‘He’s one of the best detectives you can get,’ Barrett says gently. ‘I don’t think there’d be much he can’t access.’
I nod, but the idea sits like a lump inside my chest. ‘Fuck that.’
He laughs, and the sound pulls me out of my thoughts. ‘I have no doubt you’ll fix that too.’
‘Yeah, just give me time.’
‘Were you close to your foster sister?’
I fight an urge to tell him I don’t get close to anyone, ever. ‘She was only three when I moved out. I barely knew her.’ But that line doesn’t work in this setting. I would say that to a stranger but Barrett is no longer that. ‘Cally was very sweet. Life’s a bitch.’
It’s hardly the most profound observation I could make but it’s a good catch-all for my sentiments.
‘Yeah. It can be.’
* * *
Hours later, back at my place, I can’t shake the ghost of our conversation. I’ve showered, gone for a run, showered again, but still it haunts me, a hangover but of a grief-filled kind, so that there’s an intrinsic sadness to me that I resent.
I go to the box without really meaning to, a glass of wine in one hand, my feet bare. I sit down on the floor in my bedroom and balance the wine carefully on the carpet before flicking the lid open. It’s a small box, about the size of a shoebox but with only half the depth, and I’ve had it a long time. The things in there are random and disjointed—a concert ticket Mom kept stuck to her mirror with double-sided tape. I’ve never heard of the band but it obviously meant something to her. She kept the ticket for years so I’ve kept it too. There’s her purse—I can never open it and look inside; it’s too sad. The memories are so vivid there—her driver’s licence, a meagre amount of cash, coupons carefully clipped from the papers, receipts in case she needed to return something for a refund, and a photo of me that was taken in the first grade.
Even without opening the purse a shiver of sadness moves through me as I move it aside. My fingers curl around the photo of her last. It’s at the bottom, where I put it the last time I indulged this morbid streak. I lift it out and place it beside the wine glass, wriggling down onto my tummy so I’m at her eye height.
I love this photo.
It was taken a year after I was born and, even though life wasn’t kind to Mom, she never really aged. Not in her eyes. I sip the wine—a delicate balancing act given my position—then smile at the picture.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?’
Her eyes smile back at me.
I sigh.
There are no answers here. Barrett has some answers—more than he’s given me. Now I just need to decide if I really want them...
CHAPTER SEVEN
I PREFER CITY running to the gym but this city is sweltering hot and my English sensibilities mean I don’t love the heat, so the hotel gymnasium it is. I increase the incline and speed, punishing myself more than usual.
Punishing myself? Yeah. That’s what I’m doing.
I slept with their sister. The Harts. I’ve slept with her a lot and I have no intention of stopping. What’s even worse—I love it. I love being with Avery, and I want to support her through this crap fest Ryan’s left on her doorstep.
Why?
I barely know her, so why am I willing to risk my friendship with the Harts by prioritising Avery? I push my feet to the side of the treadmill for a second, bracing myself there and breathing fast. Would they be as furious as I think?
It’s not that I’ve slept with her. I mean, that’s bad, but what’s worse is that sleeping with her could potentially put my reason for being here in jeopardy. They asked me to learn what
I could about her, but they also asked me to prepare her for meeting them. What if being with her is clouding everything for Avery? What if she refuses to meet them because I mess up somehow?
I lift my feet back onto the still-spinning treadmill, picking the pace right up again. I can’t let that happen. Avery’s been very clear about sex being just sex for her. What we’re doing doesn’t need to have any impact on how she decides to proceed with the Harts. If anything, I can use our intimacy to my advantage—not in a sleazy way, just in that she’s giving me more time. Time to sell her on the Harts and the role they could have in her life... Maybe I don’t need to feel so guilty after all?
* * *
‘Hey. It’s me.’
It takes me a second to make sense of what he’s saying, and why. Barrett is downstairs from my place? What’s the time? I look at my mom’s watch—it’s just after eight.