Page 137 of Convict's Game

Breathless, I jammed my fingers into my hair and tried to push the scene out. Nighttime, yes. Late enough that the streets were dead. Salt air. Holy shit. Leith? The scenery filled in. It was a dockside building. I knew the street.

That was enough.

The sickness inside me spread. What if the money was worse than a bribe? What if it was a payout for fucking trafficking?

I had to fill in the gaps, the importance of it overriding every other sense. A quick glance at the time told me I had three hours before I needed to be back for the meeting. Just enough time to make the trip and force the rest of the damning scene to the fore.

I pocketed my keys. Stooped to kiss Mila on the forehead.

The notepad I’d used was on the coffee table, and I scrawled a quick message.

Be back soon. I won’t miss the meeting.

Then I was gone.

A little over an hour later, and I rolled into the town of my birth, my manic rush and the early morning giving me a clear run up the coast. I passed Ocean Drive where Arran and I had walked, and drove onto Dock Place, crossing a bridge that led to where theEdenhad been moored.

Outside a huge warehouse, I exited the car and stared up at the white letters on the red frontage.Marchant Haulage.

The memory blurred then gripped me once again.

It was here I’d come to pick up the woman, her dark hair half hiding her terrified eyes.

Horror chilled me, and I stumbled closer, gaining more slivers of a picture as I moved. It was a job for the Four Milers. They’d sent me.

I swallowed. Maybe this wasn’t on me. I’d been undercover for Arran. But fucking trafficking?

She’d trembled in the cold, so I’d stayed gentle and calm, offering her a coat that she refused. I couldn’t identify the grim-faced man who’d escorted her out, but I’d delivered her to the Four Milers’ brothel, assuming she was a sex worker.

Wait.

Something had happened before that.

I crossed the yard and approached the brick building, setting my hand to the cold wall, just like I’d done in the not-too-distant past.

While waiting for the woman to come out, I’d searched for the warehouse’s name, typing Marchant Haulage into my browser. It brought back Mila’s face. Not the sad funeral shot as she hadn’t been bereaved at that point, but a happy one with her grandfather. I’d flipped through more, instantly hooked on the beautiful woman.

Holy shit, I was wrong in thinking I knew her. Nor had she lied to me.

Hers was just one of the last faces I’d seen as that was probably the evening where everything had gone to hell.

My elation curled in my gut and soured, the cold light of day exposing a damning fact. Last night, I’d implied that her grandfather might be a people trafficker. Now, I was ninety-nine percent certain it was true.

How the hell did I tell her?

She’d hate me for it. She’d hate me more if I lied.

She’d despise me if that money I’d been given was for more than the undercover work.

“If you’re here to steal, you’re out of luck.”

A voice cut through my thoughts, and I jerked around to see a man approach. I squinted in recognition. He was the son of the Marchant-Smythes, the one who’d been playing video games in the daytime like a fucking teenager when Mila and I visited his parents. Preston? Wesley? Fuck if I could remember his name.

“Everything is locked down tight,” he continued. “Protected from thieving chavs like you.”

At whatever my expression had shifted into, he gave a mocking laugh, his fingers moving over his phone. “You didn’t think I recognised you when you showed up with Mila? What are you, muscle to protect her? Definitely not a boyfriend. Not for someone like her with a stick so far up her ass she can sweep the floor. Does she know what kind of scum you really are?”

I’d missed something with this guy.