I put a quiet Beau in the car and close the door, facing Goldie. “Thank you.”

  “Shut the fuck up and finish this shit.” She stomps off.

  “Goldie?” I call.

  “What?”

  “Ever leave the house alone again, I’ll kill you.”

  “I’m beginning to think death is the more appealing option to life right now.” She gets in her car, slams the door, and screeches off, and the stench of burning rubber fills my nose.

  “Never,” I say quietly, climbing into my Range. I look across to Beau, the words I need to say ready to fall out of my mouth. Tell her! Tell her Cartwright’s dead!

  Except I can’t. I know she’ll already be wondering why the fuck The Shark came after me at the funeral home where her father is being kept. Wondering if he had anything to do with Tom’s death. Adding the dead journalist to the mix will guarantee me a headache of epic proportions. I feel like we’re inching closer to some fucking answers, so the last thing I need is Beau performing one of her disappearing acts.

  24

  BEAU

  Voicing my suspicions won’t do me any favors. It’ll just make James lock down his already secure hold of me. The Polish turning up at the funeral home where Dad is was easy to explain. They followed us. Simple. But followed us from where? The mansion? I doubt it. That place is overrun with cameras. A pussy cat on the street would be considered suspicious and would be brought to Danny’s or James’s attention if it hung around long enough. So a BMW full of overweight Polish men? Not likely. That alone makes me question what the fuck is going on. Add in the small matter of Danny so obviously catching his tongue in his office before he said something in my presence, my ever-present cop senses are going into overdrive.

  When we got back to the house, I left James to go fill in Danny and the rest of them on what went down, taking myself off to our room. I tried Ollie again, my worry increasing. I can’t call the police—they won’t talk to me. I no longer have contact details for his parents either. At desperation point, I searched social media for them, knowing I was searching in vain. Ollie’s parents are in their seventies and could never fathom anyone’s interest in living their lives online.

  I gave up and dropped off to sleep, wishing the next day here sooner so I can get it out of the way.

  And deal with the other avalanche of shit sliding our way.

  * * *

  I step out onto the driveway, smoothing down the black pencil dress that Rose pulled out of her closet for me. My hair is in a loose bun, my face free from makeup, my toes pinching in shoes that are too high. I can hear the hushed whispers coming from the lobby behind me. People arguing but not wanting to burden me with the politics of my father’s funeral. I expect the talks seeped into the night, the men trying to figure out how they will handle today after the incident at the funeral home and Brad’s apartment blowing up.

  I hear steps approaching behind me. “Don’t tell me I can’t go,” I warn, slipping my cell into my purse.

  “I’m not comfortable with this, Beau.”

  “And I’m not comfortable not going, so we have a problem, don’t we?” I look at James, all suited and booted, ready to pay respects he doesn’t want to pay. Ready for a funeral he doesn’t even want us to go to. Which tells me he knows he’s losing this one. “I’ll be late.” I take the steps down and slide into the passenger seat of his Range Rover. Rose is at the door before I close it, her face solemn. “It’s fine,” I assure her. “I knew it was coming. Besides, no one liked him. Not even me.”

  “We wouldn’t be going for him. I should be there. Everyone should be there for you.” She holds my hand.

  “But you can’t be there.” I reach for her head and pull her sunglasses off. “Mind if I borrow these?”

  “Sure.” She looks down my bare arm, contemplative. If she asks why I have my scar on full display today, I would never be able to tell her. “Have you put sunscreen on?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Good.” Leaning in, she kisses my cheek. “Heads-up,” she whispers. “He’s going to put you in a bulletproof vest.”

  “What?” I blurt, looking down the lovely chic pencil dress. I want to say he’s being ridiculous. I can’t.

  “I’ve put a light trench coat on the back seat. You’re gonna need it.”

  I don’t express my exasperation because, really, it’s a wise move on James’s part. “Has anyone heard from Brad?”

  “Not that I know of.” Rose looks up over the roof of the car. “Here comes Zinnea.”

  I slip the shades on to protect me from the unfathomable glare of her rainbow-striped sequin suit. “I should be there,” she gripes. “He was my brother.”

  “He was horrible to you,” I point out.

  “’Tis true.” She pouts her pink glossed lips. “Be safe.”

  James gets in beside me and starts the car, tense and annoyed, and I say a silent goodbye to Zinnea before she pushes my door closed. But James doesn’t pull off, he just sits stationary on the driveway, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers. I glance at the clock. “We’ll be late.”

  The back door opens, and someone gets in. I look over my shoulder. Danny’s eyebrows are sky high, daring me to question him. But, of course, I do. “You’re coming?” He doesn’t answer, just stares at me with icy-blue unhappy eyes as he wedges his elbow into the door, getting comfortable. I return my attention forward. “Can we all agree that my father’s funeral doesn’t turn into a massacre?” It’s a possibility that Ollie will be there, as well as Frazer Cartwright, and perhaps a few police officers too.

  I get no answer.

  But Danny passes something forward to me.

  The coat Rose put in the car.

  And a vest.

  * * *

  I’ve felt eyes on me constantly. Had people approach me and offer their condolences. I’ve remained silent, accepting their words with a small, tight smile. I’m overwhelmed. There are so many people at the crematorium, many are having to stand. It’s like a concert, as many bodies squished into the space as possible. This, of course, means James and Danny are twitchier. It also means it’s impossible to see Ollie or Cartwright. If at all they are here. The number of mourners paying their respects says much about my father. Esteemed, generous businessman, who gave both time and money to various charitable causes. These people are mourning the loss of a pillar in their community. But is that what they’re doing? Paying their respects? Mourning? Or are they here for the same reason I am? Selfishness. So that I may walk away and know I’ve at least made silent peace.

  It's bullshit.

  I’ll never be at peace.

  In fact, being here is making me feel worse, and that’s on top of the anxiety rising within me from just being in a crowded space. All these individuals here for a man who let me down so many times. A man who wasn’t there for me. A man who left me to slowly wither in a psychiatric hospital. How can he be so valued to all of these people? I want to stand up and yell at them. Tell them how much and how often he let me down. Can I? Will it make me feel better? Cure me? I’m chewing that over for most of the service, and I have my answer by the time the funeral celebrant requests we all pray. I might feel better for a few moments. Enjoy the release of pressure of simply shouting. And then I will return to wondering if he ever truly felt guilty. If he had any regrets. Because now, I cannot ask him. I can’t ask him why he let me down. Why he kept his distance. Why he wasn’t the dad I needed him to be.

  I will never know!

  Everyone around me stands on instruction and bows their heads. I follow, pulling the tie at the waist of my coat, tightening it, worried it will fall open and reveal what I’m wearing underneath. I don’t bow my head. I don’t pray. I look back to all of the people in the room, all of their faces down. My urge to yell becomes too much.

  I swing back around, feeling James peek at me, curious. “What is it?” he asks, stepping into me, prompting me to push into Danny who’s on my other side. He too looks at me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Amen,” the congregation murmurs, all lifting their heads as Dad is blessed and somber music begins to play, the curtains slowly drawing around his coffin.

  Cremation.

  It feels like one last kick in the gut from my father. Why would he ever wish to be scorched? Why would he make me stand here and watch his body be drawn into a raging inferno? My arm starts to tingle, and I try to blink away the black dots springing into my vision.

  Burn.

  My breathing diminishes.

  The heat.

  My heartbeats become erratic and sharp.

  The unbearable, blinding heat.

  Panic. It’s coming.

  I look up at James, finding him watching me closely. “I’m not okay,” I whisper.

  He’s moving fast, pulling me out of the aisle and down the center of the seats, through people, all who look terribly sorry for me. Poor girl, they’re thinking. Can’t bear to say goodbye to her daddy.

  Get me out!

  I feel Danny close behind me, but the exit door seems to be getting farther and farther away, the room becoming smaller and smaller, the people multiplying.

  I stagger along on wobbly legs, hot, dizzy, sweating, and as soon as James pushes out of the door and daylight hits me, I drag in the fresh air ravenously, releasing James’s hand and resting against the wall outside. “Why would he do that?” I ask them, breathless. “Burn himself. Why?”

  Of course, no one has the answer to my question, probably not even my father. I curse out loud and walk on, James and Danny as close as they can be without touching me, watchful, listening, and when we reach the end of the graveled pathway, I find myself at the foot of a wall covered in plaques, and in the center, in shiny, glimmering gold, is my father’s memorial.

  THOMAS JOHN HAYLEY

  1964-2022

  BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

  TAKEN TOO SOON

  I stare at it. Just stare. Committing himself to an inferno wasn’t his last blow at all. How can he with only four words crush me so completely? Beloved? He betrayed her! He let me down. Endlessly! Beloved? I laugh out loud.

  “Beau,” James says quietly.

  “Did I tell you he arranged everything himself?” I say, lifting a limp arm and pointing at the plaque. “The place, how, this?”

  “Let’s go.” Danny slips an arm around my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

  “If you’re so sure my father’s death wasn’t suspicious, why do you have me in a bulletproof vest?” I ask. “And Ringo, Goldie, and Otto in position?” I look across the grounds, seeing various men in various areas.

  “Brad’s apartment was blown up, Beau,” James says softly. “We’re sitting ducks here while you say goodbye to your father.”

  “That’s not it,” I argue. “There’s something more.” I face them both, giving each of them a moment of my eyes, finishing on Danny. “Yesterday in your office, you were about to tell the others something.” I look at James. “Then you had your cell out, and suddenly Danny was getting a message.” I’m back with Danny, who’s straight face gives nothing away. Practiced. “Then suddenly you shut up? You suddenly had nothing to say?” I look between their quiet, still forms, waiting for an explanation. I get nothing. Of course I get nothing.

  “Miss Hayley?”

  I look past the two unmoving towers of muscle before me to the voice and find a clean-cut looking man with short hair and an immaculately pressed blue suit.

  “Monroe Metcalfe,” he says, prompting James and Danny to look too, but their bodies remain facing me. Blocking me. Or blocking the world. Metcalfe gives each of their sharp faces a dubious look. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He smiles awkwardly, and all I can think is . . . no, you’re not sorry. You’re elated, because now you have a clear path to the position of mayor. I remain quiet before him, and Metcalfe becomes more and more uncomfortable. “He spoke of you fondly. Was very proud of you.”

  “What?”

  James coughs, and Danny shifts, uncomfortable, and Monroe Metcalfe steps back. “Well, I should be going.” He bows his head, throwing one more look at James and Danny, then backs away, buttoning his jacket as he goes.

  I look around, seeing everyone filing out of the building and walking the path toward us. “Fucking hell,” Danny mutters. “Higham.”

  My eyes dart to where they’re looking, seeing a plain-clothed cop standing by the wall. Then across the way, a woman, another cop without a doubt, watching me. I know who she is. Collins.

  The wise thing for me to do would be to leave. Go. Walk away. I’m not feeling very wise right now. Only reckless. Full of hatred and disappointment. I push past the men and head toward Collins.

  “Whoa,” James says over a non-humorous laugh, pulling me back. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Yes, terrible.” Danny blocks the way between me and Collins, and I look between them, interested.

  “How do you two know who that is?” I ask.

  “How do you?” James counters.

  “Educated guess,” I retort. “Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it,” he mutters, taking my arm. “We’re leaving.”

  “No.” I yank myself free. “How do you know that’s Collins?”

  He gets up in my face, snarling. “Educated guess. Once a criminal, always a criminal.”

  I recoil, wounded by his cruel reminder of who he is. He’s telling me without telling me there’s more. “The slaps in the face just keep on coming today, don’t they?” I say quietly. “Why don’t you ju—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Danny says, pulling both of our attentions his way. His face is pure disgust with a little bit of despair too. “Burrows. I thought this was a funeral, not a fucking reunion.”

  My heart jumps twenty beats and James growls as I push past him. Ollie’s familiar eyes speak to me, tell me to play the game, and when he gives the same look to James, I pray he reads it. Keeping his eyes on my fiancé, Ollie comes at me, lifting his arms slowly, like he’s approaching with caution. He is. I remain still and unwilling as I’m taken in a hug that feels as wrong as being at my father’s funeral. “Collins is asking too many questions about you, Beau,” he whispers. “She’s digging. Be careful.”

  “Get your fucking hands off her before I rip them off,” James hisses ominously, making me tense everywhere in Ollie’s embrace.

  I gently break away and move back. “Where have you been?” I ask him. “You said you needed to speak to me and then nothing.”

  “I took some leave.” Ollie obviously feels uncomfortable talking in front of James and Danny, his eyes constantly shooting to them, as if he thinks there’s a risk of them drawing and firing at any second. “Collins is watching me like a hawk. She thinks I’m on the inside for your boyfriend and his buddy.” Ollie looks at Danny and James, and Danny starts laughing in clear disbelief.

  “She thinks you’re working for your ex-fiancée’s fiancé?” Danny’s eyes move to the woman watching us from not too far away as Ollie’s eyes shoot to me, and then my hand, which I find I naturally cover, much to my own annoyance, and definitely James’s. Maybe I subconsciously hoped to limit feelings from being hurt. Instead, I’ve poked an already pissed off rattlesnake.

  “No,” Ollie replies, his jaw ticking slightly. “She thinks I’m being blackmailed.”

  “Is that why you’ve taken annual leave?” I ask, locking eyes with Collins. Her face suits her voice. Superior. An attractive lady, but with quite pointed features and eyes that are constantly narrowed. Suspicious. All of the time. Of everything. I know better than anyone that constant, natural suspicion doesn’t necessarily make you a good cop. But it definitely makes you a less than liked one.

  “I needed to step back,” Ollie goes on. “Not be around when shit goes down.”

  “Love the way you look at us when you say that.” Danny’s jaw rolls. “And doesn’t your absence look a bit dodgy?”

  “Every step I have taken in the past week can be checked and verified,” Ollie replies, making Danny laugh again.

  “Every step?”

  “Every. Single. Step.”

  “Even from your bed to the pisser?”

  Ollie nods, looking out the corner of his eye at me. “The woman I’m seeing can vouch for every step taken in my apartment.”

  I feel my heart tighten in my chest, and I have no idea why. The woman he’s seeing? His apartment. The apartment we shared together.

  “She’s an attorney,” Ollie continues, as I drop my eyes to my purse and pointlessly rummage through it. Danny and James are both watching me. Looking for my reaction. I pray I’m not giving them one. I expect it’s no accident that Ollie’s dating a lawyer. An upstanding member of the community. Someone who would never dream of lying in a court of law.

  Dating. She’s staying at our place. His place. “What did you want to meet me for?” I ask him, forcing myself to look at him. Forcing myself not to appear hurt. I’m deplorable. I don’t love Ollie anymore. Not like that. And yet . . . it still stings. Maybe it’s just because I’m feeling particularly tender today. Maybe it’s because James and I are more and more at odds these days. I don’t know. I want Ollie to be happy. Truly, I do. And now, as I look at him, I see the burning resentment that’s been in his gaze in recent times is gone. So maybe it stings because, right now, he seems happy, content, and I am not.

  Ollie clears his throat. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else.”

  I blink and lean back. “What?”

  “About Jolene and me.”

  “You wanted to see me to tell me you’re seeing someone?” I’ve spent all this time stressing out, thinking he had news on my father, and all the time he just wanted to tell me he’s moved on?

  “Like I said, I thought it was better to come from me.”

  “And the photo you sent me? Of James and his ex-fuck. If you’re so happy in your new relationship, why?”