Run Away

by Laura Salters

  “Kayla . . . you know how important the family business is to me. It’s my life, and it was your grandfather’s life too. He built Finch Marketing from the ground up, then he left it all to me, right after we joined hands with Greyhawk Financial.”

  “Wait. All this is about business?” Kayla asked furiously.

  Mark’s eyes shot open. “Are you going to let me explain or not?” Kayla said nothing, terrified she’d broken the trancelike state in which he seemed ready to finally explain. His rocking movement continued. “All I’ve ever wanted was to do right by him. Your grandfather was a great man. I wish you could have gotten to know him better, Kayla. He would have loved you. He was so wise, so generous, so loyal. So unlike me. I was never cut out for the business world. Not in the way he was. I’ve always been weak-­minded. Easily influenced.

  “So when Greyfinch started struggling shortly after my dad died, and Eric Walsh—­the CEO of Greyhawk Financial—­came to me with a solution . . . I crumbled. I knew it was far from ideal, and it was incredibly dodgy, but I was weak. Overwhelmed by grief, my own young family, and a badly bruised ego. I should have said no—­hindsight is a fine thing, I guess—­but I didn’t. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret that decision. Not one day.”

  Kayla could hardly breathe. “What did you do, Dad?”

  Mark swallowed hard. His throat was dry and raspy. “Think about it, Kayla. We had control over every single camera in the United Kingdom. The only ­people who could access the footage were regional police chiefs. Good guys. That was always the intention—­we wanted to provide a pure, functional system that benefitted everyone, and could also turn over a profit. That’s it. We never wanted more than that. We knew such a system was open for bribes and blackmail, of course we did. But we trusted our police chiefs and we trusted ourselves. I thought that was enough. I was wrong.” Mark thumped his forehead three times with the heel of his hand. “My God, was I wrong.”

  Although it could only have lasted thirty seconds or so, the silence that followed seemed to last an eternity. “Th-­The running costs,”: he finally went on, “they were much higher than we anticipated, Kayla. We barely made a penny. O-­Our marketing staff was overwhelmed by the pressure, the strain, so we had to keep hiring more and more to deal with the sheer quantity of reports we were being hired to produce. But the extra staff . . . they ate into profit margins, and the money for most jobs didn’t come in straight away. We had to have a whole department dedicated to chasing debt. We were being swallowed under, but it wasn’t just about us any more . . . it was about our country. Our country, Kayla. So when . . . when we were in our most desperate hour, and an offer came in that could solve all of our financial problems . . . you can see why we faltered.”

  “What was the offer?” Kayla was still struggling to keep up.

  Mark paused, again for a gaping stretch of time that was so silent it felt like a vacuum.

  “Dad?”

  Mark lowered his voice, as though saying it quietly would somehow dull the impact of his words. “It was an anonymous data request from someone outside the police force. We get them a lot. Husbands determined to catch their cheating wives, bosses checking whether their employees really were off sick and not just away on holiday, that kind of thing. We always ignore them. But this one was different. It was an e-­mail, sent directly to the request account. It simply said: ‘I need last night’s footage from camera number C1029K to be doctored. I’ll pay one million pounds.’ Obviously, we looked to see what was on that footage. It was basically nothing, an empty back alley mostly. The only thing of note was a man in a stained yellow hoodie running past the camera at five past eleven. You couldn’t even see his face that clearly.”

  Kayla felt sick. “So you took the money.”

  Mark closed his eyes. “Yes. We altered the footage so there was never a man running down the street, and the million was transferred into our account. I paid our head accountant to keep it under the radar, make it look legitimate, and we got away with it. For a while our problems eased off. We had cash-­flow again.”

  “Did you ever find out why the person wanted it changed? Was it another cheating husband scenario?”

  “That’s where it started to get messy. A week later, I was checking the news Web sites and happened to notice a small news story in the regional section, about a missing-­person-­turned-­murder case. The body was found on the next street from the alleyway whose CCTV footage we doctored. I’m willing to bet the murderer didn’t want to be implicated. We never did find out who it was, exactly, but they must have had serious cash lying round to be able to cough up that amount of money just to keep themselves out of jail. Either that or it was an investment by a very smart man. It turned out to be the latter.”

  Kayla frowned. There was a lot to take in, and none of it seemed to be making any sense. “What do you mean?”

  “My heart sank as soon as I read that news story. We’d been bribed, and we’d taken it. As a result, we’d set ourselves up for a massive blackmail opportunity.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Mark sighed. “Think about it. We’d allowed ourselves to be bribed, and the murderer had evidence of this happening. He could have exploited us at any moment. Told the police or the press. We’d all have been arrested. Jailed. It was treason. But instead, he used his knowledge as a bargaining chip. Sure enough, a month after the story had broken, the demands started pouring in. First, he wanted his money back, or he’d leak his story. He’d tell the world that the most powerful surveillance system in the world was corrupt. So we obliged. Then he wanted another million. Then . . . then he wanted information.”

  “What kind of info—­”

  “Private information. Information about . . . about the movements of certain influential figures. Foreign consulates. MPs. The governor of—­”

  “The governor of the Bank of England?” Kayla finished.

  Silence.

  She blinked in disbelief. Her stomach dropped. The terrorist attacks. Waterloo. Heathrow. Kings Cross.

  ­People dead. ­People missing. Blood, tragedy, fear.

  Her dad.

  Words frothed from her mouth. “You’re a terrorist. A terrorist. How can you even look at yourself in the mirror having facilitated that? There’s blood on your hands, Dad. You’re fucking drenched in it, you—­”

  “I know. Jesus, don’t you think I know? I hated myself—­I still do. But there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it, you can see that, right?”

  Kayla said coldly, “No. You could have told the police. You could have owned up. After the first attack at Heathrow, didn’t you . . . ? How could you? How could you not stop this?”

  Mark recoiled as if he’d been slapped, pushing himself up off the desk and twirling around to face Kayla. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t have a choice, I—­”

  “Will you stop acting liking a victim and insisting you didn’t have a choice? Every single thing you’ve just described to me was a choice. Every single thing. Stop trying to shift the blame. You’re the bad gu—­” Mid-­rant, a chilling thought hit Kayla. “Wait a minute . . . what does this have to do with Gabe? Or with the Facebook account? Did the guy from behind the camera send those messages? Did things get that personal?”

  Mark shook his head slowly. “No. No.”

  “So how is it all connected?”

  “Gabe was a smart kid. There was an attack about six months ago. Smaller. The first time we were blackmailed. An important City broker murdered in a black cab. Do you remember that? Footage was posted on a jihadist Web site. Gabe . . . he’d been interning at Greyfinch for a few days and worked it all out, even though I’d never uttered one word about it to him. I have no idea how he found out—­I still don’t—­but the fact is, he did. And we couldn’t risk him going to the police, or worse, the press, to confess the truth.”

  Kayla’s b
lood turned to ice. “Y-­You . . . you killed him? Just to keep your own fucked up secret safe?”

  Please say no. Please say you didn’t kill Gabe.

  “No! God, no. How could you even think that? I would never kill my own son. I’d rather kill myself! And believe me, that thought did cross my mind. I’m not proud, but . . .” Mark’s eyes clouded over. The fog of depression still clung to him. “I just begged Gabe not to go public with it—­I knew the kind of ­people I worked with—­and I even sent him away to boarding school to try and keep him out of harm’s way. I knew Walsh wasn’t as . . . emotionally attached as I was. He would have no qualms over eliminating a threat like that. I tried to keep Walsh from finding out that Gabe knew, but somehow he did. I assume he’s the one who sent the messages, though I have no idea how he did it from this computer.”

  “So did Gabe actually commit suicide? Or was he murdered?”

  Mark’s cheeks were lined with wrinkles and splotches of red. “I truly don’t know. I asked Walsh, of course I did. I demanded that he tell me what happened to my son . . .” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. There was a sheen of sweat on his jowly face. He sniffed. “But he wouldn’t. He always was a cold, heartless man.”

  “Wonder what that’s like,” Kayla muttered. She was overwhelmed by what Mark had told her, shaking violently, drenched in cold sweat. Terrorism. Treason. So much blood. “Can you tell me one more thing?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Mark said, and laughed sourly. “What does secrecy matter now?”

  “Is what happened to Sam in any way linked to all of this? Or was it just a freakish coincidence?”

  Mark sat back on the desk, this time angled slightly toward her. Gently, he said, “I’m so, so sorry Kayla. You were never meant to fall in love with him.”

  The bottom fell out of Kayla’s stomach, and her heart swiftly followed. The color drained from her face. She couldn’t speak. Mark fumbled to find more words to fill the void. “I knew Walsh was sending ­people over there to keep tabs on you. I’m willing to bet there are some here in England too, knowing Walsh. I know he ordered them to give your pal Sadie Winters a shock, anyway.” Sadie? Sadie knew too? Kayla couldn’t keep up with the endless list of betrayal.

  Mark continued, “But while most of them kept their distance in Thailand, he sent one extra person on the same trip as you, and paid them generously to befriend you and report back on whether you were behaving as expected. You know, acting the way a girl who didn’t know that her father was a corrupt bastard would. But one night—­the night before Sam disappeared—­I overheard Walsh on the phone. From what I gather, he was concerned that the spy had become too close to you, and that the prerogative was no longer to protect Greyfinch. And obviously, he couldn’t let the spy walk free and do as they pleased—­if their loyalties really had been compromised, they were almost guaranteed to go to the police. So Walsh ordered the others out there to eliminate the threat. Which, in this case, I assume was Sam. The next day, we got your phone call about what happened. I’m so sorry, Kayla, I really am. After everything you’d already been through.”

  Kayla didn’t know whether every fiber of her being ached more because Sam was definitely dead or because he was never who he said he was.

  Even through the excruciating pain, self-­preservation kicked in. “Wait a minute. If both Gabe and Sam were killed to keep this quiet . . . what’s going to happen to me?”

  The grandfather clock behind her ticked loudly. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. “I don’t know,” Mark said slowly, something resembling fear creeping into his voice. He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “At this point, nobody but me knows that you’ve heard the whole story. So we could carry on as normal, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust Walsh. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had this house bugged. We have to get you somewhere safe—­somewhere they . . . th-­they can’t get to you. I’ve already lost one kid, and I’ll be damned if they try to harm you too.”

  “Is there even anywhere safe left?” Kayla asked.

  She would never hear her dad’s reply, because at that moment her nan walked through the door.

  Hang on. Isn’t she supposed to be in Oban?

  Kayla was about to warn her to leave, to run away from this crooked family and never look back. But there was something strange about the look on Nan’s face, about the twisted smile and the narrowed eyes. Something that told Kayla her nan already knew.

  Chapter 38

  August 2, England

  EVEN IF YOU struggle to know what’s real when you’re dreaming, you can always identify reality when you’re awake. And this nightmare was very, very real indeed.

  “Mum?” Mark seemed as shocked as Kayla. “What are you doing here?”

  “I always knew you weren’t up to it, Mark.”

  “What the . . . What are you talking about? Up to what?”

  “Your failure to fulfill your father’s wishes, to continue building his empire with honor and integrity. That’s what I’m talking about, Mark. He’d turn in his grave if he knew what you’d done.”

  Kayla had never heard her nan’s voice so strong, so assured. Her head spun viciously, whooshing and swirling like she was drunk.

  “How did you . . . how did you know?” Mark asked.

  “How did I know? Please. I know more than you ever will. I was there with your father from the very beginning. ­People think I was just some trophy wife who attended functions, wore red lipstick, and smiled politely while the men were taking care of business. But the whole time I was calculating threats, seeking opportunities, building contacts. Your father had the vision, the initial idea, and the unstoppable ambition, but I had the brains. I could see through the sales talk, know when we were being played, and know how to play our enemies right back. But while I did it for the good of the company, I always kept my morals. Never lost sight of what was right and what was wrong. It’s just a shame the same can’t be said for you. I’m still respected within that company, Mark, more so than you ever will be. I’ve known about the blackmail since day one. Known my own son was . . . was a traitor.”

  Mark slid off the desk and fell to the floor, his head falling into his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed everyone. I’ve . . . I-­Innocent lives have been lost. I’m sorry. So sorry. If I could change it all—­”

  “Yes, you are a failure. But there’s no point being emotional. We have to clean up this mess, Mark. Think of what would happen if this got out. We’d all be arrested for countless offenses: perverting the course of justice, murder, treason. Aiding and abetting terrorists. The country would fall apart, knowing that the surveillance system was so corrupt. All of those who argue about the panopticon, the Orwellian monitoring, the ruthless breaches of privacy, the Big Brother state . . . they’d be right. It’d be disastrous, there would be outrage, riots. Not only would the Finch name be in tatters, but the United Kingdom would be too.”

  “Kayla won’t utter a word, Mum. She knows how deadly this secret is. Stop talking like a Bond villain.” He laughed nervously.

  “This is hardly funny, Mark. Everything our family has worked for over the last half a century is hanging in the balance, and all you can do is make jokes?” Iris shook her head in disgust.

  “So what are you going to do, Nan? Kill me to protect your name?” Kayla demanded, only half joking.

  Iris spun around to look at Kayla. There was a wildness in her eyes that Kayla had never seen before. “Why not? I already killed your brother.”

  All of the air was sucked out of the room. Everything was still for a moment, frozen in light of the revelation. Kayla’s heart stopped.

  Mark screamed, “You WHAT? You killed my son? Your GRANDSON? All in the name of some twisted ideologies? You sick old bitch! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Kayla screamed even louder than her dad. “YOU KILLED MY BROTHER? It was yo
u who sent those Facebook messages? You drove him to suicide—­”

  “No, I didn’t. I tried to.” Iris’s voice wobbled. “Don’t get me wrong—­I tried to talk him down first, to convince him not to go public, but he wouldn’t back down. Didn’t want to be complicit in our heinous acts. Then I tried to threaten him online, on social media, but it was too little, too late. He knew too much, and he was determined to bring us down. I . . . I didn’t see another option. Time was running out, and I panicked. So I waited until everyone was out, went into his room and saw he was taking a nap. I handcuffed him before he could wake up and overpower me, then I slit his wrists, so it’d look like he’d done it himself. I stayed with him until I could be sure he was dead. You think that was easy for me? To watch my grandson die a slow and painful death? To hear him spend his last waking minutes begging me to help him? Well, it wasn’t. It . . . it still haunts me every day. But that’s the difference between you and I, Mark. I can see the bigger picture. I can prioritize the greater good.”

  Kayla felt like she’d been punched repeatedly in her torso. This could not be happening. Her nan could not have just confessed to the murder of her brother. She glanced at her father. He was broken. Shattered.

  Tears pricked behind Kayla’s eyes, but she blinked them back. There was one prevalent image through the pain and grief: Sam. In spite of everything, she still loved him. And he had died because he had loved her too much to betray her trust and report back to Greyfinch – he put her safety above his own. Her life above his. That had to be worth something. His sacrifice meant she had to fight for herself.

  Think, Kayla. Keep her talking. Keep her talking while you think your way out of this mess. “Do you really think I’d go to the police about this? Do you really think my sense of justice is so strong I’d bring shame to my own family? Gabe’s morals were stronger than mine. I wouldn’t tell a soul.” The words were spilling from her mouth, and they tasted dirty.