“You need to leave us to do our jobs.”
“These are my friends,” I tell her.
“You’re retired. Enjoy it. Go back to the US, make beautiful babies with Mr Lansdown. We’ve got this. I promise.”
I hate that she’s shutting me out, but what more can I do? I can’t force her to share what she knows.
“Can I ask you to keep me updated? I’m also available if you need me.”
A look of shock passes over the face of the woman sitting opposite me.
“You’re out,” she says.
“These are my friends, and I owe Robert. If you need my skills, I’ll be there.”
The Seamstress nods.
I stand up and turn to leave. Pausing as I reach the door.
“I want Robert’s killer brought to justice.”
“We all do. But until we have more evidence, it remains a tragic accident. We don’t need any added complications, Tailor. Is that understood?”
I nod. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t do that to them. Knowing myself is torture enough.”
The words catch in my throat. The secret I’ve held from those I love for seven years.
“I’m glad we understand one another. No good will come of it,” she says. “Go back to the US settle down. Live your life. I promise to call if we need you.”
I place my hand on the door handle.
My thoughts flash to Elijah, to Gabriel, Caleb, Kat, and even to Harper.
They got to Robert, and now they may come after his family.
“I mean it. If you need me. I’m available.”
“I heard you. Now go.”
With that, I leave the room, making my way back to where Elijah is still giving his statement. I grab myself a coffee from the vending machine and hiss at the bitter taste as I wait for him to finish.
CHAPTER 31
ELIJAH
I’m still filled with a sense of unease as Pen, and I re-enter my apartment. It’s gone midnight. For the fact I’ve only had a couple of hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours, I feel remarkably awake.
“A drink?” I ask, making my way to the kitchen.
“Please,” Pen says, following behind.
“Do you think he’s going to crack?” I say, motioning to my vast array of drink choices.
Pen points to a juice mix favoured by Lottie. Being the dad of a teenager, the house is well stocked. It’s often a conveyor belt of teens running in and out. My daughter, at fourteen, is growing up fast.
I pour myself a whiskey, grabbing some ice from the freezer.
I hand Pen her drink and follow her into the living room, both taking a seat on opposite sofas. I’ve spent a lot of time touching her in the past few days, and my body is getting used to her presence. It wants more, but she’s not here for that. She’s come to help, and before I can blink, she’ll be gone again. This time for good.
