Page 158 of On Edge

From behind, she could be?—

No.

She stops and says something I can’t hear. Troy responds, his posture suddenly tense. Then he moves toward her without hesitation, and she embraces him, neither one caring about getting wet. Troy’s stiff at first, but even from here, in the rain and the dark, I can see the familiarity between them. Then he relaxes, shakes his head, and holds her tighter. Finally, he takes her arm and helps her to the car.

They disappear inside together.

“Miss Lovett?” Pete clears his throat. “Shall we head back?”

“Take me to the hotel.” My voice sounds distant in my ears. “Now.”

34

TROY

Eighteen months ago.

Hen and Chickens Court

Scalding Alley, Fleet Street

We always meet at the Hen and Chickens tavern, always. And I always claim the corner table farthest from the fire, where the darkness squats thick enough to drown in. It’s where I can see both doors and the narrow stairs leading to the rooms above.

This is the kind of establishment where the wrong word will get you a broken bottle between the ribs. But the owner of this dive, who knows me only as Sweeney, more often than not keeps my table clear, because the nights when I’m around, no one dares to break anything. And no one bothers us, especially her, because they know she’s with me. But I couldn’t give a fuck about that now.

She’s late.

Nell is never late.

I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes. 8:45. She should have been here an hour ago.

Where the hell is she?

These last few months, we’ve fallen into a rhythm. Every Tuesday, she brings me fragments of evidence—ledgers, letters, witness names. All pieces of the puzzle that will prove Richard Lovett orchestrated the fire that killed my family, and finally clear the name Swanley, if I want to take it that far.

I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do when it comes to that. Burn it? Give it to the damn pigs and see it disappear.

I don’t care.

But she seems to want to do this, and for some Godforsaken reason, I’ve not put a stop to it yet.

This girl, who hired me to kill him and then decided to help me destroy him, is like an angel sent from heaven to make my hell worth living. Each time I see her, I find myself taking in everything about her—the way she bites her lower lip when she’s nervous, how her eyes light up when she’s won some verbal sparring match against me I didn’t even know I was playing, the slight blush she makes whenever I tell her there’s flour on her face after coming here straight from the bakery where she works.

I’m addicted to the shape of her laugh, the scent of her hair when she leans close to show me things she’s discovered, even the way she takes me in, like I’m someone worth risking everything for.

Dangerous ground for an ex-con, a killer, and a dead man all rolled into one.

Finally, the door scrapes open, letting in a blast of cold air. My hand moves instinctively to the razor in my pocket, but then I see a flash of blonde and the designer coat that’s become as familiar as my own blades, and I let out a sigh of relief.

But it’s short-lived.

Nell stumbles inside, and immediately, I know something’s wrong.

She’s breathing too hard, her coat’s buttoned up incorrectly, and she didn’t even bother to wear a hat today. That and there’s a wild energy about her that sets every one of my teeth on edge. When her eyes find mine across the dim pub, they’re not filled with her usual determination.

They’re blazing, lit up from within like she’s won the goddam lottery.

She hurries over. Before I can stand and ask what the hell’s happened, she’s throwing herself into my arms with enough force that my chair tips backward. Her cheeks are ice, and her hands are cold as they draw me to her, and then her mouth is on mine.