Page 1 of Border Control

ONE

LAURA

Today feelslike it’s out to get me.

My hair, usually tamed into something resembling order, flies loose and wild, strands sticking to my cheeks as I push them out of my eyes. The strike of my Christian Louboutin heels ring on the pavement like gunshots as I hurry down the street, my work bag sliding across my hip. One glance at my watch makes my stomach sink. Shit. Late. Today of all days, when I’m supposed to be the calm, professional face in the room.

“Fuck it all,” I mutter, and push harder. My pulse races from more than just the walk.

I’ve got my eyes on the damn second hand ticking around my Dior watch when I slam into someone, hard. The lid flies off my coffee, splattering brown heat across both of us.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—” My throat catches, the words colliding. I open my bag to check my files. Phew, they aren’t soaked. The paper cup is crumpled in my hand, dribbling more coffee down my sleeve. My shirt is drenched.

My heart won’t slow. I can’t breathe right.

“Fucking hell!” the finance bro I smacked into yells, glaring at me up and down before marching away. He can afford a dry clean.

I shoulder past other commuters, forcing myself to keep going. Faster, faster. Just a few more steps and I’ll be in the building. If I hurry, I can get to the bathroom and salvage some semblance of control. I have a spare shirt there, too.

A hand grabs my arm. Hard.

Yanks me sideways.

I stumble, the rest of my things crashing to the ground. The world shrinks to brick walls, litter, the sour smell of rot, and a guy with lank hair. My stomach lurches.

“Let me go!” I wrench against his grip.

He doesn’t release me. His dark eyes are wild, bloodshot. His hands tighten, desperate, like he’s on a cliff edge. “You’re working the case, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at the pre-inquiry shit.”

My chest squeezes. His face clicks into place: he’s been outside the hearings before, always at the back, carrying two little boys with him.

What does he want?

His voice shakes. “She… she’s gone. She couldn’t handle the accusations, the… the news called it ‘From Carer to Criminal’.”

The stutter in my lungs intensifies. “Who?”

“My fiancée.” His voice turns harsher, sharp with the edge of pain. “My soulmate.”

Adrenaline courses through me, focusing my thoughts. He’s mid-thirties, and of the one hundred and eighty six women affected, sixty percent were in their late twenties to mid-thirties. Images flicker in my memory: people smiling, living normal, happy lives. Men and women, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. The pictures of the victimsbefore, when their lives were normal and their careers as carers blooming, people with bright futures.

Before this travesty.

The faces of the two small boys pull up in my memory. Freckles and dimples. “Alice,” I blurt. “Alice Hampton. You’re her husband, Liam Hampton, right?”

His face crumples, as if even hearing her name is too much. Or maybe enough. “You knew her?”

“No. I know her case notes, though.” I know all of them only through paper.

Bowing his head, Liam takes a shuddering breath which vibrates through his harsh grip. “I… I can’t work, I only see her face. The boys, I… I haven’t got anything to feed them.”

I swallow, my pulse still a frantic drum. He could be here to blame me. He could be here to beg. Either way, the ache in his voice cuts straight through the defenses I put up every morning.

“They say you’re going to lose,” he says. “Fucking Accu-time say it’s all within tolerance for a software error.”

That snaps me out of my shock. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

He blinks at my vehemence.