I looked at my phone, anxiety coiling in my stomach. Ten past nine. Had I missed him? The thought of braving the reception desk with their Do you have an appointment? and their Can I see some ID? was not a pleasant one.
And then I saw him. My stomach did a flip.
He was striding along, head down, looking at his phone, with his hood up, shading his face. His dark blond hair, or what I could see of it, was wet and uncombed, as if he’d come straight from the gym showers, and he looked gaunt and unshaven, and a lot like he hadn’t slept. Cole had always borne a strong resemblance to the lead in an American high school drama—handsome, clean cut, a total contrast to Gabe’s dirty, bearded sexiness. I had once heard two teenage girls in an airport gigglingly debate whether he was Zac Efron. Now he looked—well, he looked like a man whose best friend had been brutally murdered, I supposed.
“Cole,” I called, keeping my voice low. He looked up, then around, puzzled, apparently not sure where the call had come from. I took a breath. “Cole, it’s me.”
He stopped at that, this time looking directly at me, puzzled. Then recognition clicked, and his expression changed to shock.
“Jack?” His voice gave me the same little gut-wrenching jolt I had experienced on the call yesterday. “Are you—wait, have you done something to your hair? I barely recognized you.”
“I need to talk to you.” My face felt stiff with the effort of holding everything in check.
Cole nodded, plainly concerned but trying not to show it too obviously. “Of course.” He waved an arm at the door of Cerberus Security. “Come on in.”
For a moment I hesitated. It felt like a truly terrible idea, walking into his office under the eyes of his colleagues and receptionists and security staff. But what was the alternative? Having this conversation out in the street? Both seemed impossible.
“Could we—” I swallowed and glanced up and down the street, clocking once again the security cameras, the guard just inside the office foyer. “Is there a coffee shop, or somewhere we could go and talk privately? I don’t want—” I stopped, not sure how to say what I meant. What I was trying to say was that I didn’t want to get him in trouble if the police came asking questions after our meeting, but how could I blurt that straight out?
Cole stood looking down at me for a moment, worried puzzlement etched between his dark brows.
“Depends how private you want. We could go back to the flat?”
Cole’s flat was only ten minutes’ walk from Cerberus, a gorgeous penthouse in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames that’d had Gabe groaning that he was in the wrong job the first time Cole had shown it to us. It would be quiet… and private. But somehow the suggestion made me uneasy. A building that fancy was sure to have CCTV, and it wasn’t impossible the police might have staked it out already. There was also the question of Cole’s girlfriend, a beautiful model-turned-artist called Noemie. I didn’t want to drag her into it if I could possibly help it.
“Is Noemie there?” I asked at last, and Cole shook his head.
“She’s in San Francisco for work.”
“I just think your flat—” I stopped, glancing at his colleagues streaming past. There was no way I could say what I wanted to—that the police were after me, and his flat felt too dangerous. Even standing here left me itchy with a sense of exposure I couldn’t articulate. But Cole seemed to understand.
“Okay, look, I have an idea. An old church, round the corner. It’s never locked this time of year; the vicar leaves it open in case rough sleepers need a place to warm up.”
I nodded, and he led the way back in the direction he had come, through a couple of narrow alleys, and out into a deserted graveyard, with a small, soot-stained church dominated by a pair of enormous yews. In the corner were a couple of tents and a homeless man rolled up in a sleeping bag. His eyes were closed. I shivered in sympathy and put a handful of coins—all the change I had—in the empty paper cup beside his carry mat. He didn’t stir, and I only hoped he would wake up before someone else helped themselves to the money. Then I hurried after Cole.
I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, checking for cameras as we made our way up the path between the fallen gravestones, but there were none, or none that I could see. The tall wooden door looked closed—but when Cole pushed it gently, it swung inwards, and together we slipped through the entrance and into the church.
Inside it was chilly and quiet, with a sense of being almost but not quite abandoned. As I followed Cole down the aisle we passed straight-backed pews silently facing a rather dusty altar. Little silvery motes floated in the thin pale light filtering through the stained-glass windows.
“How did you know about this place?” I whispered.
“I walk through the graveyard at lunch sometimes,” Cole said. His voice was not quite as low as mine, and it echoed in the rafters. “Just, you know, to get away from the desk. And one day this old lady, she was throwing out the flowers, and she asked me if I’d like to come inside, see around. But Jack, listen—what’s going on? Is everything okay? I mean—” He stopped, swallowed. “Sorry, that’s an incredibly stupid thing to ask—what I meant—I just—”
He stopped again, and I shook my head, unable to express how very, very not okay everything was.
“No,” I said at last. “Nothing’s okay. I—”
Cole held out his arms, and I walked into them, still shaking my head, feeling his grip tighten around me. I stood, pressing my face to his warm chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, overcome for the first time in what felt like days by the crushing agony of what we had both lost.
We stayed like that for a long time, simply standing in the silent chancel, my forehead pressed against the softness of his hoodie, feeling his shoulders and rib cage shaking with unspent emotion. He was crying, I realized, and the thought gave me a stab of guilt. He was crying—why couldn’t I cry? Gabe was my husband—why couldn’t I cry?
“It’s so fucking unfair,” he managed at last, his voice hoarse with tears and anger. “Oh fuck, Jack, how do we go on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling my own throat ache with the effort of forcing out the words. Cole straightened and then swiped at his eyes with his free wrist, the tears soaking into the sleeve of his gray marl hoodie.
“Look, I know asking you if you’re okay is a stupid question in the circumstances, but Jack, you look—”
He trailed off, but I knew what he meant. I had seen myself in the blurred, toothpaste-spattered mirror of the hostel bathroom as I brushed my teeth that morning, and even I had been shocked by what I’d seen. It was impossible that I had lost weight in the three days since Gabe’s death, but it looked as if I had—my pointy face had turned from gamine to gaunt, my features strangely small and undefined without my usual cat’s-eye flick of eyeliner.
With my white hair and un-made-up face I looked like a ghost—which, in a way, I was: the ghost of the woman who had left Salisbury Lane just a few nights ago for Arden Alliance. That woman had been happy, safe, a loving wife with a loving husband. I was none of those things. I was—the word hung strangely in the silence, unspoken. I was a widow. And I was a wanted person.
“Cole, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Sorry to do what?”
I took a deep breath.
“Look, I have to tell you this up front so you can decide if you want to help me. Because if you do—”
“Jack, what? Seriously, whatever it is, I’ll do it. Don’t even think about it. Just tell me—whatever it is, tell me.”
“I’m wanted.” I said the words baldly, unsure how else to phrase it. I had spoken more loudly than I meant, and the two words echoed around the nave, overlapping, chasing each other. Somewhere high above the altar a bird rose up, flapping its wings in alarm, and then settled again.
Cole blinked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you want…?”
“No, Cole.” I lowered my voice. “I’m wanted. I’m wanted by the police. If you help me—there’s a chance you could get prosecuted. And for God’s sake, don’t tell Noemie. I don’t want to drag her into this.”
“What?” His face, already alarmed, had turned suddenly pale, and for a moment I thought he was going to faint, ridiculous as it sounds. I had never seen anyone look so unutterably shocked. “You’re wanted by the police? Are they mad? What happened?”
“They think I killed Gabe.” As the words came out of my mouth, I heard a bitter, hysterical little laugh bubble up with them. It just sounded so crazy when I said it. How was I even speaking it aloud?
“No,” Cole said, almost reflexively. “No. That’s just—it’s insane. No!”