“He beat my mother,” he says, curt and matter of fact.
“Mmm-hmm, go on.”
“That’s the story, Mr. Harrison.”
“Give me the detail. The detail is where we hook the jury.”
“That’s the story, Mr. Harrison, and we’ll leave it there. A jury will have to make a decision based on the facts of the night.”
“Young man, I am afraid it just does not work that way. Whether I draw it out of you or the prosecution drag it out of you, if you sit on that stand, your past will become your present and the jury will scrutinise every move you have made and every step you have taken for as many days as you have lived.”
Tears build in my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. I can’t put him through that. He won’t open up to me, let alone a room full of strangers.
“If the jury explores my past, Mr. Harrison, it will realise that bastard beat my mother and killed...tried to kill me. He deserved to die. How can that go against me?”
“Because you have motive to kill him,” I croak. “He hurt you. He hurt someone you love and you wanted him dead. That’s not self-defence, Gregory, that’s premeditated killing and a jury will think that should be prosecuted.”
I lock my eyes onto his, trying to make him see that I should be punished. I shot a man because he took my father’s life and turned a gun on the man I love. I killed with motive. Gregory holds my stare. He won’t give me permission, not now, not yet.
“She is right, old boy, that is exactly what a jury will see.”
Gregory speaks without taking his eyes from mine. “Then you’d better make damn sure this case doesn’t go to trial, Mr. Harrison.”
“Well, let us discuss that. You have not been charged yet, I understand.”
“That’s right.”
“That is a good sign. Let me tell you how this works. You see, the police investigate and the Crown Prosecution Service decides whether or not to charge and prosecute.”
John Harrison rises from his chair and perambulates the chamber’s perimeter. “The decision to prosecute is based on two things.” He raises one finger in the air. “The first is the evidential test. Remember the CPS is funded by public money, therefore it will only go ahead with a charge and prosecution where it is certain there is sufficient evidence to secure a conviction and that the person being charged is the true defendant.”
I shift awkwardly in my seat and feel heat prick my skin under Gregory’s oppressive glower.
“Of course, one can have evidence enough to prosecute but believe that there is a true defence. In this case that would be self-defence. And there you see we have a dilemma, to spend public money or not to spend public money that is the question. If the CPS believes a defence is likely to succeed, it will not and should not waste the good man’s taxes. Are you with me?”
Gregory nods once, a firm, businesslike dip of his head.
“The second test,” John Harrison begins, even more animated, lifting two fingers into the air, “is the public interest test. Essentially, Mr. Ryans, the question is, are you a danger to the public? I suspect you would say no. Of course, there is more threat to the public in the case of murder than in the case of petty theft, I am sure you will agree. But that is not to say the CPS will always prosecute a murder. They will think about the victim’s family and the impact a decision not to prosecute may have on them.”
Gregory snorts.
“Yes, well, we might not have a problem there. Jolly good. One of the more likely ways to escape prosecution is a lack of evidence but of course you, Scarlett and your driver concur that you did in fact kill a man. And there is the matter of the weapon. The CPS will not look favourably on your weapon of choice.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Gregory snaps. “Can you stop this going to trial or not?”
“I do believe, Mr. Ryans, until you are ready to share your past with me, your best odds are if the CPS chooses not to prosecute your case.”
“And the chances of that happening?”
“I would say sixty/forty on what I have learned today. Sixty/forty against you, that is.”
I close my eyes and will myself to be strong for Gregory.
“That said, often in cases of compelling evidence or where there is a threat to the public the CPS would decide to charge immediately, which they have not. And, I am the best, old boy, and if there is a man who can prevent a prosecution it is me.”
“How long before they make a decision?” I ask.
“Given they have not made the decision immediately, despite a confession, I would imagine they are waiting for a ballistics report to establish that you are the true defendant, and they may be exploring the strength of a self-defence argument. I can make a call on your behalf but I would hazard a guess at five to seven days for the ballistics report, give or take. If they explore the defence they will almost certainly look to others in your life to question and establish motive. In this case, the longer it takes to hear from the CPS the better, I think.”
Five to seven days. Then he could be hauled off in cuffs and tried for my crime.
“What if, what if it goes to trial and we lose?” I croak.
“Scarlett, stop it.”
“No, Gregory, you need to hear this. What’s the worst case scenario, John?”
“Life in prison.”
Despite already knowing the answer to my own question, I’m unable to prevent the erratic beat of my heart and the spinning in my head.
Gregory swallows so hard that I hear it. “That won’t happen. I won’t let that happen. Scarlett, listen to me. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me.”
I do as he asks, slowly peeling my eyelids up, my pupils on fire.
“That won’t happen,” he says, taking my hand in his.
I nod twice. “Excuse me, I need the ladies’.”
“Down the hall to left, Scarlett,” John chirps.
I can feel Gregory watching me as I make to leave the room.
“Now then, old boy, shall we talk figures? I charge by the hour. Eight hundred and fifty per hour.”
“Let’s take twenty percent off that, Mr. Harrison, and call you my defence lawyer.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“And I’ll shake your hand there, Mr. Ryans.”
At least that’s something, I think as the door closes behind me; QC John Harrison, the crème de la crème, is willing to stake his reputation on Gregory and our lies.
When I return to the room, the two most important men in my life are standing face to face.
“I’m glad we understand each other, Mr. Harrison,” Gregory says.
John offers a curt dip of his head then turns to me. “Pleasure to see you again, Scarlett.”
“And you, John, thank you.”
We shake hands then Gregory’s palm is on the small of my back, guiding me on a quick march back along the antique corridors to the Lamborghini. He opens the passenger door and closes it behind me once I’m seated. Then he climbs into the driver side, flicks the paddle gears and skids us out of the street at a dangerous speed.
He jabs his fingers at the touch screen in the centre of the dashboard and a dial-out tone fills the sound system, followed by Jackson’s voice. “Everything okay?”
“Are you home?” Gregory asks abruptly.
“On my way back from seeing Sandy, Ken picked me up.”
“We need to talk. I’ll be ten.”
“See you then.”
I glance at Gregory’s stern face and decide it would be best if I stay quiet. Instead, I watch as we fly through Camden Borough, buildings fading into blurred lines of lights against the already darkening afternoon sky, back to the Southside of the Thames.
Jackson is waiting on a stool at the breakfast b
ar when we get to the apartment. Gregory takes off his coat and scarf and throws them over the back of another stool. “Let’s go to my office.”
Jackson moves to stand and pushes an arm into his crutch.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I feel like a patronised child. “Stay here. I’m going to take a bath.”
I leave them to it, unsure how many more emotional missiles I can withstand in one day.
After squeezing way more bubbles than necessary into the bath, I dim the lights. When the water is almost at the brim, I sink myself under the thick clouds.
Adopting the position my yoga teacher makes me take at the beginning of a class, I place my hands on my ribcage and concentrate on expanding my lungs to their full capacity on each inhale. I lie in that position until the water becomes tepid.
Five to seven days. One week, one hundred and sixty-eight hours until the damning ballistics report will come.
Chapter Four
The door to Gregory’s apartment is ajar. I move in darkness from the lift, my fingers tightly wrapped around the Glock in my hands. My toes nudge the door, which creaks as it slowly swings open.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” The male voice is husky. I see only the crown of his head, sitting in the black leather chair in the lounge, watching the city below.
My hands are shaking but my legs carry me forward. “You knew I was coming.”
He turns in the chair to face me, moonlight illuminating his sardonic grin. Kevin Pearson watches me as I move towards him, my gun raised and aimed directly at his skull.
“I’ve known you were coming since I killed your father.” He laughs, throwing his head back as the malicious sound growls out of his throat. “Shame. He looked like he could’ve been a nice man.”
“He was a brilliant a man,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “Not even your life would make up for his. But that won’t stop me from taking it. I will avenge my father.”
He rises from the chair and takes a step towards me. “Ja, you think you’re a strong girl when you’re holding a gun. You’re not, little girl. You’re not.”
He moves a hand quickly behind his back and like lightning he’s aiming a gun at my chest. He clicks off the safety and I know I’m about to...
I jump bolt upright in bed. My eyes fly open as I gasp, trying desperately to fill my empty lungs. My heart beats hard against my palm on my chest and I pant as I gauge my surroundings and the safety of Gregory’s bed. He sleeps, undisturbed by my nightmare. The floor lighting illuminates my path as I tiptoe from the room and downstairs to the lounge. I open the fridge but instead make a move for a decanter of scotch on the bar table in the lounge.
Pouring myself a drink, I sip the burning liquid as my heart rate returns to normal. Then navigating Gregory’s sound system, I turn down the volume and select Norah Jones. The warm, smooth sound carries through my mind as I look out over the city.
Would I have taken that shot regardless of whether Kevin Pearson pointed a gun at his son?
I wanted to kill him. I said as much the night of the funeral, right here in the apartment.
A firm palm presses against the small of my back, sending electric bolts through my veins. Gregory peels my fingers from the glass and places it down on the coffee table. Then he presses his chest against my shoulder blades and wraps his arms around my waist.
“I needed to hear some music,” I explain.
He brushes his lips against my collarbone, drawing a line of kisses up my neck. I let my head fall to one side and lean into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Sorry that you came into my life? Sorry that my father was murdered? Sorry that I killed a man? Or sorry that I fell in love with you?
“Do you want me to help you forget?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. None of it makes sense. My questions don’t have answers but he’s the missing link. He’s the reason for everything. The only way I can connect the dots between my head and my heart.
I move one hand behind me to his thigh and the other round his neck, pushing my fingers into his smooth hair. Then I turn to look into those mystifying brown eyes before planting my lips on his. He slides his fingers over my silk nightdress, up the sides of my body, and lifts my arms above my head then turns me to face him. He’s naked but for his tight boxers.
Our mouths meet, our tongues tracing each other’s lips, tangling in hot wetness. I can already feel desire between my thighs, my body craving his touch, needing him to anchor me. He slides his hands down my nightgown then lifts me and carries me to the sofa. His eyes never leave mine as he lowers me down and nudges my thighs apart with his knees before crawling between them. He brushes his fingers from my chest down to the slit at the thigh of my nightdress. My hips rise towards him as he slides the dress up to my waist, then moves his body over mine until his breath is on my face and he’s gazing into my eyes.
“Aurora,” he whispers.
“Aurora?”
“That’s what you are. A mass of light drawn to the magnet of my dark world. Pure. Beautiful. Brave.”
He braces his weight on his forearms and strokes my hair away from my face then moves his mouth down to meet mine. My body melts into his and sheer pleasure takes over my mind. As long as I have Gregory I can cope.
He lifts his face and slips a hand between my thighs, his fingers slick through my readiness. Satisfied, he raises his hips and slides into me on one slow, deliberate move.
A moment of true, honest, unadulterated ignorance of everything but the pleasure of him making me feel whole.
Whether he can say it or not. Whether he even realises it or not. Gregory James Ryans makes love to me the way every woman dreams of being made love to: slowly, savoured, cherished.
We pant through our shared climax then he rests his weight on my chest and nuzzles his head into my neck.
“Lift up,” he says, taking my hands and guiding me to stand.
I mumble as he peels his warmth away from my skin. He shuffles a faux fur cushion to the arm of the leather sofa and lies back, patting the space between his legs for me to fill.
“Aurora,” he whispers.
His light. His freedom.
I will be that again.
I’ll be strong for him.
Chapter Five
“Whoa, sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Jackson rouses me from the comfort of Gregory’s tight embrace on the sofa as he stomps his crutch through the lounge. The sun hasn’t yet come up.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t perfected my aim over distance,” I grumble.
I can’t see the smirk on his face but I feel the chug of laughter in Gregory’s chest. He squeezes his arms more tightly around me and kisses my head. I could fool myself into thinking this is a normal day.
“Pasop Boet,” he says playfully.
“I’ll look out, brother. Control your woman,” Jackson boyishly banters back.
Both men laugh when I sit up pouting.
“Gym, kid. You don’t get a day off just because my leg doesn’t work. Let’s go.”
Gregory pushes me up with his palms under my arms and places me on my feet. He rubs a finger up my arm, leaving goose bumps in his wake, and turns on his knowing half smile as he slides the rogue strap of my nightdress back up to my collarbone. “Better.”
I can’t resist smiling back at him.
“Aurora,” he whispers, planting a kiss on my brow.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Jackson shouts, making his way to the gym.
“Ja, ja!” Gregory shouts back in reply, darting up the staircase, three steps per stride. I watch the gym door close behind Jackson and shudder. Out of Gregory’s hold, the apartment feels dark and cold. Day Two—one day closer to finding out wh
ether Gregory will be charged.
As I fumble around, trying to fathom the coffee machine, a knock on the apartment door makes me jump. The lock clinks and the door begins to open.
I pull open a drawer and reach for the first knife I see, my knuckles white around the handle.
A middle-aged woman steps into the lounge wearing a silver bubble coat and carrying two large bags for life—those bags you pay two pound for at the supermarket and you’re supposed to keep forever, forever being ten shops or so.
“Good morning!” Her voice almost sings from her petite body.
I loosen my grip on the knife and quickly push the drawer closed as she bumps the door shut with her hip, her mousey-blond hair swinging from her high ponytail as she moves.
“Hi,” I manage, suddenly very aware of the inappropriateness of my skimpy nightdress.
“You must be Scarlett,” she says through a smile. “Oh my, and as pretty as I imagined.”
My cheeks flush and I fold my arms awkwardly across my body. “Erm, thank you, ah...Amy?”
“Oh, silly me!” She lifts her bags with an umph and plants them on the black granite worktop. “Yes, I’m Amy. I cook, clean, whatever.” She waves a hand flippantly through the air.
She’s Gregory’s Sandy...kind of. “It’s nice to meet you,” I offer.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Like a pro who’s very familiar with the kitchen, Amy opens the front of the coffee machine, takes small pouches of coffee from a cupboard, fills a jug with water which in turn fills the machine, then pushes a button, springing the filter process to life.
“How do you take it?”
“Just a drop of milk. I can do it,” I say, feeling completely inept.
Amy jumps into action, locating a mug and milk then pouring in coffee. “Nonsense, that’s why I’m here. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”
She pulls two cartons of eggs and a huge pack of smoked salmon from one of her bags, then takes herbs and a fresh carton of milk and places everything in the fridge.
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