“You get this look on your face whenever you see her,” he says.
I keep walking. “What look?”
“That pissed-off one.” He grins. “Like you’re angry she exists.”
I shoot him a glare. “Stop watching me so closely. It’s weird.”
He laughs. “I’m a people watcher. I can’t help it.”
We head up the concrete steps, the whole block smells faintly of piss, damp, and stale weed.
“So,” Dale goes on, “innocent little Wynter is out there somewhere getting drunk?”
“Stop,” I warn.
He ignores me. “Maybe she’ll meet someone, make a proper evening of it.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep climbing. “That’s her business,” I say flatly, “as long as she doesn’t bring him back to my home.”
Dale glances sideways at me, amused. “Did she say where she was? Maybe I should swing by later. Make sure she gets back safely.”
I stop dead on the landing and turn to look at him. “Or,” I say, my voice low, “you could focus on the job in front of us.”
His grin only widens. “Touchy.”
I ignore that too.
By the time we reach the third floor, the air feels heavier. The passageway is dim as one of the lights overhead flickers like it’s on its last legs. There’s grime on the walls, old stains splattered on the floor, and the same sour, hopeless feel these places always carry.
I know it well.
I pull on my leather gloves as we stop outside Colin’s door.
The flat is his base camp. It’s where he runs his business from. The money he brings in pays for the polished life his wife and kids enjoy in the city—nice apartment, clean clothes, respectable schools.
That’s how it works. The filth stays here. The family remains spotless.
All higher-ranked men are expected to look clean from the outside. Respectable. Untouchable. That way no one asks too many questions.
I lift my hand and knock.
A kid who looks just like Jason, with that same hopelessness in his eyes, answers the door.
“What?” he asks, edgy and suspicious, craning his neck into the corridor to check both ends like he’s expecting trouble.
Dale grabs the back of his head and slams him into the wall. The kid drops instantly.
“It’s hello,” Dale mutters dryly.
He steps over the slumped body then catches him by the ankle and drags him back inside. I follow, shutting the door behind us.
We find Colin in the living room, parked in front of the television like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He glances up, does a double take, and jumps to his feet so quickly he nearly knocks over the can on the arm of his chair.
“Mr. Carmichael. Mr. Davis.” He wipes his sweaty palm down his joggers and holds it out. “To what do I owe this honour?”
I stare at it until he slowly lowers it again.
“Colin,” Dale drawls, looking around the filthy room, “you already know if Ray’s here, it ain’t good news. What kind of shitshow are you running?”