“You know I’d never kill Beatrix or anyone else.”
“I do.”
I slumped back in my chair. “Thank God.”
“But it doesn’t matter. The team thinks I’ve lost objectivity when it comes to you, and the evidence against you is substantial.”
“What evidence?” My voice was a strangled cry. “I didn’t do it, so there should be no evidence.”
“You were at both scenes less than a minute after the deaths. So close that you could have been there during them.” His voice had turned cold. “A minute, Carrow. How did you do that?”
“I see what I see. You know I can’t explain it.”
He dragged a weary hand over his face. He was a handsome man in his mid-forties, nearly twenty years older than me, but suddenly, he looked like he could be my grandfather. “No court of law will clear you based on your strange visions. That kind of thing just doesn’t exist.”
A vision of the man with the fangs flashed in my mind. I was certain he existed, but I couldn’t say it. Not in front of Corrigan.
“I know.” I slumped back against the chair, my heart racing like mad.
He leaned toward me, his voice going low. “Banks is going to get you for this. He’s been after you for years, and he says he has the evidence he needs.”
“What evidence?”
“I don’t know, but he’s clever and well connected. You’re in a bad spot, kid.”
“But then the real killer will go free.”
“Not as far as he’s concerned.”
Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sharp. Frantically, I tried to blink them back. I couldn’t show fear. Not here. Not anywhere.
“I can give you one chance, Carrow.” Corrigan’s voice was pitched so that the recorders in the room wouldn’t pick it up. “I owe you for your help with my other cases. I don’t want the real killer to go free. And I like you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t understand your skills, but I know you can catch whoever did this.” His gaze flicked toward the clock set high on the plain white wall. “In three minutes, all the power in the station will be shut off. A fire alarm will sound. And you’ll be alone.”
My mind raced. Holy shit, he was helping me escape.
“You’ll need to be quick,” he whispered. “There’s a key taped under the coffee cup. Get out of here and find the killer. Clear your name.”
“Thank you.” Desperate gratitude surged within me. “Thank you.”
His jaw was tight as he nodded. “It’s the least I can do. But I mean it when I say you need to solve this. Fast. There are cameras all over the city, and every police officer will know what you look like. Solve this murder or go to prison for it.”
“You really think that’s possible?”
“Banks is convinced he can get you for this, and I think he might be able to swing it. The crimes are connected, and your presence at the scene is the only thing connecting them. He says he has other evidence, too.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No, but is this a gamble you want to take? You don’t want prison, kid. You’ve put so many of those bastards behind bars, you won’t survive there.”
Clear my name.
Or die.
When the alarm sounded, I was ready. The lights cut out, and I made my move. The cameras wouldn’t work with all the power out, so no one would see me reach for the key that Corrigan had left under the cup. Whatever I did, I couldn’t implicate him. He’d been good to me.
My heart beat frantically as I scrabbled for the key, finding two of them—one small and one large.
The small had to be for the cuffs, and I quickly got them off, then shoved them in my jacket pocket. My heart thundered as I stumbled through the dark, headed for the door. There would be panic in the hall outside—the police station never lost full power. There was a secondary power supply to ensure it. Whatever Corrigan had done, he’d done it big.
A tiny bit of warmth burst inside me. With Beatrix gone, he was the closest thing I had to a friend, and I’d love him forever for this.
I fumbled at the door, my sweaty hands making it difficult work. Self-defense training had proved that I was pretty tough, but I’d never had a lot of experience under pressure.
And this was pressure.
Clear my name or die.
Finally, I got the key to turn and the door to open.
As expected, the hall was chaos. There were no windows in this interior part of the building, and it was nearly pitch black. Flashlight beams sliced through the darkness, illuminating panicked faces. Determined faces.
I turned my head so that my pale hair fell over most of my face and hurried down the hall. I just had to make it out of there before the power went back on.
“Someone call the damned fire brigade!” Banks’s irritated voice carried over the din, and my heart started to pound.
If he saw me outside of the interrogation room, all hell would break loose. Quickly, I darted down a side hall, then found the stairs. I was running by the time I reached it, unable to help myself.
The overwhelming desire to flee had gripped me, turning me into the prey I’d felt like earlier that day.
I had one chance, and I couldn’t waste it.
I sprinted down the stairs, finally reaching the bottom floor.
All of the exits would be guarded. After all, this was one of the busiest police stations in London. I couldn’t just walk out the door. I needed a window.
Blindly, I stumbled through the dark, hoping to find an empty office. I needed one on the alley wall, since I couldn’t just crash out onto the main road. I’d been in this building enough to know which side that would be on. I hurried toward it, heart racing. It didn’t take long to find an empty office—everyone seemed to be out of their offices trying to fix the problem—and I shut myself inside the first one I found.
My gaze was riveted to the one large window in the room. It let in the only light in the whole place, and it revealed the tiny alley on the other side. “Oh, thank God,” I whispered.
Adrenaline raced through my veins as I picked up an enormous iron paperweight. It was cold and comforting in my hand, and I heaved it through the window. The glass shattered so loudly that I winced, but I didn’t hesitate. Quickly, I grabbed a jacket off the chair behind the desk and tossed it over the jagged edges of the bottom of the window.
I scrambled out as fast as I could, getting a couple of nasty cuts in the process. Pain burned through my knee and my hand as I tumbled out of the window and into the damp alley.
The night was still dark, but it had to be well past midnight. I’d been in the station for hours.
Shaking, I raced down the alley, heading for the back street, which was less busy, though not by much. As I neared the alley exit, I slowed. Sprinting away from a police station was sure to draw too much attention.
My mind spun as I strode out onto the road, trying to act calm as I kept my head down. Cars whizzed by. It was the middle of the night, but London didn’t care. It never cared.
Instinct made me head for my flat. I wasn’t far, but I debated hailing a cab anyway. Normally, I’d never spare the money for a cab. Seeing visions and hunting murderers made it difficult to have normal employment. I was perpetually broke.
But this…
If they caught me…
A black cab approached, the light on top shining bright.
I flung my hand up, and it pulled over to the side of the road. I scrambled in and gave him my address.
“’Aight, lass, I’ll have you there in no time.” The old cabbie didn’t so much as spare me a glance, and I was grateful.
I slumped back in the seat, my heart racing.
I was officially on the run from the law.
From my former colleagues.
Oh, hell.
I shook myself. I had a killer to catch and my name to clear. But first, there were a few things I needed to grab. With any luck, I’d have a short lead and would be in and out before they even realized I was on the run.
Several minutes later, the cab pulled up to my dingy flat.
“You live here?” the driver’s voice was skeptical, and I just passed him the coins for the fare without answering.
I climbed out and looked around, senses on high alert. As always, most of the shops had their corrugated iron doors pulled down, graffiti looking like the shittiest modern art. In all the years I’d lived there, I’d never seen half of them open.
But the six stories of flats over the shops were full of people like me: broke, nervous, struggling to get by.
Everything seemed normal, and I raced to the front door, struggling with my key. It snicked open, and I shoved my way inside, then ran up the narrow stairs to the third floor.
I pushed my way into my flat. It was little more than a tiny room with a minimal kitchen on one side and a couch on the other. No table, chairs, or TV. The walls were the color of pigeon shit, and the window had a delightful set of iron bars over it.
Man, my life was lame.
I lived alone, eating ramen and trying to solve murders, but I never managed to save anyone before they got offed.
As I glanced around the dismal space, an unexpected wave of grief washed over me. I hadn’t particularly loved this place, but now that I might never come back…
I scrubbed away the stinging in my eyes and ran to the tiny bedroom, which was more of a closet, really, with a mattress shoved inside. Beneath the bed, I found the old backpack that I’d kept packed in anticipation of this moment.
My bug-out bag.
I grabbed it and stared down at the ratty nylon.
Corrigan didn’t understand my gift, but he believed in it. He knew I wasn’t the killer. But he also thought I was an idiot, risking my freedom with every murder I tried to solve.
I might be an idiot, but I wasn’t an unprepared idiot. I knew this time might come.
My bug-out bag was packed with my identification, all my spare money—which wasn’t a lot—clothes, and the few mementos of my past that I couldn’t bear to part with. I still didn’t even know my past—I had very few memories, in fact. But one day, I’d figure it out. Not today, though.