8
GRAVE TRUTHS
DOMINIC
The text came through while I was three sets into deadlifts at Rafe's gym, chalk dust coating my hands and sweat soaking through my shirt. An unknown number. I almost deleted it without reading, but something made me stop.
Pub near Embankment. The Anchor. Noon. Come alone. We need to talk about your sister.
My grip tightened on the barbell hard enough to make my knuckles crack. The weight felt suddenly irrelevant, the routine I'd built to keep myself grounded dissolving into white noise that couldn't compete with the roar building in my skull.
Your sister.
I set the barbell down with more force than necessary, grabbed my phone, and stared at the message like it might reveal something beyond the words on the screen. No name. No explanation. Just a location and a demand and the two words that could make me stupid faster than anything else in the world.
I should have ignored it. Should have deleted the message and gone back to my training and pretended some stranger hadn't just weaponised my grief to pull me into a meeting. But my hands were already moving, towel around my neck, gym bag over my shoulder, car keys pulled from my locker with the numbness of someone who'd stopped thinking and started reacting.
Rafe looked up from the front desk as I passed. “Leaving early?”
“Something came up.”
“You alright?”
“Fine.” The lie tasted familiar. I'd been telling it for three years. “Just need to handle something.”
He didn't push. Rafe understood boundaries better than most, understood that men who lifted the way I did were usually running from things that couldn't be outpaced but could be temporarily buried under iron and discipline.
I drove through London on autopilot, mind working through possibilities. Who had my number. Who knew about Lily. Who would be bold enough or stupid enough to use her death as bait. The answer crystallised with uncomfortable clarity somewhere around Westminster Bridge.
Cal.
My jaw tightened. If he thought using my sister to manipulate me was smart strategy, he was about to learn exactly how wrong he was.
The Anchor sat tuckedbetween newer buildings near Embankment station, a pub that had survived gentrification through sheer stubborn refusal to update anything beyond thebeer selection. Dark wood, low ceilings, booths built for privacy rather than comfort. The lunch crowd hadn't started yet, leaving the space mostly empty except for a few regulars nursing pints and ignoring each other with practised skill.
Cal sat in the back corner, positioned so he could see both entrances and the street beyond the windows. Exits mapped, angles covered, the posture of someone who'd learned to always know his way out. He looked different in a place like this — less like the ghost who'd appeared in shadowed corridors and more like someone who existed in the real world with all its harsh edges and unforgiving clarity. A dark jacket over a fitted shirt. Hair slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. Those mismatched eyes tracking my approach with assessment that felt both clinical and hungry.
He didn't stand when I reached the table. Just gestured to the seat across from him with one hand while the other stayed wrapped around a pint glass, his fingers loose but ready.
“You came,” he said. No surprise. Just acknowledgment.
“You used my sister to get me here.” I sat, didn't bother hiding the anger threading through my words. “That was a mistake.”
“Was it? You're here, aren't you?” His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “Sit down, Dom. You're drawing attention, and I'd rather keep this conversation quiet.”
“Start talking. You've got five minutes before I decide whether this was worth my time.”
“Charming.” He took a sip of his pint and set it down with deliberate care. “Though I suppose charm isn't required for what we need to discuss. Just honesty. Think you can manage that?”
“I can manage a lot of things. Including walking out of here if you keep wasting my time.”
“Fair.” He leaned back. “Let's skip the posturing then. I know about your sister. Lily Rourke. Died three years ago. Domesticviolence case prosecuted by Harrow. Husband confessed, got convicted, everything wrapped up neatly in six weeks.”
Hearing her name from his mouth made something twist in my chest. “How did you know her name? How did you know about the case?”
“I'm a private investigator. Finding information is what I do.” His gaze stayed level, unflinching. “And Harrow's cases are my speciality. When your sister's name appeared in sealed files connected to him, I took notice.”
“You've been investigating Harrow.”
