He collected a set of keys without saying another word and he was gone.
I thought I heard the front door open and close in the middle of the night but he never came to bed. I don’t know what time he came home. The first I saw of him was in his sweat-drenched, grey T-shirt this morning when he returned from his run. When I asked if he was okay, he lied. ‘Never been better,’ he said. Then he showered and spent most of the journey into work on his phone to Sydney, agreeing to ever-higher sums of money to keep the press schtum.
Now, I’m sitting at my desk, turning my pen between my fingers, mulling over the events of yesterday, wondering whosheis, why Lara was questioned and fighting with Gregory about her, and why Gregory is so desperate to keep her name off the case. He can’t say he loves me, he tells me to leave, then he tells me he can’t walk away. The only thing that’s certain is there are things he isn’t telling me.
How long can we continue like this? What if my love isn’t strong enough for us both?
Dubai. A break and a clean slate. I’d be giving up an opportunity for nothing if he won’t let me in. Six months, a year from now, would I be left regretting my decision not to go?
I think about whose print is on the gun and I will the phone to ring to put an end to the uncertainty.
My phone lights up on my desk an unknown number.
‘Scarlett Heath speaking.’
‘It’s Gregory.’
‘Oh. Hi. Your number didn’t come up.’
‘I’m not on my own phone; the damn roaming is knackered.’
‘Roaming? Where are you?’
‘I’m in Frankfurt, baby.’
‘Frankfurt. Frankfurt, Germany?’
He chuckles. I’m not in the least bit amused. He’s hardly spoken to me for the last twenty-four hours and now he’s in bloody continental Europe.
‘Something came up and I had to fly out. I’m going to try to fly back tonight but it might be tomorrow. Depends how long things take here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Listen, that’s not the reason I called. I have some good news.’
‘Do we get good news these days?’
‘Well, good in our screwed-up way.’ He laughs and despite myself, I let out a short, sadistic chuckle. ‘The print on the Glock was Jackson’s.’
My sense of humour fails in a nanosecond. ‘That’s a good thing?’
‘Yes, angel, it means you’re not associated with the gun. John thinks it helps corroborate our story. The police know that Jackson has handled the gun in the past so it makes sense for his print to be on there. It doesn’t necessarily implicate him because it’s only one partial print; it doesn’t look like he gripped the gun. Do you see?’
‘Ah, yeah, I guess. So it doesn’t put Jackson in the frame?’
‘No. And it means no matter what the results of the ballistics report are, there’s no evidence to back up anyone else being involved. Our stories still all point to me pulling the trigger.’
Still he fails to understand why that doesn’t please me. Not even a little bit. Not at all.
‘John thinks this will be over soon, baby. He thinks the CPS will make a decision early next week.’
I sigh. ‘We need to be realistic, Gregory; that decision might not be the end – it might only be the beginning.’
‘Baby… breaking… tomorrow… tunnel.’ The line goes dead.
16
My eyes open to the indulgent sight of Gregory’s naked torso hovering above me. Messy hair and day-old stubble. The weight of his thighs resting against my pelvis and two big, brown, teddy-bear eyes staring into mine. ‘Good morning,’ he says, with that devastating half-smile.
