Page 2 of These Shattered Memories

I wince because yeah, that stings. I hate that those months have been reduced to nothing else but that, but I don’t allow myself to wallow. I did what I needed to do. If I had failed that assignment, it was back to the streets of Canning to beg and sell my ass for a hot meal.

Rowan doesn’t get it.

So, I keep my face neutral, not allowing him to see just how deeply he’s managed to cut. “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I wasn’t desperate. I know what I did wasn’t right, and I understand that I hurt you, but I need your help.”

“Oh no, no, Alex, you were a plaything gone rogue. It’s not exactly unheard of.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“Look…” I say, not knowing where I’m going with it exactly. I’m adrift at sea.

He leans back in his seat and smiles. It’s almost friendly, maybe even pitying, and somehow that’s worse than the look of hate.

“You don’t have to explain. Really, I get it. I was part of a job, and you were just sex. We both did what we needed to do.”

That’s not true , I want to argue.

But maybe it is, and I’ve deluded myself because sometimes, in the still evenings, when I’m lying in bed, just before I drift off to sleep, I like to pretend that somehow, maybe we were in love.

In our quiet moments, under the covers, Rowan holding my hand, it felt like it meant something. I meant something to him.

But feelings are just that— feelings , not fact.

“Do you want me to beg?” I ask finally, looking into his eyes. “Is that it?”

He laughs again. “My, my, you really must be desperate. Isn’t it enough that I let you live after everything?”

Everyone in Senna knows not to fuck with the clans.

Everyone knows the consequences of crossing The Snake.

Most of their enemies end up at the harbour, stuffed alive into oil drums weighed down by bricks.

The darkness swallows you up first when they weld down the metal cover, leaving only a few holes to let the water slowly leak through.

You drown in the icy water, with no chance to swim to the surface, watching the water spill through the holes as you sink down to the bottom.

Yet despite everything, The Snake never came after me.

I waited for days, then days turned into months until it became a year.

Until I stopped looking over my shoulder and stopped locking my windows again.

In that time, I was promoted to junior detective, and I could almost pretend nothing happened.

Maybe that’s why I asked Rowan to come here today, some wishful hope that he forgave me because he never sent his men after me.

I swallow, keeping my face neutral. “You’re right. But you said it yourself, we both did what we needed to do back then.”

He stares at me for a second and, without a word, he pushes out of his seat to stand, his figure looming over me. He’s even more stunning, dark hair fanning his brow, and those full lips slightly curled with disdain.

“I only came here to see your face when I told you no. Even after two years, even with the word detective tacked to your name, you’re still that little stray I took pity on.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, the soft flesh slippery with saliva.

My canines tear through the skin, tasting the copper of blood on my tongue.

I watch him as he slips out a hundred-dollar note from his back pocket and throws it on the table.

“Goodbye, Alex. Don’t ever call me again or I won’t be so lenient this time around. ”

And then he’s disappearing out the door, leaving me sitting there with my heart racing. A cold realisation sinks into me: Rowan won’t help me, and soon, Halle will be arrested for murder.

***

It’s a Friday night and I’ve clocked in all my shifts for the week, but I have nowhere else to go except an empty apartment with day-old takeout in the fridge.

Instead of that depressing evening for, I drive back to the unit, determined to comb over all the pieces of information I’ve gathered; find anything I might have missed.

It’s a glass building in the upmarket Flower District, a trendy area with skyscrapers built between old cathedrals and museums. The streets are buzzing with energy, Senna and its people don’t sleep. Black cabs dart past me, horns blaring as people try to get out of the traffic.

I make it to the office building around seven-thirty.

It’s made out of sharp lines, like a corporate office that houses bankers instead of police officers.

Still, OCU makes the big arrests with big money, so the office and the coffee are decent, unlike the guys stuck in Homicide with shitty instant stuff.

I badge myself in, smiling at the armed uniformed officers that sit outside the elevator that leads to the white-collar crime floor.

We mostly investigate racketeering and bank fraud.

After everything that happened with Rowan, I wanted to stay far away from investigating the gangs and the clans.

I couldn’t stand looking at the name Rowan Vasilyev anymore.

I walk through the quiet office, the lights switching on as I make my way to my desk in the open pool area. It’s neatly organised, my pens and notepads in their rightful place alongside a picture of Halle and I the day I got my promotion.

I pick up the picture now, feeling that lump in my throat again. Four weeks ago, she called me, frantic on the line. An investment banker she had been sleeping with lay dead at the bottom of the stairs, his skull fractured and his body limp from an apparent fall.

Initially, Richard Arnold Jr.’s death was ruled an accident. They had been drinking all night, plus there was no evidence of foul play, but in the last month, his family has begun pushing for a murder charge, unable to believe that their son could have simply slipped and fell.

And now, because ofthe Arnold’s wealth and standing in Senna, there is growing attention on the case, yet Richard was a guy who spent half his time in the gym, while Halle is barely five foot three.

Unfortunately, she was the only one there that night, so it’s her word against a wealthy family’s, meaning she’s screwed.

Only, two weeks after Richard Arnold’s death, a mysterious email from an unknown address landed in my work inbox. Two simple sentences with nothing else attached.

Find out who is behind Haze and your sister’s case goes away.

At first, I ignored it, chalking it up to a bad prank but a day later, a new email came in and attached was the file with all the evidence being stacked up against Halle along with another message.

You’re running out of time. If you do what I say, all this goes away. That’s a promise.

The emails come from nowhere—no IP address I can trace, no digital footprint.

They seem to know me, know Halle, know everything.

A part of me wonders if this is a setup, that someone is trying to catch me out.

But what if it isn’t? What if they can save Halle’s life?

Wouldn’t I be stupid not to take the chance?

But I know if anyone was to find out I’m doing this, that I met Rowan, and that I’m planning on tampering with evidence, I could get fired, probably arrested too and lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.

Powering on my computer, I click through to the encrypted file hidden in the mountains of folders from other cases. Dozens of them that I’ve helped solve in the last few years. I move past them all, clicking on the one I have titled ‘Haze.’

There have been four deaths linked to the drug over the last few weeks, and all the victims have been under twenty-four. Two of them were discovered in advanced rigor mortis and the other two had seizures in or outside clubs around Senna.

Although there is no solid thread linking them, from reading the case files, it seems all of them were coming from or were at some kind of party or club.

Looking at the autopsies, they all consumed the drug at some point, but none of their deaths were concluded as overdoses or poisoning.

As a result, no alarm bells have gone off.

Right now, it’s just a bunch of young kids dying outside clubs.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary and The Judiciary won’t bother with something so minor.

That’s why I need Rowan’s help. The Snake owns a number of clubs throughout Senna, and he would know who is selling to keep the clientele happy and sloppy enough to keep spending money.

Rowan was my best chance, and I blew it. I bury my face in my hands, fighting the urge to scream.

“Kimura, you’re still here?” A voice comes up to my desk.

My heart leaps to my throat as I quickly scramble to shut my laptop. Chief Rachel Anders looks down at me, a warm smile dancing on her lips.

“Whoa, there. It’s just me. Are you okay?”

I laugh uneasily, my heart still pounding in my chest. “Sorry, you scared me.”

The open space bullpen is still completely empty, the motion detector lights all dim except in the area I sit, near the back with a good view of the entire floor.

“It’s Friday night,” she says. “Shouldn’t a young guy like you be out on some hot date?”

I swallow, putting on my best smile. “Ahh, the hot date is tomorrow night, actually.”

That earns me a laugh, her crow’s feet appearing at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, I miss those days. Now it’s just department budgets and my bitchy cat, Ida.”

Chief Anders is tall and lithe, with a sharp grey bob that doesn’t age her but instead makes her look regal and wise. She can’t be more than fifty years old, but she’s worked her way up through the ranks and now she’s a chief in one of Senna’s most prestigious and well-funded police departments.

“I don’t know how Ida would feel hearing you say that,” I say.

She waves a hand. “Oh, she knows she’s a bitch. She’ll be okay.”

I try to laugh, but my heart is still racing, thinking about what is open on my laptop. If Anders or anyone else here finds out what I’m up to, that’s my ass gone.

“Don’t stay too long,” she says after a second. “You’ve been working too hard these days. Great for the unit, but bad for you. I like my men sharp and healthy.”

“Yeah, of course. Just wrapping up now.”

“Great.” Anders smiles again. “Good night, Kimura.”

“Night, Chief.”

She waves, disappearing down the hallway, the motion lights following the soft sound of her heels on the thin carpeting. I make sure I hear the ping of the elevator before pulling my laptop open again.

A picture of the dead investment banker— Richard Arnold Jr —glares back at me. He’s lying on the marble floor of his apartment, his eyes wide open and his lips parted, like he’s seeing a ghost. A thin trail of blood flows from his head.

I flip to the next picture and the stairs leading up to the second floor have no bannisters. It’s possible that in the dark, he slipped and fell, hitting his head in the process, but the gash on his head could have come from something else, something like a heavy object.

I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. Outside the wide tall windows, a cold breeze blows through Senna, signalling the beginning of winter. Lights twinkle from across the River Demont that divides the city.

Dread settles in my stomach, like a cinderblock weighing me down. I pull out my phone and my thumb hovers over Rowan’s number. A part of me wants to try again, wants to ask him to reconsider, but I’ve overplayed my hand.

He won’t see me again and he won’t help me.

I have to find another way.