Page 8 of Damon

Once my friends have driven off into the dark night I return to the living room, drain the last of the bottle, then retire to my bed. Since Connie was taken, I’ve been sleeping in my office. The constant reminders of her surrounding me in our bedroom made it impossible to sleep. But tonight, I need to be close to her. I need to be able to pretend that she’s still here, at least for one more night.

As I climb the stairs to our bedroom, my mind wanders to Emma and my treatment of her today. I know my attitude has been abysmal, starting from the way I spoke to her this morning, ignoring her during the day, then my dismissal of her kind offer this evening. It was pathetic—the actions of a man I don’t like, or want to admit that I am.

Since my father-in-law’s visit, his accusations have swirled in my mind. Is that what the outside world sees? A man who has disposed of his wife to make room for his pregnant surrogate to take her place. The thought is both distressing and infuriating. In the almost twenty years his daughter and I were together, there has never been anyone else. Only Connie. Since we were teenagers, she was my girl, and I was her boy. The fact that a man I thought knew me could believe otherwise is soul-crushing.

But then today, I looked at Emma with her long blonde hair, youthful complexion, and round curves. There’s no hiding that she is beautiful. A woman who smiles daily and tries to show the ones around her kindness. Waite tells me she has a sharp mind and will do well in the world of law. In his few meetings with her, she has shown great understanding and promises to work hard.

“She’ll be a winner in the courtroom,” he told me. “Her speech is articulate, and she knows the law inside and out, better than any intern I’ve met before her.” Harrison himself is a trailblazer, having come from nothing and is now one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in London. He knows talent when he sees it. Her time at his firm begins next week. When it was last mentioned, Emma was incredibly excited and grateful for the opportunity.

I know little of her background, only that she has no family and was struggling with both university and living costs. Connie’s and my proposition was the solution to her problems. It was a benefit that she and my wife became close so quickly. Connie saw Emma as a little sister to mentor. She’s been no trouble to have around the house, but now that she’s here and I’m on my own, the thought is much less comfortable. A single, bereaved, soon-to-be father living with the surrogate who is carrying his child? No wonder people are talking and coming to their own conclusions.

Connie and mine’s bedroom looks like it always does; the bed is made as perfectly as it was the morning of the day she died. She had a place for every silk sheet and cushion. We even had a velvet storage box made to go in the corner of the room for her to place the decorative pieces at night. As I look at our bed, I know it will never look the same. Once I lie on the sheets and disrupt her artwork, it will be gone. But I can’t sleep in my office forever.

Slowly, I remove the relevant cushions from the bed and place them in their nighttime container. After stripping down to my boxers, I pull back the black silk and slide under the sheets, attempting not to disturb her side. I face toward the empty space, breathe in deeply and attempt to fill my lungs with her remaining scent. She always wore perfume that smelled of cinnamon, no matter the time of year. At Christmas time, it felt like she surrounded me wherever I went as people burned and wore the festive aroma.

Closing my eyes, I reach out to the vacant place, my hand connecting with nothing but silk. I pull her pillow from its resting place and wrap it in my arms to pretend for a moment it’s her. The last time we shared this bed, the morning of the day she died, I’d made love to her. It had been a quick taste of each other before I had to leave for work. If I had known that was our final time, I’d have given her and myself so much more. I would have savored every inch of her, ingraining the feel, taste, and sight of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever encountered into my mind. But now, I must be satisfied with photos, videos, and memories which I fear will become more blurred each day.

On the night I laid the love of my life to rest, I lie in our bed, mourning my loss of her but knowing my responsibility to her is very much still here. It’s a confusing and complex place to be, and right now, I have no idea how I am going to navigate the coming months and years without her.

Chapter four

The Level Boardroom, Canary Wharf

Damon

The Level is where we go when matters need to be discussed privately. Where silent justice takes place without the knowledge of law enforcement. A sound-proofed space, fifty-seven floors into the sky, with one way glass that looks out over Canary Wharf, the financial district of London.

There’s an elevator located in a rear storage area of the building that’s only destination is this floor. Harrison and Connor have apartments on the same level as this. Russell owns the penthouse above. If the walls of this boardroom could talk, it would tell stories of laughter, desolation, and murder. This is the location we use when we have a witness who needs “special motivation” to speak. Or if someone needs to be disposed of, it’s normally easier to hold them here then move them later. Behind one of the dark wood panels, there’s a temporary holding freezer installed specifically for that purpose.

“Damon.” Harrison’s voice cuts through the dark thoughts circling around my mind. “Go fucking home, will you.” I shake my head but don’t answer him. “You’re not even fucking here with us.”

“No,” I bark. “I’d rather be here.”

“You buried her yesterday.” The words are blunt. They hit my chest hard, knocking the air from my lungs. “We told you you didn’t need to be here tonight. We can keep a handle on everything.”

“No,” I repeat, and his lips thin. The other three men sit silently during our debate. “I can’t go home because she isn’t there.”

Hunter is sitting in one of the tall leather boardroom chairs, rocking back and forth while twirling a knife between his fingers. It’s a habit of his. Normally, a poor piece of fruit gets stabbed or another hole is created in one of the walls when he loses his temper. This time, I wonder if I’ll be the one to push him far enough to get a new hole. After a few moments of silence have passed, he speaks.

“Where are we, then, with all our ongoing activities?” he asks. “With events this past week, I’d be quite happy to go out and put a bullet in someone.”

“You and me both,” I mutter.

Harrison clears his throat, an attempt to bring the attention back to him, I think. Who put him in charge tonight, I don’t know. Normally, it’s Russell mouthing off and running the show. Being the oldest of the three lawyers, he likes to think he’s the brains behind every operation. No one ever bothers arguing with him. However, tonight, he is sitting next to his brother in silence. Every so often he glances over to the window, then returns his attention to the room.

“As far as Connie’s murder goes,” Harrison says, “we haven’t got a lot to go on. There’s the CCTV, which is a clear depiction of what happened.” His eyes flit to me, then move on to the others. “The vehicle the assailant stepped out of was stolen only hours before, then found dumped near the river burned out. The chances of getting any evidence from there is slim.”

“Fucking impossible,” I snap. My eyes are focused on my fingers, which are twisted together on the table in front of me. “This was a hit.”

“And you still think you were the target? Not Connie?” Connor asks, his voice calm and level.

“Yes. I believe this was revenge of some sort. Most likely for a case in the past.”

Connor continues, “And your gut feeling of who could be behind it?”

“Take your pick. I’ve been in the force for almost twenty years. Recently, I’ve locked up more career criminals than I care to think about. Some of their families were left destitute. Some will never see the light of day or breathe fresh air outside prison walls. There are dozens of potential suspects.”

"Yes, I understand,” Connor says firmly, both acknowledging and dismissing my little speech. “But if you had to put money on someone, who would it be? Who hates you enough to kill your wife?”

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