“Have you had any contact from him since that night?”
Other than his severed finger? “No.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s whatnomeans, officer.” Shit. I didn’t mean to sound so sharp.
They rise to their feet. “Thank you, Miss—” I glower “—DoctorMorgan. We’ll be in touch if we need any further information. Please let us know if you hear from him.”
“Of course,” I grit out.
The moment they leave, I slump against the desk.
Fuck.
That was my chance. This is professional suicide if it’s ever found out. I should have told them about the finger. But I’m terrified they’ll somehow think I’m involved. How am I supposed to explain it?
There’s also another, more secret part of me, that’s addicted to the idea of being the object of someone’s gaze. I don’t know who it is. I don’t even really know why they sent me the finger. But the text that accompanied it, the possession, it ignited something in me.
No. It’s better this way. Tom is dead—of that I’m almost certain—and the chances of them finding him, or his body, are slim. Why involve myself?
He was a cheating bastard anyway.
I’m a monster for thinking it.
Eli
I watch her through the hidden lens, my heart thudding as she slumps against her desk.
She doesn’t know about this camera either—the one in her plant pot she often forgets to water.
Her fingers tremble as she tries to process the lies to just told the police.
I won’t have them looking at her. I won’t have their cold, suspicious eyes anywhere near my Angel. Not scrubbing the CCTV was a rookie mistake. One I shouldn’t have made. I'm not used to this. Getting involved. I stick to the shadows where no one is watching.
I pull out my phone and hit Karl’s number. He answers on the second ring, the background noise of the tattoo shop humming through the line.
“I need a favour.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Karl,” I grit out, my jaw clenched hard.
“What can I do?”
“Thomas Moore.” I scrub my hand down my face, debating how much to tell him. “I need you to falsify a trail.”
There’s a moment of silence. “What did you do?”
“Better you don’t know,” I sigh. “Just make it look like he disappeared with one of his mistresses.”
“On it,” he grunts. “I’ve got a lad who’s a genius with digital footprints. By tomorrow, the Met will think he’s done a runner to escape his wife.”
“Make it airtight,” I command, my eyes fixed on Emily has she stands, smoothing her skirt.
“Consider it done. I look after my own.”
I end the call, a dark satisfaction settling in my chest. I will be her shield. No one touches what’s mine—not even the law.