“This one has bodies instead of weak points. Your partner found that out.” His gaze sharpened. “That's what this is about, isn't it? Still hunting the people who killed James.”
Hearing my partner's name out loud made my chest tight. “I'm hunting the corruption that protected his killers.”
“Same thing in Harrow's world. He doesn't pull triggers. He just makes sure the people who do never face consequences.” He pulled a thin folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table. “Everything I could gather without alerting anyone to the search. Case files, sealed evidence, witness statements that never made it to trial. It's not comprehensive — most of Harrow's work stays buried — but it's a start.”
I opened the folder. Names, dates, case numbers, familiar and foreign simultaneously, my memory beginning to catalogueautomatically, cross-referencing against patterns I'd been tracking for three years.
Then I saw it. Buried on page six. A case that had closed with suspicious speed.
Lily Rourke. Deceased. Domestic violence homicide. Suspect: Ethan Pierce (husband). Conviction secured. Presiding prosecutor: Elliot Harrow.
My blood went cold. Rourke. The connection snapped into focus like a door slamming shut.
“What do you know about this case?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“Lily Rourke?” Bishop frowned. “Standard domestic violence case on the surface. Husband confessed, got convicted, everything tied up neatly. Except the timeline was compressed — investigation lasted four days, confession came on day three, trial wrapped in six weeks. For a case involving a death, that's unusually fast.”
“Why the rush?”
“That's what I couldn't determine. No obvious political pressure. The victim wasn't connected to anyone important. Her husband was middle management at a financial firm, nothing special. The only anomaly was Harrow's personal involvement — he usually delegates domestic cases, but he prosecuted this one himself.”
“Who was asking for it to be closed quickly?”
“If I knew that, I'd have included it in the file.” Bishop leaned back. “But someone wanted Lily Rourke's death resolved fast and final. Someone with enough influence to make Harrow personally ensure the narrative stayed clean.”
Dom's sister. Murdered. A case closed by Harrow. Dom wasn't a complication anymore — he was a living pressure point in a story Harrow had been protecting for years.
“I need access to the sealed evidence,” I said.
“That's not information. That's criminal activity.”
“You've facilitated worse.”
“For clients who pay better.” His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. “But I'll make an exception this time, because watching you go after Harrow has entertainment value. The archive you want is in the basement of the Old Bailey — court records, sealed evidence, files that officially don't exist. Access requires a judge's order or someone willing to bypass security.”
“I'm listening.”
“There's a clerk. Evelyn Cross. She's been there thirty years, knows where everything's buried, and has principles that make her exploitable if you frame the request correctly. Tell her you're investigating judicial corruption. Show her enough proof to make her believe you. She'll get you in.”
“And if she reports me?”
“Then you'll have bigger problems than Harrow.” He finished his whisky and stood. “Be careful, Cal. You're poking at something that's killed better investigators than you. And from what I hear, you've already attracted attention you can't afford.”
“Word gets around fast.”
“It does when you stop being subtle.” He adjusted his cufflinks without looking down. “You've made enemies. Make sure you know which ones matter before they decide you're too dangerous to leave operational.”
He walked out. I sat alone with the folder, reading through cases my memory would hold in full within the hour, building the architecture of Harrow's corruption one sealed file at a time,Lily Rourke's name sitting at the centre of it all like something waiting to explode.
I metEvelyn Cross at a coffee shop three blocks from the courthouse at 4:17 p.m. She looked exactly like someone who'd spent three decades filing humanity's worst moments — careful eyes, a stillness that came from long practice with difficult information.
“Mr. Mercer.” She didn't offer her hand, just studied me with the assessment of someone who'd learned to spot liars. “Bishop said you were investigating judicial corruption.”
“Specifically, cases where evidence was sealed without proper justification.”
“That describes half the cases that come through the Old Bailey.”
“I'm focused on one prosecutor. Elliot Harrow.”
