Page 57 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

E llie took the steps two at a time, the keys clenched in her hand. The door to the flat creaked open as it always did, a familiar sound that once meant home, safety. Now it felt hollow.

Lizzie’s voice called from the sitting room. ‘Is that you, Ellie?’

‘Yes. You’re back early.’ She tossed her keys into the dish by the door, the clink echoing louder than usual.

‘I did say I was working the earlier shift.’ A pause. ‘Did you hear about the ruckus down at Whitehall? The office was buzzing with the gossip. There was an evacuation because of a fire. Or maybe it was a drill. You know how vague they get.’

Lizzie appeared in the hall, hair up in pins, cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, chattering on about trains and delays, but Ellie barely heard her.

Her gaze swept the coat hooks. Catherine’s should have been hanging next to Ellie’s spare mackintosh, but the hook gaped empty like a missing tooth.

‘Have you seen her today?’ Ellie asked, though dread was already pooling in her stomach. ‘Was she in earlier?’

Lizzie frowned. ‘No. She’s on one of them long shifts, isn’t she? Has to stay on overnight.’ Lizzie marched off to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make us a cuppa, love. I don’t know. Must be like rabbits in a warren down there.’

Ellie didn’t answer. She marched down the short hall to Catherine’s room, each step feeling heavier than the last. The door opened with that familiar squeak. How many times had she knocked here for a chat or to borrow a book?

The room looked violated. Bed unmade, drawers yanked open and left gaping.

The scent of Catherine’s lavender soap still lingered faintly, making Ellie’s chest ache.

She peered into the empty drawers, then opened the wardrobe doors.

The old walnut groaned, wooden hangers rattling on the rail like bare bones. Empty. All of it.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the wooden floor and then at the mattress.

Catherine’s outline was still pressed into the sheet, a hollow reminder of a person who’d never really existed.

How many nights had Catherine sat here, planning this?

How many times had Ellie knocked on this door while Catherine was plotting Churchill’s murder?

The irony was like a knife twisting in her gut.

She’d been so determined to prove herself as a detective, to show she could spot what others missed, to demonstrate her keen eye for detail.

And all the while, she’d been sharing her morning tea with a would-be assassin.

What kind of detective was she if she couldn’t even spot the criminal sleeping in the next room?

Every instinct she’d prided herself on, every analytical skill she’d honed – all of it had failed her completely. She’d been looking for clues in crime scenes and coded messages while the person who posed the biggest threat was borrowing her books and asking how her day went.

She remembered Catherine’s shy smile that first day, how she’d helped Ellie practise French pronunciation, how she’d waited up when Ellie worked late.

The way she’d laughed at Lizzie’s terrible jokes.

The tears she’d shed over the bombed cinema.

Had any of it been real? Or had Catherine been taking notes the whole time, cataloguing Ellie’s habits, her schedule, her weaknesses?

A glint caught her eye, a forgotten hairpin on the windowsill, the kind Catherine always wore. Ellie picked it up, the metal cold against her fingers. Such a small thing. Such a normal thing, which made everything feel worse, somehow.

The spy in her catalogued the evidence: fake papers, convenient timing, perfect placement in Ellie’s life.

But the woman in her kept searching for proof that some small part of their friendship had been genuine, that she hadn’t been completely fooled by someone who saw her as nothing more than a mark.

How could she trust her judgement about anything now?

If she’d been this wrong about Catherine, what else had she missed?

What other obvious truths were hiding in plain sight?

Ellie wanted to matter, to be taken seriously as an investigator.

But what would Calloway say when he found out?

What would Jack think, and Lilian? That she was na?ve, gullible – exactly the sort of woman who had no business in police work.

Maybe they’d been right to keep her driving cars and filing reports.

‘What’s going on?’ Lizzie’s voice came from the doorway, her mouth agape as she took in the empty room.

Ellie turned, the hairpin still clutched in her palm. Her voice came out quieter than she meant it to. ‘She’s gone. She left this morning, right after … after she planted a bomb in the War Rooms.’

Lizzie’s face went white. For a moment she just stared, then her expression hardened in a way Ellie had never seen before. ‘That lying cow. I knew something was off about her.’

‘You did?’

‘The way she asked questions. Always so casual, but …’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘I work in mail censorship, Ellie. I know what fishing for information looks like. She was always asking about your work, your father. I thought she was just being friendly, but now …’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Because I liked her!’ Lizzie’s voice cracked. ‘Because she helped me make biscuits. She wormed her way in, didn’t she?’ She stopped, clenching her fists. ‘God, I’m such a fool.’

‘We both were.’

‘No.’ Lizzie’s voice turned sharp. ‘You were doing your job. I was supposed to be watching out for suspicious behaviour, and I let her waltz right past because she seemed nice.’ She looked around the empty room, her eyes wide with fury. ‘Well, she won’t catch me off guard again.’

The silence that followed felt charged rather than empty. Lizzie wasn’t just hurt, she was angry – and that anger had steel behind it.

‘Right,’ Lizzie said, rolling up her sleeves in a gesture that was somehow both practical and defiant. ‘I’m making tea. Strong tea. And we’re going to figure out what else she might have taken, what else she might have learned.’

‘Lizzie, you don’t need to bother with that now.’

‘Don’t I?’ Lizzie turned, her eyes flashing. ‘She lived in my home. She ate my food. She pretended to be my friend while she was planning to blow up half of London. Oh, I need to all right.’

The silence that followed felt thick with ghosts as Ellie recalled all the conversations, the shared meals, the moments of genuine laughter that now felt like lies.

The room echoed with absence, but also with the weight of betrayal that would linger long after Catherine’s scent faded from the walls.

Lizzie marched towards the kitchen and Ellie followed, helping her friend as they made tea together.

They sat at the small kitchen table, Lizzie devouring her food within a few minutes while Ellie’s sat barely touched; her appetite had vanished the moment she’d seen Catherine’s empty room.

Lizzie reached for the last sliver of Woolton pie. She’d found it in the larder, grinned and declared herself ravenous enough to eat a sandbag.

‘You should try to eat something,’ she said gently.

‘Can’t,’ Ellie murmured.

Between them sat a half-bottle of sherry. ‘Left over from my birthday. Do you remember? When Aunt Gladys called round with Mum.’

Ellie nodded and pressed her lips into a faint smile. ‘You all got tipsy and danced and played cards – badly, I might add.’

Lizzie laughed. ‘I know. Aunty Glad tripped over next door’s blooming cat in the blackout and she couldn’t stop laughing. The cat howled and Mrs Archer yelled at her from the window.’ She paused. ‘Catherine laughed too. I thought it was real.’

The wireless played soft static between programmes, but when it faded into a Glenn Miller tune, they both tensed. ‘She always danced to this,’ Ellie whispered.

Lizzie reached over and snapped the wireless off with more force than necessary. ‘Well, she’s not dancing to it anymore, is she?’

The gesture was small but fierce, reclaiming their space, their memories.

‘When you said your dad was missing,’ Lizzie asked carefully, ‘how she rallied round - do you think she had anything to do with that?’

The question hit hard, but Ellie was grateful for Lizzie’s directness. No dancing around it, just the truth, however brutal.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Ellie said. ‘But she was part of the same network. Looking back, I think she was gathering intelligence the whole time.’

Lizzie nodded grimly. ‘You should see some of the letters I check at work. People try to be clever, weaving information into innocent chatter. Catherine was just better at it than most.’ Her eyes met Ellie’s. ‘But you know what? We caught her in the end. And next time, I’ll know what to look for.’

‘Next time?’

‘Oh, there’ll be a next time,’ Lizzie said with quiet certainty. ‘People like that don’t work alone. But they’ve made one mistake by showing us what betrayal looks like. We won’t be fooled again.’

Ellie felt something warm and fierce kindle in her chest. Not just gratitude, but recognition. Lizzie wasn’t just offering comfort, she was offering an alliance. ‘I’m sorry for bringing this into our home. For putting you at risk.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Lizzie said. ‘This isn’t your fault. This is what they do. They twist good people’s kindness against them. But that doesn’t mean we stop being kind. It just means we get smarter about it.’

She raised her sherry glass. ‘To getting smarter,’ she said. ‘And to not letting the bastards win.’

Ellie clinked her glass against Lizzie’s, and for the first time since finding Catherine’s room empty, she didn’t feel quite so alone.