Page 36 of Trained In Sin

Saphy

Three weeks.

Three weeks of hiding in the Cotswolds, jumping at every sound, checking the windows obsessively for any sign of Sebastian's black Range Rover. Three weeks of Beth bringing me groceries and news from the outside world, both of us living like fugitives.

But I can't hide forever.

The sick leave from Hartwell was always meant to be temporary, and my savings are running thin. More than that, I'm starting to feel like a ghost, existing but not really living, hiding but not really safe.

"I'm going back to work," I tell Beth over breakfast at her flat. I'd moved here two days ago, too paranoid to stay at the cottage any longer but too afraid to return to my own place.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Beth looks up from her coffee, concern etched across her face. "It's only been three weeks. If Sebastian is still looking for you…."

"He is. But hiding indefinitely isn't a solution." I push eggs around my plate, my appetite non-existent. "At least at work there are people around, CCTV, security. I'll be safer there than anywhere else."

"What about getting there? He could be watching your building, following you…. "

"Uber to and from work. Different routes each time. I'll be careful."

Beth doesn't look convinced, but she nods. "I'll drive you today. Just in case."

*

Returning to Hartwell feels surreal. The same grey building, the same security guards, the same bustling lobby full of people living normal lives. Lives that don't include witnessing murder or fleeing from killers.

I badge in through security, hyperaware of every camera, every exit, every face that might be watching me. The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor feels endless, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Miranda practically attacks me the moment I reach my desk.

"Saphy! Oh my god, we've been so worried. How are you feeling? You look…." She stops, taking in my appearance properly for the first time. "You look terrible. Are you sure you should be back?"

I catch my reflection in her computer monitor and wince. Dark circles under my eyes, skin pale and drawn, hair pulled back in a messy bun because I can't be bothered with styling it. I look exactly like what I am, a woman running on fumes and fear.

"I'm fine," I lie, settling into my chair. The roses are gone, replaced by a simple spider plant. No more gifts from Sebastian. The absence should be comforting, but instead it feels ominous. Like the calm before a storm.

"I'm so glad you're back. It's been chaos without you on the riverside project. The board meeting is next week and…."

I let her chatter wash over me as I boot up my computer, trying to fall back into the routine of normal life. Email after email of work accumulated during my absence. Project updates. Meeting requests. The mundane details of a world that kept spinning while mine fell apart.

It almost works. For the first hour, I manage to lose myself in architectural plans and acquisition reports. For one blissful hour, I feel almost normal.

Then someone drops a coffee mug in the kitchen area.

The crash of ceramic hitting the floor makes me jump so violently that I knock over my own coffee, sending it spilling across my desk. My heart pounds as if I'm being chased, adrenaline flooding my system.

"Shit, sorry!" calls someone from the kitchen. "Butter fingers!"

Laughter follows, the easy camaraderie of people who don't jump at every sudden sound. People who don't check over their shoulders constantly. People who sleep through the night without nightmares about hands around throats and the satisfied look in a killer's eyes.

But for the rest of the morning, every footstep in the corridor makes me tense. Every time the elevator dings, I look up expecting to see Sebastian striding toward my desk. Every phone call to someone else's extension makes me freeze, waiting to hear my name called .

By lunch, I'm exhausted from the constant vigilance.

"You need to eat something," Miranda says, perching on the edge of my desk with a sandwich. "You're looking a bit peaky."

"I'm not really hungry."

"When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

I try to remember. Beth made breakfast this morning, but I only picked at it. Yesterday... did I eat yesterday? The days have blurred together; each one measured only by whether Sebastian appeared or not.

"I'm fine," I repeat, but even I don't believe it anymore.

The afternoon is worse. My concentration is shot, and I find myself staring at the same paragraph of a contract for twenty minutes without processing a single word. Worse, I keep tearing up for no reason, reading an email about meeting room bookings, and suddenly my eyes are blurring with tears.

I excuse myself to the bathroom three times, splashing cold water on my face and giving myself stern talks about pulling it together. But each time I return to my desk, the overwhelming sadness settles back over me like a weight.

It's not grief for Damon, exactly. I know he was becoming unstable, possibly dangerous. But it's grief for the life I thought I had, for the safety I thought I'd found with Sebastian, for the person I used to be before I watched someone die.

I'm a different person now. Harder in some ways, more fragile in others. The kind of person who jumps at coffee mugs and cries over mundane emails and checks exits compulsively .

The kind of person who witnesses murder and runs away in the night.

Around three o'clock, I'm trying to focus on a planning application when my desk phone rings. The sound makes me jump, again, but I force myself to answer professionally.

"Sapphire Jenkins, Acquisitions."

"Ms. Jenkins? This is Detective Inspector Sarah Chen with the Metropolitan Police."

My blood turns to ice. The coffee mug I'm holding slips from my numb fingers, hitting the desk with a sharp crack that makes Miranda look over with concern.

"I... yes. This is Sapphire Jenkins."

"I'm calling regarding Damon Phillips. I understand you were in a relationship with him?"

The question hits like a physical blow. They know. Somehow, they know about Damon, about what happened, about….

"Ms. Jenkins? Are you there?"

"Yes, sorry. Yes, we... we dated. But we broke up several weeks ago." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too high and thin.

"I see. Ms. Jenkins, I'm afraid Mr. Phillips has died. We've been investigating his death, and we need to speak with you about your relationship with him. Would you be able to come to the station?"

The words blur together. Damon is dead. They're investigating. They want to talk to me .

They know.

My vision starts to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges. I grip the phone tighter, trying to stay conscious, trying to think of what to say.

"Ms. Jenkins? I know this must be a shock."

"I... when did he...? How did you...?" I can't form complete sentences. Can't breathe properly.

"We found his body about three weeks ago. I'm sorry, I know this is difficult news to receive. We've been trying to reach his next of kin, but you're listed as his emergency contact on several accounts."

Three weeks ago. The night Sebastian killed him. They found the body.

"Ms. Jenkins, would this afternoon be convenient? I know this is sudden, but there are some questions we need to ask about Mr. Phillips and his activities in the weeks before his death."

Activities. What activities? What do they know about that night? About Sebastian? About me being there?

"I..." I clear my throat, trying to sound normal while my world spins apart. "Yes. This afternoon would be fine."

"Excellent. Shall we say four thirty? Ask for Detective Inspector Chen at the front desk. And Ms. Jenkins? You're welcome to bring someone with you if that would make you more comfortable."

"Thank you. Four thirty. "

The line goes dead, and I sit staring at the phone in my hand like it's a snake that might bite me.

"Saphy?" Miranda is standing beside my desk now, her face creased with worry. "You've gone completely white. What's wrong?"

"I..." I look around the office, at the normal people doing normal jobs, living normal lives that don't include police calls about dead ex-boyfriends. "I need to make a phone call."

I grab my mobile and head for the stairwell, needing privacy for what I'm about to do. My hands shake so badly I can barely dial Beth's number.

"What's wrong?" she answers immediately. "Are you hurt? Shall I come get you?”

"The police called. About Damon. They want to see me at four thirty today."

"Shit. What did they say?"

"That he's dead. That they found his body three weeks ago. That they need to ask me about his 'activities' before he died." My voice cracks on the last word. "Beth, what if they know? What if Sebastian didn't cover it up as well as he thought?"

"Okay, breathe. Let me think." I can hear her moving around, probably grabbing her keys. "Did they say anything else? Anything that suggested they know you were there?"

"No. They just said they need to ask about our relationship, about what he was doing before he died. But Beth, what if this is a trap? What if they're trying to get me to confess? "

"Then we get you a lawyer. Right now. Before you say anything to anyone."

"I can't afford a lawyer!"

"Then we'll figure something else out. But you're not going in there alone and unrepresented." Her voice is firm, decisive. Everything I'm not right now. "I'm coming to get you. Where are you?"

"At work. But I can't leave, Miranda will ask questions, and I can't…."

"Tell her you're sick. Tell her anything. But get out of there now."

I hang up and lean against the stairwell wall, trying to process what's happening. The police want to see me about Damon's death. They found his body three weeks ago; the same night Sebastian killed him.

But they called me because I was his emergency contact, not because they suspect me of anything. At least, that's what they said.

What if they're lying? What if they know I was there, know I witnessed his murder and fled the scene? What if they know about Sebastian?

Or worse, what if Sebastian told them about me? What if he's trying to shift blame, make it look like I was involved?

No. Even as the thought forms, I dismiss it. Whatever else Sebastian is, whatever he's done, he wouldn't throw me to the police to save himself. His obsession with protecting me might be twisted, but it's genuine.

Isn't it ?

The doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. How well do I really know Sebastian Blackwood? I thought I knew Damon after three years together and look how wrong I was about his capacity for violence and stalking.

What if I'm wrong about Sebastian too? What if his protection is conditional on my cooperation, and now that I've run from him, he's decided I'm a liability?

The thought makes me physically sick. I lean over the stairwell railing, dry heaving as panic overwhelms me.

I need to get out of here. I need Beth. I need to figure out what the police know and what they want before I walk into that station and potentially incriminate myself.

I drag myself back up to the fourteenth floor, trying to compose my face into something resembling normal. Miranda takes one look at me and frowns.

"Jesus, Saphy. You look like you're about to faint."

"I think I might be coming down with something. Food poisoning, maybe." The lie comes easier than I expected. "I should probably go home before I make everyone else sick."

"Of course. Do you need someone to drive you?"

"No, I'll manage. Thanks."

I pack up my things with hands that won't stop shaking, hyperaware of every person who glances my way. Do they know? Can they tell that I'm falling apart ?

The elevator ride down feels eternal. Every floor we stop at, every person who gets on, could be connected to Sebastian. Could be watching me, reporting back to him about my movements.

By the time I reach the lobby, I'm convinced that everyone is staring at me. The security guards, the receptionist, the people waiting for elevators, they all know. They can see the guilt written across my face.

Outside, I scan the street frantically for Beth's car, for Sebastian's Range Rover, for any sign of surveillance or threat. When Beth pulls up, I practically throw myself into the passenger seat.

"Drive," I gasp. "Just drive."

"Saphy, what…."

"I can't breathe. I think I'm having a panic attack."

Beth pulls away from the curb, one hand on my shoulder as I hyperventilate in the passenger seat. "It's going to be okay. We'll figure this out."

But as we drive through London's busy streets, I realize I can't face this alone. The thought of sitting in a police station, answering questions about Damon while trying to hide the fact that I witnessed his murder, it's too much.

"Beth," I say suddenly. "Will you come with me? To the police station?"

"Of course." She doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask if I'm sure. "What time did they say?"

"Four o'clock. But what if you get in trouble at work? What if…. "

"Saphy, stop. You're my best friend, and you're in crisis. Work can wait." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "I'm not letting you face this alone."

The relief is overwhelming. Whatever happens at that police station, whatever they know or suspect, at least I won't be walking into it completely isolated.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"That's what friends are for."

As we head toward whatever's waiting for us at the police station, I try to prepare myself for the questions that are coming. About my relationship with Damon. About when I last saw him. About whether I know anything about his death.

I'll have to lie. I'll have to sit there and pretend I have no idea what happened to him, all while knowing exactly how he died and who killed him.

But at least I won't be lying alone.

Three weeks ago, I thought I was choosing between safety and passion.

Now I realize I was just choosing between different kinds of destruction.

And I have no idea which choice will keep me alive.