The decision was made for her when there was a knock, and Dawn poked her head around the office door looking none too happy.
“I’m afraid there’s a problem,” she said, half-whispering.
Sloan felt the first stirrings of a headache. “What now?”
“The Boston office has lost all access to their system. They can’t send over the weekly reports or those new SOPs we are waiting on.”
“Which means,” Sloan said flatly, “I’m going to be stuck here waiting until they do, or risk putting everything on hold.”
So much for Kent.
Dawn smiled and nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee and a sandwich from that place you like. They said they’d bring it over shortly.”
“Right. Thank you.” Sloan glanced at her watch —almost five. “You might as well get going. I can finish up and deal with Boston if anything else comes up.”
“Are you sure? I can stay for—”
Sloan waved a hand. “No. It’s fine. Thank you.”
Dawn smiled. “Okay. I’ll pack up, then. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.”
Sloan watched the door close behind Dawn and let out a low groan as she picked up the phone to arrange for the carer to stay another couple of hours.
At least there would be coffee.
Chapter two
Matty Bradford skated down the high street, slipping through the morning crowd as if the pavement had made room just for her. Music thumped through her headphones as she twisted between bodies, all loose limbs and instinct. Wheels were the only thing that had ever made sense to her.
Maybe it was because she’d spent most of her life on them. Her parents had wanted an Olympic ice skater—something elegant, disciplined, worth showing off—but Matty had always been happier off the ice, and on wheels instead of blades. Less polished. Less graceful, probably. But freer—more herself.
She’d been skating in one form or another for as long as she could remember, and at nearly thirty-six, some people might have thought the wheels on her feet were ridiculous. Matty had long since stopped caring what those types of small-minded people thought.
These days, it wasn’t just a hobby either. Skating to work saved money, and money was always on her mind since the divorce.
Most of what she earned vanished on her extortionate rent. She lived in a pokey room in a shared house, with a part-time drug dealer and a woman Matty still couldn’t quite work out, who was forever disappearing into the night with “friends”. They were both nice enough, even if the whole arrangement was a little bit shady.
What was left after paying rent had to cover food, the odd pint, and the occasional attempt at pretending she had something resembling a life. Saving a few quid on bus fares helped, and tips mattered more than ever.
The chance for tips was one of the reasons she didn’t mind working the two jobs she currently had.
Five days a week, she did the late-morning-to-afternoon café shift at Compton’s. Friday and Saturday nights, she worked the bar at Art. Sundays were sacred—no work, no people, no thinking too hard about anything. She liked the plan of her week—predictable, with just enough fun to stop it feeling too grim.
On café mornings, when she arrived at Compton’s, she could literally roll in, kick off her skates, and get stuck into clearing tables and prepping for the inevitable midday crowd.
“Morning.” She beamed, rolling past the last customers in line and waving at Sharna and Kareem.
“Hey,” they called back without looking up, too busy to stop.
The café smelled of burnt coffee, warm milk, and toasted sourdough, with the faint, sugary aroma of pastries clinging to the air. The worst of the morning rush had passed, but the place still held thatjust-survivedfeeling—tables needing wiped, cups stacked by the sink, the floor marked with damp footprints and the odd oat-milk splash.
In the tiny space they jokingly called the staff room, Matty untied her skates and stepped out of them, losing several inches of height as she slid on a pair of Vans pulled from her rucksack. She tugged her apron over her head, shoved her headphones into her bag, and quickly ran her fingers through her hair before checking her reflection in the scratched metal back of a locker.
Good enough.
That was the thing about Compton’s—nobody expected polish. You turned up, pulled your weight, and didn’t act like a dick. Everything else was negotiable.
