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.
Today, it was time to run.
3
Carrow
I turned to head back out into the main room, my earlier sentimentality urging me to scavenge whatever I could. Yeah, my place was shitty, and the neighbors weren’t fond of me. Or anyone, actually. We were all dead broke and scrabbling to survive in London. But deep in my heart, I knew I’d never be back here. I had a few favorite books from Beatrix that I didn’t want to part with, and an old blanket that—
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as the mobile in my pocket buzzed. Only one person texted me.
Corrigan.
I pulled it out and flipped it open, quickly scanning the message.
Carrow Burton, return to the station. The police are looking for you, and things will go easier if you turn yourself in.
Shit. He wasn’t really telling me to turn myself in. But he was warning me in a way that wouldn’t cast suspicion on him if his texts were ever reviewed.
The cops were coming.
The faintest sound from outside caught my hearing.
They were here.