The other man, irritated: “The timing is what it is. My client needs this resolved before the appeals hearing. That's three weeks.”
“Three weeks doesn't give me much room to manoeuvre.”
“You've manoeuvred with less. The witness statement needs to disappear. The forensic review needs to conclude there's insufficient evidence for reconsideration. That's what we're paying for.”
“And if I can't deliver?”
“Then we find someone who can.” A pause. “Don't test me on this, Elliot. We've been generous. We've been patient. But generosity has limits.”
Footsteps. I moved before they could exit, slipping into a service alcove, pressing myself flat against the wall as they passed. The old-money man left first, face impassive. Harrow followed thirty seconds later, already smiling again, already sliding back into the performance.
I pulled out my phone, opened the voice recording app, and played back what I'd captured. Clear enough. Usable. Not definitive proof of bribery but strong circumstantial evidence when combined with everything else I had.
I saved the file, backed it up to three different cloud services, then deleted it from the phone. Paranoia, maybe. But paranoia had kept me alive this long.
Back in the main gallery, the speeches had started. Harrow stood at a podium, backlit by carefully positioned lights that made him look like something holy. He talked about justice. About victims. About the responsibility prosecutors carried to speak for those who couldn't speak for themselves.
He was good. I'd give him that. If I didn't know what he was, I might have believed it.
The crowd applauded. Someone near me wiped tears. I stood there cataloguing faces, memorising names from name tags, building the web of connections in my mind where it would live in perfect detail forever.
That was when Harrow's gaze found mine.
It happened mid-sentence. He was talking about a case, about bringing closure to a grieving family, and his eyes swept the room in that practiced way politicians did when they wanted to appear engaged. Then they stopped. On me. And something shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not anger. Just recognition.
The temperature in the room dropped.
Harrow's smile never faltered. He finished his sentence, got his applause, and moved smoothly into the next point. But his eyes tracked back to me twice more before the speech ended, and each time felt like being marked.
I needed to leave. But leaving now would confirm his suspicions, would make me look guilty of something worth chasing. So I stayed. Listened to the rest of his performance.Applauded when the crowd did. Played the role of anonymous attendee who had every right to be here.
When the speeches ended and people started moving toward the bar, I disappeared.
Not obvious about it. Just drifted toward the exit with a group of other guests, blended into the flow, walked out into Mayfair night air that tasted like temporary freedom.
The street was empty except for tourists and late-night shoppers, but that didn't mean anything. Surveillance had evolved past obvious tails. Could be cameras. Could be tracking software on my phone. Could be someone patient enough to stay far enough back that I wouldn't notice.
I took the long route home. Changed directions six times. Ducked into a pub, exited through the back. By the time I reached my flat, I was reasonably certain I was alone.
Reasonably wasn't good enough, but it would have to do.
Inside, I locked the door, checked the windows, swept for bugs I knew probably weren't there but might be. Paranoia again. But the look on Harrow's face had rattled me more than I wanted to admit.
He knew I was hunting him. And if he knew that, he'd start hunting me.
My phone rang. Different number this time. I recognised it: Bishop.
“Talk,” I said.
“You need to be more careful.” Bishop's voice was flat. Professional. The tone he used when things were about to get complicated. “You were seen tonight. Harrow's people are asking questions.”
“Let them ask.”
“They're not just asking, Cal. They're moving. One of your contacts flipped. Martin Cross. He called me an hour ago, said he can't help you anymore, said it's not worth the risk.”
Martin. The courthouse clerk who'd been feeding me information about sealed files for eighteen months. Reliable. Fearful, but reliable. If he'd gone cold, it meant Harrow had gotten to him. Threatened him or paid him or convinced him that silence was safer than cooperation.
“Did he say what changed?” I asked.
