“What’s it to you? I haven’t seen you or heard from you in two years. I get that I messed up the job badly. I get that you had to fire me, but I thought we—” I cut myself off sharply.
“You thought what?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice coming out wobbly.
He lets out a soft sigh. He takes a couple of steps closer to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I gaze up at his dark eyes, with that beautiful and disconcerting wedge of brilliant green in the left one. I see sympathy, and warmth, and something welcoming, like home.
His mere presence is comforting. It feels like he knows all my troubles without me having to tell him. He knows that I feel so alone and so lost in this big city. That I had thought life would be big and rich and full of wonders, and instead it is small and grey and constantly disappointing. That I feel adrift.
“What can I do to help?” he says.
Suddenly I know exactly what he can do. Everything I wanted so badly two years ago comes back to me. I can almost taste it, like old blood in my mouth.
“You can let me help you catch DCK. I came to London for that. I can still—”
“No, Diana,” he says gently. “That’s my job. Spend your energy focusing on building your own life. I’m sorry you lost Magda. I understand you want her killer caught, but that darkness will consume you if you let it.”
“What would you know about that?” I ask heatedly. “She was my mother. Mine. For you it’s just a job, but for me it means more. Let me help you! Please!”
He shakes his head. “You know why I can’t.”
“But you thought I could be useful. You gave me the job. Please, Storm—”
“I made a mistake,” he says heavily. “You weren’t ready. I thought because you didn't know Magda that maybe you wouldn’t be so emotionally tangled up in it, but I was wrong.”
“But I still have visions. Dreams. I’ve been having one recently. I’ve been wanting to tell you about them.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t help you with those. But I know someone you can talk to—”
“I don’t want to just talk. I want to do something.”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t just ignore them,” I snap. “I can’t turn them off like that.”
“It’s for your own good. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Like last time, he means, even though he leaves that part unsaid.
“James Fenway was a predator and a murderer,” I hiss.
He nods. He doesn't even do me the courtesy of disagreeing so that I can argue with him.
“And I’m not some stupid child now,” I say. “I’ve learned from that mistake.”
“Good,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.”
I want to shake him. I feel like we are a thousand miles apart even though we are standing so close together. I cross my arms over my chest. “Remi said you were in Paris? Been having fun, have you?”
“It was for work,” he says. “The team is still in France. They send their condolences. I have to go back after this.”
“I’m surprised you even came here, since we’re not friends,” I say bitterly. “Or is this work too?”
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes flick to over my shoulder where the funeral service is wrapping up.
“Oh my gosh,” I mutter, my cheeks flooding with hot shame.
How incredibly stupid of me. It is work. He came because he hoped that Magda’s killer might be here, watching and relishing the grief his actions caused.