9
UNINVITED
CALLAHAN
I'd been sitting in my car outside a Canary Wharf office building for three hours, watching the twentieth-floor windows where Damian Holloway supposedly worked late every night preparing reports. His wife thought he was shagging his assistant. I thought she was probably right, but proving it required patience and a willingness to drink terrible coffee while cataloguing the movements of people who thought tinted windows made them invisible.
My camera sat ready on the passenger seat, the long lens pointed at the building, settings adjusted for low light. The payout was good. Simple infidelity case. Boring but necessary.
I checked my watch and Holloway's office light was still on. The curtains were still open, giving me clear sight lines to his desk where he sat with someone who definitely wasn't his assistant unless his assistant had started wearing short skirts and sitting on desks in ways that suggested familiarity beyond professional.
I raised the camera, adjusted the focus and started shooting.
Then my passenger door opened.
My knife was at the intruder's throat before conscious thought could catch up to reflex. I'd moved on pure instinct, camera forgotten, blade pressed against warm skin hard enough to dimple flesh without breaking it. My other hand had fisted in their jacket, dragging them close enough that I could smell their cologne.
Sandalwood. Leather. Clean sweat.
Dom didn't flinch. Didn't pull back. Just met my gaze with those pale eyes and raised one eyebrow like I'd done something mildly interesting instead of threatening to open his carotid.
“Evening,” he said. Voice calm. Conversational.
I held the position for three more seconds, heart rate spiking, adrenaline flooding my system. Then I withdrew the knife, folded it closed with practised ease, and tucked it back into my jacket.
“Don't do that again,” I said.
“Do what? Get in your car, or make you pull a weapon on me?”
“Both.” I set the knife aside, turned to properly look at him. He filled the passenger seat the way mountains filled valleys—inevitably, unapologetically, making everything else feel smaller by comparison. “How did you find me?”
“You're not as careful as you think you are.”
“I would have noticed a tail.”
“You were distracted.”
His gaze moved across my car's interior with systematic attention. The empty coffee cups in the centre console—three, four, I'd lost count. Energy bar wrappers on the floor. A half-eaten sandwich from yesterday wedged between the seats, forgotten. Files stacked on the back seat beside my laptop, papers sliding everywhere. “When's the last time you ate something that wasn't processed sugar and caffeine?”
“This morning.”
“Try again.” His eyes came back to my face, taking in details I'd rather he didn't notice. Whatever he saw made his jaw tighten. “You look exhausted.”
“I'm fine.”
“You pulled a knife on me because you didn't hear me approach. That's not fine. That's running on empty and instinct.” He shifted in the seat, somehow making the confined space feel even smaller. “When did you last sleep?”
“I sleep fine.”
“You have bruises under your eyes dark enough that I can see them in streetlight. Your hands are shaking.” He gestured at the coffee cups. “And judging by the state of this car, you've been living out of it.”
“I've been working.”
“You've been avoiding going home because work is easier than stopping.” His voice stayed level but carried weight. “How long, Cal?”
I wanted to lie. Wanted to insist I was functional, perfectly capable of managing my own needs. But Dom was looking at me with that particular expression that suggested he'd sit here all night until I admitted the truth.
“Couple days,” I said finally. “Maybe. Time blurs when you're tracking patterns.”
