The man’s smile remained steady and true. “Your silence will be your guarantee. It’s as simple as that. You see, it’s not the intention of my employers to go around destroying lives, Miss Swanson.”
“Tell that to the millions of kids breathing in toxic poison courtesy of your employers.”
“But if threatened,” he continued, “they will take measures to protect themselves.”
“And you’re one of those measures?”
“My job is to tidy up, to rectify mistakes.”
“Mistakes like Max Edwards? Jason Dobbs?” Emily’s voice cracked like glass. “Evan Holt?”
Grinning, the man extended his right hand. Behind him, Josh smashed the trucks together and watched them flip onto their sides.
Emily stared at the flash drive as she held it out. Then she drew it back. “Tell me what happened to Max Edwards.”
“As far as I’m aware, Mr. Edwards drowned,” the man said, his smile slowly fading.
Emily’s fingers closed over the flash drive. “You killed him. First Max, then Jason Dobbs. They knew Valence was onto them. They met at the hotel in the middle of the night, with a plan to lay low for a while before handing the evidence over to the press. But they were too late. You were already waiting for them, weren’t you?”
The man said nothing.
Emily’s eyes swept the room. “Did you bring Max here? Did you have your men half kill him with alcohol before taking him for a swim?”
She pictured it with terrible clarity: Max Edwards tied to a chair in the centre of the warehouse, one thug forcing his head back, while another poured alcohol down his throat, filling him up like an empty bottle.
The man raised his eyebrows and surprised her by laughing. “You seem to have it all worked out for yourself, don’t you?”
He stared at her closed fist. But Emily wasn’t done with her questions.
“What will happen to Tim Marsden?”
“Mr. Marsden has already admitted the errors of his ways,” the man said. “I’m sure that come Monday, he’ll be back in the office, doing what he does best. But really, Miss Swanson, these matters are not your concern. All that’s required of you is to give me what’s in your hand so that I may return it to my employers. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Emily’s skin burned with anger as she uncurled her fingers and stared at the flash drive. It was such a small, indiscriminate object, yet it contained enough power to put untouchable men behind bars, to destroy whole companies, to purify the air breathed in by all those millions of children. If she handed it over, the lives of Max Edwards, Jason Dobbs, and Evan Holt would have been sacrificed for nothing. Valence Industries would continue profiting from the sale of TEL. Children would continue to be poisoned.
But Anya and Josh would not die. They would go on living, even if it was under the watchful eye of Valence Industries. What other choice did Emily have but to choose the living?
“One day, someone else will come,” she said. “Someone who will find out the truth about Valence Industries, someone who’ll tear it open and expose what it really is to the world.”
The man nodded. “I dare say they will. But it won’t be you.”
Emily held out the flash drive. Her eyes seared into the man as he stepped forward and plucked it between finger and thumb.
“And there we are.” He smiled, his eyes glinting. “If you’d be so kind to wait just one minute.”
He returned to Josh, then opened a briefcase that was sitting on top of a crate. Emily moved closer to get a better look. There was a laptop inside the briefcase. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was her laptop. She watched as the man inserted the flash drive, then smiled at Josh like a loving grandfather. As soon as the drive was ready, he patted Josh on the head, and returned his attention to the screen. He nodded, removed the drive, and slipped it inside the briefcase beside Emily’s laptop.
He stood, staring at Emily. She stared back. Was that it? The transaction made?
“Please remember what I told you, Miss Swanson. Your silence is your guarantee. If my employers were to find out, for example, that copies had been made of the information you’ve kindly returned, then they would be forced to react. And I would hate to see any harm come to you. Or to the people around you.”
Like a rattlesnake, the man lunged at Josh, wrapping fingers around the boy’s delicate wrist and twisting sharply, wrenching him from the ground.
Josh screamed in agony.
“Stop it!” Emily shrieked. “Please, stop it!”
The man let Josh hang there for a second longer, kicking and wailing, then he set him down on the crate. Clutching his wrist to his chest, Josh began a long, drawn-out howl. Emily rushed toward him.
The man blocked her path. “No one else needs to get hurt, Miss Swanson. You may leave now.”
Emily was unmoving, desperate to go to Josh, whose frightened wails grew louder. The man’s smile was gone, and she saw his true face. He was cold and inhumane; a brutal monster who knew nothing of love and compassion, of human kindness. Staring into his eyes was like staring into the depths of space—there was nothing there but infinite darkness.
“We don’t want Josh to get hurt again, do we?” he said through an icy smile.
Emily shook her head, but she stayed where she was, angry tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
“Go on, Miss Swanson. I’ll see he gets home safely.” The man turned to Josh, who skittered away, whimpering.
Emily’s feet betrayed her by taking a step back. She was going to leave him. She was going to leave this child in the hands of a psychopath. But he was giving her no choice.
Seeing the terror on Emily’s face, the man called after her. “I’m a man of my word, Miss Swanson. Haven’t you learned that by now? Your silence is their safety.”
He was quiet and still then, watching Emily retreat to the door. Behind him, Josh continued to cry and stare at Emily with terrified, pleading eyes.
Emily felt like she’d been shot in the chest. The door was behind her. Reaching out, she pushed it open. Tears spilled down her face as she ran out into the night.
She fled. Past the warehouses. Out of the darkness and into the light of the marina. She kept running. Breaths heaving in and out, she raced over the footbridge and through the car park. She did not look back; not until she had reached the road and flagged down a night bus. Behind her, the darkness was everywhere, penetrated by cracks of moonlight that splashed across the tops of buildings.
Emily felt as if she’d been poisoned, deadly chemicals choking her throat and burning her heart. And as the bus rolled toward the city, as tears continued to roll down her face, she wondered if she’d just made the second worst mistake of her life.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IT WAS STILL dark when Emily returned to the hospital. She found Daniel still sitting in the waiting room. He stood up when he saw her. Emily braced herself, ready to accept every angry insult he was about to hurl her way. But Daniel did not shout or scream. He merely stared at her with confused, distraught eyes.
“I had to go,” she explained. “I had to put things right.”
Daniel sat down again. Emily slumped in the opposite chair, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“How is he?”
“I’m still waiting.”
“Still?”
Daniel nodded. There was no need for more words; the silence spoke for them.
Time passed. Eventually, a doctor arrived with news. Jerome had lost a great deal of blood, resulting in hypovolemic shock. Fast work by the attending paramedics and an immediate transfusion had prevented his organs from failing. He was now in recovery with over a hundred stitches in his hands and possible nerve damage. He would require more rest and further observation, but the overall prognosis was good: Jerome might not be able to play the piano again, but he was alive.
The doctor left Emily and Daniel sitting side by side in the waiting room, relief cleansing them of ill feelings. They waited
some more, neither of them wanting to leave until they had seen Jerome for themselves.
Outside, the sky began to lighten. The first rays of sun peeked over the horizon. Morning was on its way.
CHAPTER FIFTY
EMILY LEFT THE hospital just after nine. Jerome had been asleep when she’d finally convinced the nurses to let her see him. She’d stayed for just a minute, watching his chest heave up and down, and feeling overwhelmed by equal measures of guilt and relief.
When she returned to The Holmeswood later that morning, she took a long, hot shower, then thought about sleep. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
Ninety minutes later, she was standing in the street outside the Copelands’ flat, desperate to know she’d made the right decision, and that the man at the warehouse had kept his word.
Mustering courage, she crossed the road and pressed the doorbell. She waited a minute, then tried again.
Emily felt as if she was falling. Hot, frightened tears stung her eyes. She stumbled back to the street and looked up.
Fear turned to relief.
Two silhouettes stood in the window, staring down at her. A mother and her son. Smiling, Emily waved a hand. The silhouettes were unmoving. Then slowly, they retreated into the safety of the room.
*
“Hello, sleepyhead. How are those pain killers holding up?”
“Liquid morphine is a gift from the Gods.”
Jerome was half awake and propped up in bed, his heavily bandaged hands resting by his sides. He was still very pale and weak-looking, Emily thought. But he was alive.
“Where’s Daniel?” she asked, glancing across the ward.
“He’s gone home to get a few things.” Jerome’s eyelids drooped as he turned to face her. “What was inside?”
“Honestly, Jerome, I don’t think now’s the time to—”
“Hey, I sacrificed my dream of being a hand model to get that envelope to you. What was in it?”
Emily glanced away. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d failed—that the evidence he’d almost died for was now back in the hands of Valence Industries.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her face into his arm. “It’s my fault. I should never have let you come with me.”
Jerome closed his eyes. “Stop with the attention seeking already. You’re not the one who’s short-term future includes having someone wipe your ass.” He laughed. The painkillers were clearly working their magic. “I just hope whatever was inside that envelope . . . well, that it was all worth it.”
Emily was quiet. Anya and Josh Copeland were still alive. She’d uncovered the truth of what had happened to Max Edwards; although she was unsure how much of that truth she could tell Diane. The man in the warehouse had been very clear—her silence guaranteed everyone’s safety. As for Jerome, she knew he would ask about the envelope again. She would tell him the truth, eventually. Regardless of his feelings, he could be trusted to remain silent. But right now, the truth wasn’t going to help his recovery.
“Have they said when you can leave?” she asked him.
“Soon. Mum and Dad are on their way down. They want me to come home with them for a while, until I’m able to use my hands again. Seems best.”
“What about the room in Brixton?”
“I guess Mags will have to find a new housemate.”
“And you and Daniel will be all right?”
Jerome opened one eye. “Plenty of people have survived long distance relationships. Anyway, this is a very temporary fixture. Just try and stop me from coming back.”
“Well, there’s always the sofa at mine until you find a new place. It might have a few holes in it now, but it’s yours if you want it.”
Emily stood and glanced out the window at the car park below. People milled about. She wondered if any of them were here to watch her.
Jerome was drifting off to sleep.
“Emily Swanson,” he muttered. “My hero.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING, Emily woke around nine, feeling heavy and groggy, and certainly not like she’d just enjoyed twelve hours of sleep. She got up, showered, took her antidepressant, then texted Carter West. She’d been thinking about him last night. Even though she still had her reservations about dating, she did owe him a second chance at coffee. Perhaps this time she would even stay around to answer his questions.
But before she could begin to think of the future, she first needed to put an end to the very recent past.
She arrived at Diane Edwards’ house a little after midday. In the kitchen, she accepted the offer of tea and then sat in silence, drumming her fingers against her knees. When they were both seated and the tea had been poured, Emily began her story.
She told a version of the truth: Max Edwards had discovered his employers were engaged in legal but unethical activities that went against everything he believed in. He’d realized that his position had been created not to protect the environment, but to act as a smokescreen. Enraged, Max had attempted but failed to bring Valence Industries’ immoral activities to an end. Emily could not confirm for certain how he’d ended up in the Thames, but what she did know was that Max had been acting for the greater good, just as he had always strived to do throughout his life.
And that was it; the most abridged version of the story she could manage without breaking her silence.
Diane Edwards sat at the table for the longest time, staring at the rear garden. Autumn leaves were scattered over the lawn, rust on emerald. Birds flitted from bush to branch.
“I’m sorry there’s not much else I can tell you,” Emily said, when the silence became unbearable. Even though she hadn’t technically lied, she felt wretched.
When Diane finally spoke, her voice was cracked and husky, as if she’d just woken from a long, deep sleep.
“Thank you,” she said. She turned back to the garden and her shoulders stiffened. “What the bloody hell was Max thinking?”
A single tear journeyed down the length of her face. She left it hovering on the contour of her chin, then swept it away. When she looked back at Emily, her expression was strangely neutral, as if she had directed all her grief into that single tear and cast it from her body.
“I suppose it would explain why he took to drink after all that time,” she said. “Max did hate to be made a hypocrite.”
Emily bit her lip and stared at the table.
“That woman. The one he worked with. . . Anya Copeland, was her name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did they. . .” Diane shook her head, then wrapped her arms around her ribs. “Do I even want to ask this question?”
Emily saved her the pain. “They were colleagues. That was all.”
“Colleagues. . .” Diane mused.
“Nothing more. I promise you.”
Relief softened Diane’s face. She smiled a sad smile, then reached a hand across the table. Emily took it.
“You’ve gone above and beyond what I’ve asked of you. I can’t expect any more than that. I just wish Max had told me about what he’d found, about what he was going through.”
“I expect he was trying to protect you,” Emily said. “I think that shows how much he loved you, no matter how distant your marriage had become.”
Diane squeezed her hand, then released her. “Well, thank you again, Emily. You’ve been most helpful to me.”
Drowning in guilt and uncertain that she’d been any help at all, Emily nodded.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
Across the table, Diane shook her head. “I’m not sure. Get on with things, I suppose. Whatever that entails. Perhaps I’ll start with a walk in the park to think things over. And you?”
“Me?”
“What will you do now?”
Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again. The truth was she had a very good idea of what she would do next, but she was too nervous to say it aloud. Instead, she smiled and said, “Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I’
ll come for that walk with you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE STAFF OF London Truth were shutting down their computers and calling it a day. One of the benefits of working for a fortnightly magazine rather than the daily tabloids was that, unless a story was breaking, no one stayed late on Fridays. No one except for Helen Carlson. Sitting at her desk, she watched her colleagues go. Some were heading to the local pub. Others were going home.
Bill appeared beside her desk. “Coming for a pint?”
She didn’t bother to look up from her screen. “Still busy.”
“What’s so urgent?”
“Have a nice weekend, Bill.”
“Fine,” he said, staring at her cuts and bruises. “Suit yourself.”
Helen watched him stalk away and leave through the smoked glass doors. Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to the screen.
“You know you’re not getting paid right now.”
The voice startled her.
She looked up to see Christine standing over her, one arm inside the sleeve of a jacket.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Helen growled. “Besides, half of the hours I put in are unpaid.”
Christine smiled. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Yeah, to get a better paid job, Helen thought as she moved her hands away from the keyboard and folded them across her chest.
The editor-in-chief was still staring at her.
“I know you’re angry,” she said. “And you have a right to be. You had a big story at your fingertips—bigger than most journalists will see thirty years into their career, never mind just a few years.”
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