Page 11 of Death Kiss

‘They do when they’re on the job.’

Taking a look around the shitty pub, I can’t imagine what sort of work would take a guy like him into a place like this.

The soft drink tap splutters, dribbling out a weak flow of lemonade into the glass. It’s not often anyone chooses something other than tap-based beer or cider.

The guy doesn’t seem fazed when I put the not-so-fizzy drink down in front of him.

‘What kind of job brings you to a place like this?’ I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

‘Less what and more who,’ he says cryptically.

A chill dances up my back. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me like I’m someone he knows. Did I date this fucker and forget him? Bang his brains out on a night out and skip out before sunrise? Hell, I haven’t slept with anyone for a while, so surely he couldn’t be someone coming back to follow up on a date from more than a year ago.

‘And who would that be?’ I ask.

The foppish guy sticks his hand in his satchel, and my gut starts sending danger signals into the rest of me. I feel around below the bar for something that might be a useful weapon in case this oddball pulls out a knife, or acid, or something.

Towel? No.

A glass? Better than a towel.

Fuck.

He gives me the weirdest look as he pulls out a business card and slides it towards me.

‘Oh,’ I say, picking it up and turning it over. Frederick Baker. Frederick? Jeez.

The Chester Mail. Ah fuck. A journalist. I should have bloody known. Plenty tried to catch an interview when Sam went missing, but I thought the vultures would have quit by now.

He must read the disgust in my face as he holds his hands up and gives an apologetic smile.

‘If this is about Sam⁠—’

‘It is. I’m sorry; I know you probably don’t want to churn it all up again. I’m looking for my big break still, you know, the story, and I came across Sam’s disappearance.’

Of. Fucking. Course.

First cute guy I’ve seen since Sam absconded from my life, and he’s here to talk about my love life. Ex-love life.

‘I already told the police everything I know. Which is basically nothing. There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Sometimes things come back later, after a period of time has lapsed. Maybe there’s something you didn’t think was relevant…’

‘Unless you suspect me of chaining him up in the basement, I’m not sure what you think I’m going to be able to tell you, Frederick.’ I start aggressively washing glasses as he takes out a poncy little notebook, noticing the way he flinches when I use his name.

‘I prefer to be called Freddie.’

‘And I prefer not to be bothered by men looking to climb the ladder using other people's pain as the rungs, Frederick.’

He puts his pen down and gives me an analytical look. ‘Ellie, do you want to find out what happened to Sam?’

‘Of course I bloody do.’

‘Then what’s the harm in going over it one more time?’ Freddie tips his head a little to the left, and I can’t help but notice how fucking adorable it is. Damn. ‘Please?’

The draw of finally having answers makes it tempting. But why would this guy have them? He’s not in the police. He’s not a detective. He just reports on what happens. He knows no more than I do.

Still. I want those answers.