

The stutter in my lungs intensifies. “Who?”

“My fiancée.” His voice turns harsher, sharp with the edge of pain. “My soulmate.”

Adrenaline courses through me, focusing my thoughts.

He’s mid-thirties, and of the one hundred and eighty six women affected, sixty percent were in their late twenties to mid-thirties.

Images flicker in my memory: people smiling, living normal, happy lives.

Men and women, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.

The pictures of the victims before, when their lives were normal and their careers as carers blooming, people with bright futures.

Before this travesty.

The faces of the two small boys pull up in my memory. Freckles and dimples. “Alice,” I blurt. “Alice Hampton. You’re her husband, Liam Hampton, right?”

His face crumples, as if even hearing her name is too much. Or maybe enough. “You knew her?”

“No. I know her case notes, though.” I know all of them only through paper.

Bowing his head, Liam takes a shuddering breath which vibrates through his harsh grip. “I… I can’t work, I only see her face. The boys, I… I haven’t got anything to feed them.”

I swallow, my pulse still a frantic drum. He could be here to blame me. He could be here to beg. Either way, the ache in his voice cuts straight through the defenses I put up every morning.

“They say you’re going to lose,” he says. “Fucking Accu-time say it’s all within tolerance for a software error.”

That snaps me out of my shock. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

He blinks at my vehemence.

Pulling in a long, shaky breath, I force my legs to stay straight even though my knees want to give way.

“Listen to me. They branded their victims criminals because it’s easier than admitting what they did to her, to you, to all of you.

I know that. And I promise you…” My voice dips, softer, steadier, willing him to hear me.

“I will make them pay. Not just for her, but for you. For your kids. For all two hundred and seven families they’ve destroyed. ”

Every single one of the carers who were accused of misbooking their time and branded as thieves, and fired for gross misconduct, or stripped of their professional licences. All because of a software error.

Liam’s jaw works, tears streaking his unshaven face. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” I tug gently, easing his grip from my arm. “But right now, you need a meal. There’s a café three streets down, St. Clement’s. Tell them I sent you. They’ll give you free food for a few weeks, they even have special hampers for kids. I’ll cover it.”

Bloodshot eyes widening, he takes a stumbling step back. I glance at my wrist and he follows, looking at the red mark on my forearm.

He gulps. “I’m sorry, I would never do something like this. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“That’s alright.” I push every ounce of reassurance I can muster into my voice.

I reach into my jacket, pull out my business card case with shaking hands.

They steady as I go through the familiar motion of opening it up and pulling out a thick card, embossed with Clark and Gibson, my name, and my work phone number.

I hold it out to him. “I understand what you’re going through.”

Because I do. I feel the unfairness choking him every day, the corporate cruelty which cast his fiancée as the heartless thief, without stopping to really understand her. And now she’s gone.

Someone has to pay.

He looks at me, like he wants to believe but can’t quite.

“Go,” I press. “Go before security comes.”

Liam stoops, snatches the card, then turns and stumbles out of the alley, shoulders bowed as he walks back into the sharp spring sunlight.

I stand with coffee staining the pavement, the cup crumpled, papers scattered like broken glass, and my heart hammering so loud I can hardly think. A scream crawls up my throat.

All I can see is Liam’s face, and behind him, the hundreds more.

As soon as I get to the office, I go to the restrooms and confront myself in the mirror. Scowling, I tame my hair into submission with a brush and change my coffee-stained shirt. Are my eyes reddening? Is that puffiness?

I snatch my Chanel lipstick from my purse and slick it on. Bright pink. Bold, but muted.

I can handle this. I've got this. I have to do this.

For Dad.

Fully armored, I march to my first meeting.

Cold air from the conference room slides up my arms as I open the door.

There’re fourteen others here already, sipping coffee cups from a medley of cafes, but really, today could have been just me and the barrister.

I sit down right next to him, sliding my laptop out of my satchel.

John gives me a nod and chugs down his extra large coffee. His caffeine addiction is surpassed only by my own. “Hey, Laura,” he says with an easy smile.

“Good morning.” John has the hard job of recalling and presenting all the case information in an engaging way in front of the inquiry panel, but it’s my casework he’ll be bringing up, my research, my precedents, my careful consideration of what evidence to present and when, and my key questions to ask witnesses on every day.

“Ready to talk about Accu-time?” he asks without preamble.

Opening my laptop, I sit up a little straighter, consulting the copious notes on little digital post-its. Everything related to this case comes down to me, and my organizational skills are crucial to keep our work ordered so we represent the victims perfectly.

“Yes, everything for the first day’s strategy. We need to set the scene and let the panel know what they'll learn. I think we should go for the jugular straight away: set out the impact on those wrongly accused.”

John nods. “Right, right, let’s look at those notes you sent this morning. Very thorough and organized, as usual.”

“Good, I knew you’d be great. So here’s how I see it.

” I take John through the opening notes I’ve built, but it’ll be up to him to bring his showmanship at the trial.

Once again I thank my stars I didn’t decide to go for being a barrister.

Standing up in court all day isn’t my idea of a good time, and it's the solicitors who really get things done.

“Now, here’s the strategy for cross examining the Accu-time lead developer,” I begin, when the door opens and Morgan, a partner at the firm, strides in.

His belt’s losing the battle against a well-fed stomach, the buttons of his pinstriped waistcoat clinging on like overworked interns. He pats his balding head with a silk handkerchief, nevermind the fact it’s March and not remotely warm.

“Apologies,” he booms, not sounding sorry at all. “Got caught up with something important.”

Translation: talking over someone junior until they gave up trying to be heard.

He doesn’t sit so much as descend into the chair opposite me, one hand smoothing his tie, the other already pawing through the file I’ve spent hours preparing. No “thank you,” of course.

“John!” he says grandly, like they’re old pals. “How are you?”

John’s face lights up, and I try to shift my attitude. I might be the senior associate doing all the work, but Morgan is the ultimate boss. “I’m doing fantastically, Morgan, how are you? How’s Mary?”

Morgan rolls his eyes, tugging at his collar. “Expensive, as usual.”

John chuckles and I file that away for later; Morgan’s current significant other is called Mary.

I can’t really judge his revolving door relationships as I don’t do long term either.

However, to make partner at my job, I’d probably need to show I can hold down an important commitment.

Clark and Gibson is a conservative law firm where the partners don’t put pronouns in their emails.

If I want to succeed, I have to play the game, old school style.