Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Silence.
Except for our heavy breathing. I go to the towel cupboard and grab one, holding it to my nose and plonking my arse on the bench. “Sorry,” I grunt.
“Sorry,” Brad mutters back, dropping his arse next to mine. His cigarettes appear in my sight—his peace offering—and I accept, slipping one between my teeth. I wince, the cut stinging like a bitch. Brad lights us both up, and together we sit there, quiet, smoking our way back to calm.
I look across at him. His cheek is swollen, his eye already on its way to black. “Any idea what she’s shared with them?” I ask.
“Why’d you think I’d know?”
I shrug. “Just asking.” Getting up from the bench, I stub my smoke out in a nearby sink and drop it in the trash. “I have the small matter of Amber’s body turning up to deal with.”
Brad nods, distracted. Then he stands too. “I’ve got something I need to do.” He walks out, and I follow him, frowning.
“Now?” I ask, catching the door before it shuts in my face. “What could you possibly need to deal with now?” He ignores me, keeping up his pace. “Brad! We kind of have a life-or-death situation here.” I chase his heels out of the café and watch, astounded, as he gets in his car and drives off. “What the fuck is he playing at?” I march back into the café and dump my arse on a chair. “Amber,” I bark at Higham.
He sighs. “Danny, listen to me.”
“I’m listening, Higham.” So make it something I want to hear.
“I cannot make a gunshot wound disappear from a dead body.”
I snarl, tempted to grab his head and slam his face down on the table. But even I know a cop can’t make a gunshot wound disappear. “Then what do you suggest?” I ask, drumming the table with my fingertips.
“I suggest you hope very hard that forensics can’t find anything.”
“Higham. That dead body will lead the police this way whether they find any evidence or not. She was the in-house whore my men used to fuck before she got herself a fiancé.”
“From whore for mafia men, to fiancé of candidate for mayor? That’s some leap up the status scale.”
I glare at him, my eyes surely black.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“Tom Hayley is Beau’s father, who was married to Jaz Hayley, who, as you know, just had more murders pinned on her than the Mexicans, Russians, Poles, and Romanians put together.” I take a breath. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Beau Hayley leads to The Enigma, since she recently married him, and the police really want him, as well as me and Brad. So, Higham, I’m sure you can appreciate why I’m feeling . . . tense about this situation.”
“So who killed her?” he asks flatly. I can only growl my warning. That, he will never know. Unless forensics can prove it, of course.
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll try to make anything stick.”
He laughs. “Danny, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s this—”
I raise my eyebrows, waiting.
“You’re Teflon.”
Maybe. But my wife isn’t.
“May I?” Ringo asks, raising a hand. I nod, so he continues. “Do you have access to the body?”
I look at Higham, seeing his reluctance to answer. He inhales. “I do.”
“Then I have the answer to your problem. Might kill two birds.”
I cock a questioning look at Ringo, and James moves in, interested. “Go on.”
I listen, nodding. Piecing it together. I’m also wondering where the fuck Brad has gone.
48
PEARL
* * *
I drop my bag to the floor, rolling my aching shoulder, as I scan the screens in the station. Platform one. Leaving in twenty minutes. I look down at the bag at my feet that virtually contains my whole life. It’s as heavy as my heart feels.
I hoof it up and trudge outside to have a cigarette before boarding.
Leaving.
Nowhere to go, no idea where I’m sleeping tonight. But at least I’ll still be alive. And Brad, the men, the girls, and the children will all be safe from the repercussions of unknowingly harboring me for months.
I pray.
I walk to the end of the building and drop my bag again, lighting up and leaning against the wall, sliding down the concrete until I’m crouched. The heat kicking off the stone behind me is intense. So intense, I’m forced to stand again and move away.
I pull my phone from my shorts pocket, contemplating texting him. Apologizing for deceiving him. For lying. But what’s the point? I can’t be with Brad and no apologies or words will change that. It was a dream. Story of my fucking life.
I slip my phone back into my pocket but freeze when something occurs to me. “Idiot,” I whisper to myself, pulling it back out and staring at the illuminated screen. “Stupid, stupid idiot.” I scan the area in front of me, spotting a Chevy waiting by the pick-up area, the rear window open. I approach and dip, smiling at the driver, a friendly looking lady with long, blonde curly hair and green-framed glasses. “Hi. Do you know how far it is to MIA?”