Chapter Six
LEONI
The rest of the day drags, the kind of slow that makes every tick of the clock feel personal. I’m staring blankly at the screen when I see Warren stride back across the office. He pauses by my desk, hands in his pockets, the familiar scent of his aftershave cutting through the fog in my head.
“You busy after work?” he asks, his voice low.
I blink up at him, caught off guard. “Why?”
He shrugs, all nonchalance. “Thought we could grab a drink. Something casual.”
I study him carefully. Warren Baxter doesn’t do casual… or drinks after work. “A drink?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softens a fraction. “You’ve had a rough few weeks. It might help to get out for a bit.”
For a moment, I just stare at him. The word drink hits me like a punch.
The last time I sat in a bar, I was laughing over shots while my brother was bleeding out on my apartment floor.
I swallow hard and look back at my keyboard. “I’ll pass.”
“Come on,” he coaxes. “One drink, Leoni. It’s not a big deal.”
Something inside me snaps.
“Not a big deal?” My voice shakes, quiet but sharp. “The last time I had a drink, Isaac died. So yeah, it’s a big fucking deal.” I blink fast, trying to stop the tears stinging my eyes, but one slips free anyway.
Warren’s face changes instantly, the smirk gone, replaced by something almost human. “Leoni,” he says softly, taking a small step forward.
I shake my head and stand abruptly. “Don’t. Don’t do that thing where you pretend to care.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I keep going, words tumbling out faster than I can control.
“You don’t know what it’s like to get that image stuck in your head, to wonder if you could’ve stopped it if you’d just gone home instead of—” My voice breaks.
I bite down on it, forcing the rest out. “If you’d made better choices.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches between us. Then he nods once, slowly.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “No bars. No drinks.” His voice softens further. “But maybe dinner, when you’re ready. Somewhere quiet.”
I can’t even look at him. “I’ll think about it.”
He hesitates, like he wants to reach for me but thinks better of it. “Take your time, Leoni.”
When he walks away, I exhale shakily and sink back into my chair.
He doesn’t know it, maybe he never will, but I am thinking about it.About saying yes. About what it might mean if I do.
The office empties slowly, one person at a time, until it’s just me and the hum of the computers. I tell myself I’m staying late to catch up, but really, I just don’t want to go home.
When I finally do, the air outside feels thick, that damp, city heaviness that clings to your skin. The walk to the station is too quiet. No one staring, no one talking, just the echo of my own thoughts. I make a mental note to get my car from the apartment car park tomorrow.
By the time I reach Mum’s, it’s dark. The curtains are drawn tight, and the front porch light flickers like it’s tired of being switched on. I push open the door, and the familiar smell of home hits me like a wave.
Mum’s sitting in the armchair, her feet tucked beneath her, watching the same news report she’s seen ten times already. The same photo of Isaac flashes on the screen, his smile frozen and bright, too full of life.
She looks up when I walk in. “Long day?”
I nod, kicking off my shoes. “Yeah. Just trying to stay busy.”
Jordan’s on the sofa with his phone in his hand, scrolling through something. He doesn’t look up. “Any word from the cops?” he asks flatly.
“Not yet.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Figures.”
“Jordan,” Mum warns softly, but her heart’s not in it. She’s exhausted, her voice has that hollow quality it’s had since the news.
I pour myself a glass of water just to have something to do. “You eaten?”
“I had toast,” she says. “Didn’t fancy much.”
I nod and force a smile. “I’ll make something in a bit.”
Jordan tosses his phone onto the sofa with a sigh. “They’re not gonna find who did it,” he mutters. “You know that, right? Isaac was mixed up with bad people. He must’ve crossed the wrong one.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“What? You think the police are gonna get justice for some lowlife drug dealer?”
“He wasn’t a lowlife!” I snap, louder than I mean to. The sound cracks the quiet like a whip. “He made mistakes, yeah, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. And we don’t know if he was dealing, that's just rumours.”
Mum flinches, and I instantly regret it.
Jordan stands and stalks toward the stairs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
When he’s gone, Mum wipes at her eyes, the tissue trembling in her hand. “He doesn’t mean it, love,” she whispers.
“I know.” I crouch beside her, resting my head against her knee like I used to when I was little. “We’re all just angry and scared.”
She nods, smoothing her fingers over my hair. “It’s like the world’s gone mad.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It feels that way.”
The TV news changes to the weatherman, the sound soft and meaningless now. I stare at the screen, but all I can see is Isaac’s face, his easy grin, and stupid jokes, the way he’d tease me until I laughed.
My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, tears blur my vision again.
Mum strokes my hair gently. “We’ll get through this, Lee,” she murmurs. “And you’re right, maybe the whispers are wrong. Maybe he wasn’t dealing at all. The police haven’t confirmed it.”
I nod, not wanting to be the one to crush her hope. Because deep down, we both know he was exactly what they’re saying he was.
I’m in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions for dinner. The pan hisses as the oil heats, the sound almost comforting. Normal. It’s the first time I’ve cooked since Isaac died, but something about the routine helps keep my hands busy while my head spins.
I hum quietly under my breath, the kind of song that doesn’t mean anything, and reach for the minced beef. The smell hits the air, rich and heavy, and for a brief moment it feels like things might be okay again–not better, but almost normal.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
A heavy, official-sounding knock.
My stomach twists. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and call out, “Jordan, can you get that?”
When he doesn’t reply, I sigh and head for the hallway myself. When I open the door, two uniformed officers are standing there–one man, one woman. Their faces are calm, professional, but I can see the weight of what they’re carrying in their eyes.
“Miss Dove?” the woman asks gently.
“That’s me.”
“Is your mother home?”
“She’s resting. Why, what’s wrong?”
The male officer steps forward slightly. “We’ve made an arrest in your brother’s case.”
For a second, I just stare. The words don’t register properly. Made an arrest.
Mum appears at the top of the stairs, her robe tied tightly around her, her voice trembling. “What did you say?”
The female officer offers a careful smile. “We’ve taken a suspect into custody. He’s being questioned tonight.”
Jordan appears behind me, arms crossed. “Who is it?”
“We can’t disclose that information right now,” she replies softly. “But we wanted to let you know that we’re making progress. You’ll be kept informed as the case develops.”
Mum grips the bannister so tightly her knuckles turn white. Tears spill down her cheeks. “They got him?” she whispers.
“We believe so, ma’am.”
Relief floods the atmosphere. Mum starts crying properly as she rushes down the stairs, the kind of shaking sob that’s half heartbreak, half release. I step forward, wrapping an arm around her, keeping her upright.
Jordan’s jaw tightens, eyes darting between the officers and me. “You think this’ll stick?” he asks.
The man nods. “The evidence is strong. We’ll know more once the interviews are complete.”
When they finally leave, closing the door softly behind them, Mum sinks into the nearest chair, her hands trembling.
“Maybe now we can finally bury him,” she whispers.
I nod, but my chest feels heavy. Because something about the officer’s tone, the rehearsed sympathy, the too-careful choice of words, doesn’t sit right.
I walk back into the kitchen, turn off the stove, and stare at the half-cooked meal.
We’ve got an arrest.
But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like justice. He still isn’t here.
WARREN
The restaurant is one of those private, members-only places that smells of money and hypocrisy. The lighting’s soft, the waiters silent, and the company is unbearable.
Nancy sits opposite me, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my car.
Her father, Chief Winters, is seated to my right, his belly pressing against the edge of the table, his badge glinting faintly from the inside of his jacket pocket like a reminder that he’s both law and sin in equal measure.
My own father sits at the head, calm and smug as ever.
I’ve been nursing the same glass of whiskey for half an hour, pretending to listen while the two patriarchs talk business—trade routes, inspections, favours owed. Deals wrapped in polite conversation and bloodstained handshakes.
“Warren,” my father says, his tone oily-smooth. “Chief Winters was just saying the next shipment could use a little… creative paperwork. You can handle that, can’t you?”
“Sure,” I mutter, eyes fixed on the amber liquid in my glass.
Nancy’s foot slides against mine under the table, deliberate, teasing. I shift slightly out of reach, pretending not to notice.
Then the Chief’s phone buzzes against the table. Once. Twice.
He glances at the screen, his face breaking into a small, satisfied grin. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says, reading the message quickly. His tone turns smug. “Well, that’s timely.”
My father raises an eyebrow. “Good news, I hope?”
“Oh, very.” The Chief places the phone down carefully beside his plate. “Just got word from my team, they’ve made an arrest on our suspect.”
Nancy beams, toasting her glass of wine. “See, Daddy always delivers.”
I bite back my response, reminding them how much his help costs us each time.