“Find what you needed?” the clerk asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” I handed him paperwork he wouldn't read closely, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the disappointment churning in my gut. “We appreciate your assistance.”
He led us back through corridors, through security checkpoints, out into London afternoon that felt like freedom and trap simultaneously. We walked three blocks before either of us spoke.
“Someone's following us,” Dom said quietly.
I'd noticed two blocks ago. Two men. Professional spacing. Not trying particularly hard to hide. “They want us to know.”
“Warning.”
“Demonstration of reach.” I kept walking, used reflective windows to track our tail. “They're not going to move here. Too public. But they want us aware that we're being watched.”
“Your partner's file,” Dom said. “The fact that it's not there—that tells us something too.”
“That they're thorough. That whatever James found was dangerous enough to erase completely.” My jaw tightened. “Or that it's stored somewhere else. Somewhere we haven't found yet.”
“We'll find it.”
“Maybe.” I pulled out a burner phone, sent a text to a number I'd memorised. “Right now we focus on what we did find. We have proof Harrow deleted evidence. That's leverage. That's something we can use.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet someone. A forensic pathologist. She owes me truth more than she owes Harrow silence.” I watched our tail in a shop window's reflection. “She'll meet us at St. Bartholomew's. Public space. Safe enough.”
The hospital wasfifteen minutes by foot. Our tail stayed with us the entire way, maintaining distance but making no attempt at subtlety. By the time we reached the courtyard where I'd arranged the meeting, my spine was tight with awareness and Dom's hands kept flexing like he was resisting the urge to turn around and confront them.
Dr. Elara Quinn was exactly where I'd asked her to be. Seated on a bench, wearing scrubs under a jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a style that suggested twelve-hour shifts and too much coffee. She stood when she saw me, her expression wary.
“Cal. You said this was urgent.”
“It is. Dr. Quinn, this is Dominic Rourke. Lily Rourke's brother.”
Her expression shifted. Guilt maybe. “Mr. Rourke. I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Tell me what you know,” Dom said. Voice controlled but carrying undercurrent of barely restrained violence.
Dr. Quinn glanced around, checking for observers, then sat back down heavily. “I've spent three years trying to forget what I know.”
“Then remember,” I said, sitting beside her. Dom remained standing, looming, his presence making her nervous in ways I needed to manage. “Please. We found evidence today that Harrow deleted security footage. We need to understand what he was hiding.”
She was silent for a long moment, wrestling with professional ethics and personal conscience. Then she exhaled, and when she spoke, her voice carried the weight of secrets she'd carried too long.
“The forensic report I submitted wasn't the one that went into evidence. It was edited. Key findings removed. Timeline adjusted to match the husband's confession instead of the actual physical evidence.”
My chest tightened. “What did your original report say?”
“That Lily Rourke's injuries weren't consistent with a domestic altercation. The bruising patterns suggested restraint by multiple people. The head trauma was too precise, too controlled. And the timeline didn't work. She'd been dead at least three hours before the 911 call. The husband's story about a fight that escalated suddenly didn't match the pathology.”
Dom made a sound. Low. Wounded.
“Why didn't you report this?” I asked.
“I did. To my supervisor. Who told me to revise my findings. When I refused, I was told the report would be revised with or without my cooperation, and my employment would be terminated if I made an issue of it.” Her hands twisted together. “I'm not proud of backing down. But I have student loans. A mortgage. A daughter. I couldn't afford to lose my job over a case that was already decided.”
“Who ordered the revision?” Dom's voice was barely human.
“I don't know. The pressure came through administrative channels. But Harrow was copied on every communication. He knew the report was being altered. Probably ordered it himself.”
