Page 114 of Burn Like An Angel

No.

That isn’t true at all.

Sure, some of us earned our place there. You only have to look at the long list of convictions that were quickly doled out when the world started the lengthy process of assigning blame for what unfolded.

Not everyone deserved to be hammered with society’s hatred and disgust, though. Regardless of what they did, and the innocents they harmed, to ensure their own survival. Which is exactly why I’m here today.

“Mr Beck?”

Wrenched from my musings, I look over my shoulder. “Mr O’Hare.”

His morning coffee in hand and a tan, leather satchel slung over his shoulder, Elliot O’Hare blends into the crowd on his morning commute. I’ve memorised his routine well enough. The investigative journalist is a creature of habit.

“What are you doing here?” He jostles on his feet to keep warm.

I push off from the wall. “Waiting for you.”

“You’re alone.”

Staring at him, I lift my shoulder in a shrug.

“Changed your mind about that interview?” Elliot fishes.

The anticipation gleaming in his eyes turns my stomach. I’ve denied enough media requests over the years. None captured more than a split-second of my attention. But I’m not here for me.

It isn’t selfishness that’s led me to lurk outside his place of work at eight o’clock in the morning, waiting for the nosy reporter to show his face. I swear, the fucking lengths I go to. Yet I’m labelled obsessive and controlling.

When I don’t immediately answer, he scans his security fob to open the door. “How about a cup of coffee?”

Fuck yes, you leech.

Nodding, I follow him inside the fancy skyscraper, escaping the lightly-misting rain. Elliot has a quiet word with the security guard manning the entrance before he’s handed a visitor’s pass that’s then passed to me.

My body clenches tight with paranoia as I watch the guard absently wave us past. His eyes are glued to his morning newspaper. Thank fuck he didn’t insist on doing a search.

“Right this way,” Elliot chirps. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr Beck.”

I have to grit my teeth to maintain my blank expression. He thinks he’s scored a big fish. To get to where I need to go, I have to keep it that way. Lips pursed, I follow Elliot over to the elevators and we ride upwards.

“What changed your mind?” he asks.

“Irrelevant.”

Elliot chuckles softly. “Believe it or not, we’re on the same side.”

“And what side would that be?”

“The side of the truth.”

Welcome rage swirls in my chest, a vortex spewing sulphuric ash that quickly heats my veins. “No one has ever cared about that.”

“Well, I do.”

“I’m sure.”

Slipping the lanyard over my head, I smooth a hand down my pressed, white polo shirt, tucked into plain black jeans. Inmy periphery, I can see Elliot trying to subtly look at my toned forearms.

Pale skin stretched over corded muscles, both arms are layered with years’ worth of meticulous horizontal lines. They haven’t faded since I first inflicted the marks as a sullen teenager, fascinated by the pain that accompanied seeing myself bleed.

---