I shake my head and swallow against a huge lump that clogs my throat. My eyes widen in surprise at the strong reaction I’m having at hearing this titbit of information.
Of course he’s being backed by someone, he would have to be, but Luca Knight? The man who wanted to try to take back control of the UK’s cocaine industry. The man that was part of the Covenant, the man that is a dangerous criminal.
Why him? Why not someone…honest?
“I’m nothing like them.” He recoils. “If you saw what was on that hard drive, the things these people have done—”
“What hard drive?” Andrews asks, interrupting.
Blood whooshes through my ears, heat spreading up my neck like someone has lit a fire in the pit of my stomach. An acid fire.
Why do I care so much? Why do I care he got money from Luca Knight?
Of course, I know why.
Owen was right about Andrews; he did take advantage of me. He takes advantage of the broken system to line his pocket. But so do millions of others.
What other choice did I have? I was desperate, and desperate people do anything to survive. So, I got in that car with Andrews on that fateful night and my life changed. At least Andrews is honest about what he is.
But Owen.
I so wanted to believe that he was different. That he could be the change that the young Lucy and Owen needed.
That he could be the hope this country needs, that spark of change.
But he isn’t.
He’s just like the rest of them.
A liar being backed by some corrupt arsehole that can pull the strings.
There’s something mesmerising about fire.
The way the flames dance in the fireplace, the logs crackling softly in the silence of the room. The golden light casting shadows that leap on the walls in perfect synchronicity to the flickering flames.
You’d think with my history of the naked flame I’d hate fire more, but I don’t. How can you hate something so beautiful?
Andrews’ hand appears before me, lightly swirling a glass filled with whiskey. The deep, rich smell of the amber fills my nose.
“Fettercairn, twenty-eight-year-old single malt whiskey. This is £750 a bottle, so don’t be obtuse and take the darn thing. You look like shit.”
“Gee, Thanks.” But I don’t argue. I’m too drained to argue. I take the glass out of his hand and lean back against the wing-backed chair.
“For the record, this room is a fucking cliché. I’m half expecting you to pull out a cigar and be wearing a smoking jacket.”
Andrews sits in the deep red leather chair that sits next to mine, both facing the fireplace. A small lamp sits in the corner, but other than that, the only light source is the fire. Behind us is an enormous billiard table.
The walls dark and moody, with floor to ceiling bookcases wrapping one corner made in a dark wood.
His game/library room.
“You never said you had this place,” I comment.
“We all have our secrets,” he says, staring at me, the light of the flame dancing in his eyes. “You’re distracted.”
“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner.”
“And being petulant with it, I see.”
