“The boys said they had some intelligence come in,” he said casually. Too casually. “A few days ago.”
My stomach tightened. The boys. Dad’s old team. He’d retired years ago, but he’d never truly left the force. They were always there. At the end of the phone, at the pub, calling round his house to see what he knew about this person and that. The Police needed him just as much as he needed them.
I kept my gaze on the far wall. “About what?”
“About you.”
There it was. I felt it land, heavy and deliberate, but I didn’t react. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him anything.
“Apparently,” he continued, “you were seen in a place you shouldn’t have been.”
A beat. He waited. But we’d played this game before, and I was good at it. My eyes stayed on the wall.
“The Kings’ clubhouse,” he said. And now I knew I was in the shit.
Didn’t matter how old I was now. It didn’t matter that I had my own house, my own income. I knew I was in hot water. My fingers curled slightly in my lap. Not enough to notice unless you were looking for it. And he was always looking.
“I went to see a friend,” I said, keeping my voice level. Bored, even. Like it didn’t matter, because he’d detect the slightest note of anxiety. The slightest hint of uncertainty. He always did.
“Did you?”
I turned then, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”
He held it for a second longer than necessary. Measuring. Calculating. Like he was deciding how far to push it. Or how much he already knew. Or waiting for me to panic and spill everything. I no longer panicked. Now I was almost as measured as he was. The silence between us thickened, pressing in. In the distance, a voice rose suddenly; sharp, confused, before being gently soothed back down by someone else.
My chest tightened and I looked away first.
“Are they bringing her through soon?” I asked, nodding vaguely towards the corridor.
“Shortly.”
Shortly.
That could mean anything in here. Five minutes. Twenty. An hour if she was unsettled. I swallowed, my gaze dropping to my hands. Last time she hadn’t known who I was. The time before that she had. Briefly. A flicker of recognition that had lit something fragile in my chest before it disappeared just as quickly. I didn’t know which was worse. Remembering. Or not.
I reached for my phone again before I could stop myself, the screen lighting up in my hand. Still nothing. Of course there wasn’t. A familiar pressure built in my chest, tight and unwelcome. Not panic. Not quite. Not yet. Something else. Something I recognised from years ago.
I shifted again, crossing one leg over the other, trying to shake it off. Trying not to think about the way he’d looked at me. The way he’d said my name.
Grey.
My throat tightened. I pressed my lips together, hard enough to feel it.
“You’d do well to be careful, Sophie,” my father said quietly beside me.
I didn’t look at him this time.
“Those aren’t people you want to associate with.”
A pause.
“Trust me.”
Something cold slid down my spine at that.
Trust me.
I stared straight ahead, the hum of the building settling around me, pressing in. I didn’t trust him. Not about this. Not about any of it. And I didn’t think I trusted myself either.
