As his words settled into her head, Ngaire nodded. “I won’t. I made a poor decision when I was frustrated. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Gascoigne knocked his knuckles on the desk, then sat further back in his chair. “Now, what did you want to talk about again?”
The words, spoken easily enough before, now burned in Ngaire’s throat. Her cheeks were flaming with the shame of a naughty child, caught out. Like a child, she also didn’t think she’d have given the ruse a second thought if he hadn’t pulled her up on it. There was still a lot that she had to learn.
Not as much as Willis.
If Ngaire wanted something, she should ask for it. Wasn’t that what they taught the youth of today? She cleared her throat. “I want to take the Sergeant’s exams. Would you put me forward for the opportunity?”
She began to push her chair back, anticipating the only answer he could possibly give following their discussion. But Gascoigne held a hand up to stop her and Ngaire’s pulse began to tick high in her throat.
“I’d be happy to do it, if you can assure me that you’re ready for the increased workload and responsibility.” When Ngaire frowned, he continued, “I know you’ve struggled with your injuries in the past. While I won’t stand in your way if you’re certain that you’re ready, I also don’t want to push you into a position where you won’t cope.”
Relief flooded through her system, as buoyant as helium, lifting away Ngaire’s worries. Not too inexperienced, not too bad a fit, not too far off the mark. Just Gascoigne being cautious and unwilling to force her into a place where her hard-fought scars might break open and start to bleed again.
“I’m ready,” Ngaire said.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you message until now. Tonight at eight p.m. before I go to work?”
After her meeting with Gascoigne, Ngaire’s phone had buzzed in her pocket. With the time that had elapsed since she left her message for Findlay, she hadn’t thought about it again.
Liar. Perhaps she’d thought about it a little bit. Like how Ngaire had managed to screw their relationship up, then skirted the truth that Findlay deserved as to why.
She’d texted him back that she’d meet him then, and tried to put the thought out of her mind. Sitting in her car now, outside his house, there was nowhere her mind could run to any longer.
It never gets any better.
Well, perhaps not for Matthew, but Ngaire scented new possibilities in the air today. She wasn’t the broken wreck hiding beneath a crackling façade that Findlay had met up with over a year ago. She had healed since then: inside, outside, and all through the middle.
Ngaire stepped out of the car, automatically scanning the street for signs of danger as she locked the door. Old habits were ingrained for good reason. If she ever forgot that for a minute, her war wounds would remind her with a steady throb.
As her heels clipped off the concrete driveway, Ngaire wondered if the worst secrets were the lies she and others told themselves long after everyone else stopped saying them. The lies that burrowed down into the depths of her brain until they became a permanent mantra.
Her father had them, too—he’d been told he was worthless until he retreated to a shack in a forgotten corner of the country. Her mother had been repeatedly told she was a star until she abandoned her family to land face down on Hollywood Boulevard.
All the stupid lies that society could tell a person: You’re a woman, when you know you’re a man or you can’t dress that way or do those things. You can’t play rugby because you’re the wrong color. You can’t be a policeman because you’re a girl.
You’re the wrong skin color, you’re the wrong gender, you’re too old or young or pretty or ugly or dumb or clever to fit in here after all.
Ngaire mounted the three steps that led her onto Findlay’s porch and walked on shaking legs to his front door. There were so many secrets that she’d shed, slowly, surely, mostly for the better. If she gave away her last secret what would she have to cling to in the lonely hours of the darkest night?
On the porch outside Findlay’s house, Ngaire stood and took deep breaths to keep her body from trembling.
If you don’t feel sexual desire then you can’t have a loving relationship.
Fuck it. Ngaire raised her hand and knocked on the door.
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The Christchurch Police are on the hunt for a runaway toddler on a heatstruck Christmas morning. Fears for young Emily’s safety are well-placed - her parent’s home is situated between a fast-flowing river and a row of earthquake abandoned houses.
When an eye-witness reports a man walking a young girl away from the scene, a new specter raises its head. Can Detective Ngaire Blakes beat the ticking time-bomb and rescue Emily before Christmas Day turns from a celebration into a nightmare?
www.NgaireBonus.com
About the Author - Katherine Hayton
Katherine Hayton is a middle-aged woman who works in insurance, doesn't have children or pets, can't drive, has lived in Christchurch her entire life, and resides a two-minute walk from where she was born.
For some reason, she's developed a rich fantasy life.
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You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Google Plus. Stay on top of every new release by clicking “Follow” on my Bookbub Author Page or visit me at http://katherinehayton.com to download my starter library for FREE.
Read all the Things!
You’re Kitten Me (Food Bowl Mystery)
Cat Red-Handed (Food Bowl Mystery)
An Impawsible Situation (Food Bowl Mystery)
Pumpkin Spice & Poisoning (Sweet Baked Mystery)
Blueberries and Bereavement (Sweet Baked Mystery)
Strawberries and Suffering (Sweet Baked Mystery)
Cupcakes and Conspiracies (Sweet Baked Mystery)
The Only Secret Left to Keep (Ngaire Blakes Mystery)
The Second Stage of Grief (Ngaire Blakes Mystery)
The Three Deaths of Magdalene Lynton (Ngaire Blakes Mystery)
Christchurch Crime Thriller Boxset
Breathe and Release (Christchurch Crime)
Skeletal (Christchurch Crime)
Found, Near Water (Christchurch Crime)
Writing as Lee Hayton
Dead Hunter
Magic Dude
Tohunga Rising
Shattered Imprints
Gun
The Only Secret Left to Keep Page 25