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“So, this is a noble cause? You hate seeing kids who spend mommy and daddy’s money on drugs dying?” he asks.

Asshole, I think, but I smile instead. “Your lack of self-awareness is truly astounding.”

Rowan doesn’t lose that self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Oh, he bites.”

I should leave.

“I don’t know who is behind it, but I’ve done a bit of digging and I know someone who can point us in the right direction.”

I pause. It’s more than I have currently, and any clue would be the first breakthrough I’ve had since I got that email.

“Who?” I ask, turning back to him.

“I’m meeting him this Friday. You want to come?”

I narrow my eyes. This feels too easy. Why is he suddenly so willing to help me?

“Don’t worry, it’s not a trap, Alex,” he says, like he read my mind.

“Then why?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve missed you.”

My heart all but stumbles to a stop, my eyes widening but his grin quickly tells me he’s fucking with me and it’s working. I school my features, balling my hands into fists and biting down whatever feeling is making my neck hot.

“Friday is too late. I’m working on a deadline.”

Even though I can’t see his eyes behind his shades, I know he wants to pry. But he won’t. We’re staying out of each other’s wayafter all and if I told him the truth, it’s more than likely he would find a way to use it against me. That’s how it works.

“Fine, tomorrow night?” he asks.

“Good with me.”

“Great, wear something pretty.”

And then he’s walking back to his car, and I have to watch him drive away, my stomach in knots. I’ve seen Rowan twice in the last three days after two years. Of course, I feel a little unbalanced, but I have to stay focused. Rowan is a means to an end, just like he was before.

Chapter Four: Alex

Itap my pen against the file in front of me. It’s a new case, something connected to wire fraud in two major banks, but I was barely paying attention when Kane briefed our team on it this morning.

My eyes fall on him now, hunched over on his desk across from me, doing the daily crossword with his fountain pen, a deep frown etched into his forehead.

“Six letters, another word for approached,” he says, blinking up at me.

At only forty, he’s already a head detective in our department, but I’ve known him for years. After the Vasilyev assignment, he took one look at me—probably saw the sadness and guilt I could never speak of—and pulled me under his wing. I never told him why, never mentioned Rowan, and he never pushed. But from that moment on, he always made sure there was a seat for me at his dinner table, alongside his wife, Tanya, and their two beautiful girls.

“Neared?” I try.

He writes it down and his lips spread into a wide grin. “Nice,” he says, “You should really try your hand at these. Good for the brain.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, absent-mindedly.

My mind won’t stop ticking. I still didn’t manage to get any decent sleep last night. Whenever I did begin to drift, I wasplunged into dreams and memories I’d rather not remember. Memories of cold nights, seedy clubs, and almost rotten food.

Around us, our floor moves in its usual panicked flurry. The voices clamour on top of each other, mixed with buzzing phones and files slapping onto desks. The permanent scent of black coffee clings to the air and seeps into any porous surface.

“You’re going to burn a hole through that file if you keep staring.”