Page 13 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

She shrugged off her coat, the chill clinging to her bones, and moved on instinct now. Hung up the coat, wiped her shoes, scanned the flat – all out of habit. Only then did she notice the slip of paper beneath the hallway table.

Meet me tomorrow at the Green Man, 6 PM. —Jack.

Her lips curved faintly. Jack Stratton. Persistent as ever.

She was used to seeing him professionally, often at a distance, but calling her directly caught her off guard.

He had always shown a knack for appearing where he wasn’t quite wanted.

They’d grown up orbiting the same circles: starchy dinners, smoky drawing rooms, debutante dances where the whisky outshone the company.

Back then, he’d been nothing more than a well-cut suit and an easy smile.

A distraction. Handsome, yes. Maddeningly confident.

But MI5? That had ruffled feathers at home and her parents had considered him unworthy.

At the time, she told herself he wasn’t her type.

Too slick. Too charming. Too nouveau riche .

Their families tolerated each other, but Jack’s wealth was recent, and Ellie had been raised to value the old kind: the landed, titled, club-approved sort.

And so she’d dismissed him with a polite smile and walked away. Clearly, he hadn’t forgotten.

Her thoughts turned to the ball, a few years ago now, and the disappointment on Jack’s face.

Back then, she told herself it didn’t matter.

But now, with the distance of time, she wondered if she’d been wrong, or simply afraid.

They had never danced again. He probably thought her a snob.

Perhaps she had been. But the truth was more complicated.

She’d been afraid of how easily he made her forget her careful upbringing, how her breath caught when he smiled at her.

Tomorrow, would she have the courage to let herself feel what she’d been too frightened to acknowledge then?

After all, the society princess who’d chosen safety over her heart was gone – replaced by someone who stood over corpses in back alleys instead of waltzing through ballrooms.

Crossing to the kitchen, she stirred Horlicks into a pan of warm milk, letting the rhythm anchor her, the one steady action in a night that had been anything but. When the drink was ready she settled at the table, opened her notebook and flipped to the coded message.

White Hart. X. IX. Echo 7. Merlin’s Eye. Kingfisher.

She stared at the words, her pulse racing. Templeton had carried these names and so had her father. And now Templeton was dead. A chill settled low in her chest. Was Pa next? She couldn’t think like that, but with Lambert now dead it was hard not to wonder.

She finished the drink, rinsed the cup and placed it on the wooden draining board, and headed to her room. But her thoughts wouldn’t settle. Ellie changed into a nightdress and climbed into bed, dragging the gold-embroidered bedspread up over her chest.

Propped against feathered pillows, notebook in her lap, she studied the words. Echo 7 . After reading Pa’s notes, she was certain now it was a location, one important enough to require access codes.

And Kingfisher – a codename? But for whom? She scribbled in the margins, chasing threads in the dark. Her pulse hadn’t eased even as warmth settled into her limbs. She glanced at Jack’s note again. What does he want?

Women weren’t meant to be in rooms where real decisions were made, at least that was what the world still seemed to believe.

Not in universities, or in intelligence, and certainly not investigating the deaths of men like Templeton and Lambert.

Well, she was in the thick of it now, and she had no intention of leaving.

But now Jack wanted to meet. A warning, perhaps? Had he known what Lambert was involved in? Had he already suspected Templeton? He’d warned her off at the crime scene, and at the time, she’d bristled. The gall of the man! But what if it wasn’t arrogance? Maybe he was genuinely concerned.

She could walk away now, let MI5 handle it and pretend Lambert’s death meant nothing. Except MI5 wasn’t handling it. Someone in their ranks was compromised, making damn sure the truth stayed buried.

Ellie’s gaze drifted back to the notebook. Two men dead and Pa’s documents tied to the same cryptic phrases. This wasn’t coincidence, it was a pattern, and Pa was somehow too close to it. Notes like that shouldn’t be lying around in an unlocked study. Her pulse quickened.

She closed the notebook and laid it beside the lamp. Tomorrow, she’d meet Jack and hear what he had to say. But she already knew one thing: she wasn’t backing down. Not now.

Lying flat beneath the bedspread, she stared at the ceiling.

If her father was caught in whatever web this was, she’d never forgive herself for doing nothing.

She would play the dutiful WPC, the one Scotland Yard tolerated but never quite trusted.

Keep her head down. Follow orders. But all the while, she’d be watching, quietly pursuing the case no one else seemed to see while keeping an even closer eye on her father.

Besides, if she let it go now, the truth would disappear, buried with Templeton and Lambert.

Someone wanted her to stay quiet, to forget what she’d seen. Well, she’d do as the propaganda poster said: Keep calm and carry on. But not for king and country. For the truth.