one
Cinn
Thud, thud. Thud, thud.
Cinn’s head pulsated with pain that did nothing to help the disorienting fog enveloping his mind.
His bleariness cleared, and an oval-shaped window came into focus. Outside was only darkness. Darkness and…
He blinked.
Holy fuck, was he on anaeroplane?
A large intake of breath was his last before his throat tightened. His heart kicked into overdrive, as a sickening wave of vertigo struck him.
Think think think.
He squeezed his eyes closed. His limited oxygen supply had him gasping for air.
After four shaky breaths, he forced some level of coherent thought back into his brain.
Why are you, Cinn Saunders, someone who’s never left England before, and has a crippling fear of flying, thousands of miles high in a tin can?
He pried his eyes open to find this wasn’t any old tin can—it had to be a private jet, if the lack of other passengers, aside from a woman sleeping opposite him, was anything to go by. Any crew remained to be seen.Oh God, please let there be a crew. Don’t tell me she left this thing on autopilot and then took a nap.
The jet featured comfy cream sofa-seats and polished metal tables. The table in front of him housed an ice bucket with an open champagnebottle poking out of it—wherever they were travelling, they were going there in luxury. With trembling hands, he reached down to unzip his rucksack, placed by his feet. His headphones were clearly visible at the top.Thank God.
He’d packed the bag earlier today…Why?
Cinn rubbed his pounding head, which his panic-fuelled adrenaline was intensifying. Was too much alcohol to blame for it? No. This felt different. Hazier. His brain worked overtime trying to piece together the tatters of his fragmented memory.
His most overwhelming sensation: guilt.
After that? Fear.
It hit him like a punch to the gut—a visceral reaction so deep, he pressed his fist to his mouth.
It was meant to be a simple job. Return to Rosewood Parlour, the restaurant where he was undertaking a culinary training programme, in the early hours of the morning, to let two of Heino Richter’s henchmen in. Escort them into the manager’s office. Open the safe. Close his eyes, and pretend it wasn’t happening.
It would have all gone to plan if only Cinn had controlled his stress levels. Why, oh why, did he not think to bring his Walkman with him? Maybe then he could have used his music to stop his episode. After the safe’s door had clicked open, by his own hand, he’d watched as Ronnie and Spiky scooped fistful after fistful of the last few evenings’ takings into their duffle bags. That was when it got too much—when the vision of their head chef, Benny, had popped into his head, shaking his head with so muchdisappointmentin his eyes.
Only a few hours before the robbery, Cinn had been with Benny—and Sarah, their newest dishwasher—in the side alley adjacent to the restaurant, taking a two-minute smoke break. Benny had told one of his hilarious stories in his thick Irish accent, while Sarah threw her headback in laughter, and Cinn leant against the wall looking between them both, thinking,this is alright.
So when the reality of robbing his own restaurant, the place he’d grown to love over the last couple of months, had hit, so did the panic attack.
And they never ended well.
This one—this visit tothe dark placeas he’d named it in his childhood—had ended in particular disaster. Namely, the death of Heino’s two men, in addition to the two police officers who’d burst through the door at precisely the wrong moment.
Four dead bodies.
That’s what the two detectives had said again and again, in the interview room, after his arrest.
As if he didn’t know. As if he hadn’tseen it.
The dead female police officer had possessed the same chestnut curls as his mother. He’d fixated on them, sprayed out above her expressionless face and her lifeless body.
After an eternity in a holding cell, they’d then left him waiting in an interview room to stew for hours, the cool metal chair and the bleak walls his only company. Well, and his court-issued attorney. They’d barely said a word to each other since he’d refused to engage with the tired-looking, middle-aged woman. Although what could he possibly say? How could he explain the unexplainable?
