No one would dare to bring it up in front of my dad, let alone in his house during the holidays, but I needed to see what they did.
Livie was on maternity leave, though still in the loop, and was trying to get information on the inquiry into me. I was yet to be questioned officially, and Dad had told me not to bother.
But even if I wanted the job at Ciclati — which I was trying not to think or ask about, because my fragile heart couldn’t learn that wasn’t a possibility anymore — I couldn’t start while I was still under investigation.
As the bus pulled up at my stop, it started to rain, and I zipped up my coat, slid past the person next to me, and held on for dear life, my arm hooked around the pole as the bus jerked. The December nights were always cold, but the rain had a habit of falling just as I started my walk home.
Like it had got into the same numb routine as me.
I was two steps off the bus when it drove off, andthe car behind it flashed me twice.
Nope.I was not getting murdered on Christmas Eve.
A flash of memory hit me, and I screwed my eyes shut, not trying to visualise it, more trying to kick it out, but there I was again, in front of that crunky old motel, my body aching not from the long shift, but a long car journey.
“You’ve brought me here to murder me, haven’t you?”
Laughter. “Not tonight. I’m too tired.”
I bit down on my lip until I tasted iron.
Another flash of lights.
I pulled out the keyring knuckle duster Luca had bought me and approached the car with fury in my steps. I could cut a bitch. I had it in me.
The passenger door opened, a tanned hand waved me in, and a French accent called, “Come on, little Bacque.”
The voice alone made me relax.
It was Nix in a red and green Christmas jumper.
I threw myself into the warmth of his luxury car, shivering off the cold and my hood.
He laughed, pulling into gear. “Can’t have you walking in the rain at Christmas, Fia. How was work?”
I told him, trying not to sound as miserable as I felt, putting a little spring in my words.
He side-eyed me with a curled lip. “Right. We’ve got to get you back in Ciclati. That won’t do.”
“It’s not normally so bad,” I lied, putting my keys and the knuckle duster in my pocket.
“Tell me one thing you’ve learned since starting last month,” he demanded as we raced through the country lanes. You could take the man off the track, but youcouldn’t take the track out of the man.
I should have learned something. A term or a word or…
“Nothing. But until the investigation is over, they wouldn’t even consider letting me back, and—and I haven’t finished my master’s and—”
“Fuck the master’s,” he grunted. “Fia, give yourself the credit you deserve. StormSprint isn’t admin. It isn’t sitting behind a desk. It isn’t unruly clients and difficult surgeons who look down their noses at you. It’s racing. It’s fast. You travel the world. You’re you.” He sighed. “You were amazing. Still are. You owned that conference. You don’t need a master’s to prove it — you were already doing the job.”
And letting myself get walked all over.
I shrank back into the seat, wrapping my coat tight around myself despite the warm blowers.
“You don’t look well,” he offered. “And it’s not just the English weather.”
“Thanks, Nix.”
“You spoken to anyone from StormSprint since leaving?” he asked, his voice lighter with false curiosity. He wasn’t asking about just anyone.
