Emma stared at the fire trying not to cry and failing miserably. She took deep breaths and blinked rapidly but her vision of the merrily dancing flames in front of her continued to blur. Her chin trembled with suppressed sobs, her throat and chest felt tight as she shredded the tissue in her hands.
Beyond the crackling of the fire, the small apartment was silent. No one hummed in the background as they made coffee or sighed as they settled onto the couch. She was alone; the comforting sounds she longed to hear were gone forever, just like Alex. In the corner of the room, the Christmas tree they’d decorated together twinkled brightly, its baubles and tinsel sad reminders of what she had lost. Part of her wanted to take the tree down, to block out all thoughts of the approaching holiday, while the other half of her wanted to cling to the memory of their last day together.
Oh what the hell, she thought leaning her head against the back of the chair, let the tears fall. Who was she trying to impress? Alex was dead and she felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest. The man she’d loved… No. That wasn’t right. Had was past tense. She still loved him. He was gone but she’d never stop loving him. The pain might fade, eventually, but he’d always reside in a part of her heart, no matter what anyone else might think.
The doubting tones and pitying looks of the police played through her mind. When she’d contacted them today, they hadn’t found any records to corroborate her story. No shooting. No listing for an Alex Flint residing in the city. They thought she was crazy, that she’d made the whole story up, but she knew differently no matter what they might say.
She clenched her fists and beat them rhythmically on her thighs in time with her thoughts.
He had been real.
He had existed.
The shooting hadn’t been a dream.
The past few weeks weren’t a figment of her imagination!
The man she loved was gone and she had every right to the pity party she was now wallowing in. A box of tissues, comfy old clothes, her hair a disaster. All that was missing was a tub of ice cream. Ice cream made her think of Alex. He’d loved the stuff. In fact, she still had a tub of his favourite flavour in her freezer. She’d likely never eat it, always keep it in the insane hope he’d return. She gave a weak laugh.
Insane. That was her. Mourning for a man no one believed existed.
She rubbed the moisture away from her eyes and pushed herself out of the armchair. Needing to do something, she moved over to her piano. Playing it always soothed her. Picking out a tune in a desultory manner, she realised she was playing the Christmas carol that the mechanical angel had been singing in the miniature village when Alex had been shot. She quickly pulled her hands away from the keys. Every detail from last night was vividly etched in her mind. Like a movie, it played over and over. The sound of the shot, the weight of Alex’s body as he fell on her, the stark contrast of red blood against pure white snow. There was no way she could have imagined all of that. She turned on the piano stool, and stared at the phone. Maybe she should call the police and try to explain again.
No. They’d already told her they had no records and no witnesses to the shooting in the park. No hospital or morgue had received a body fitting Alex’s description.
In fact, there was no evidence that an Alexander Flint ever existed.
After passing out in the park, she’d regained consciousness to find herself on her sofa with no recollection of how she’d got there. In fact, for a few minutes she thought she’d awoken from some strange dream but ticket stubs from the movie theatre and the blood stains on her coat had dispelled that idea. She knew she wasn’t crazy, that her memories of the man were real. So why was everyone so sure she was hallucinating?
A sudden shiver shook her body and she walked over to the window to close the curtains. Her building was old and prone to drafts and creaks and doors that didn’t shut properly. Some might complain, but for the most part she felt the high ceilings and decorative details more than made up for those minor inconveniences. Glancing down at the street below before she shut out the night she noticed the shadowy figure of a man. As big as Alex with a similar build but he appeared darker, more swarthy in colouring. He stood just at the edge of the pool of light thrown by the street lamp opposite her building. Frowning, she realized she’d seen him earlier in the day as well. He’d been at the newsstand where she’d bought a paper, hoping for a report of the shooting. Someone new in the neighbourhood? Or was he watching her?
That thought sent another shiver over her. Was he working for the Montrose corporation? Could he be the one behind the attack? The cops might say nothing had happened, that what she insisted was a gunshot had just been a car backfiring, but she knew differently. She was sure she’d been the intended target of that one lone bullet and Alex had died in her stead.
One bullet. One deadly accurate bullet that had left an innocent man bleeding to death in the snow. Alex was gone. She’d never see him again. Never hear his laughter or feel the warmth of his hand holding hers.
Tears welled in her eyes once more; an unbearable ache filled her chest. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to hug the memory of love to her body. Sinking to the floor, she rested her head against the wall and tried to understand what was happening. And why.
It’d all started about a month ago, just after she’d met Alex. She’d been going over the books for Montrose’s chain of nightclubs. Inelegantly, she snorted; now, there was a misnomer! They were strip joints and rumours abounded that there were criminal connections as well. Perhaps that was why she’d taken extra care with Montrose’s account or maybe it was just a coincidence that she noticed a discrepancy during the course of her monthly review of the ledgers. And, once she’d noticed it, she’d started to pull previous files and had begun to check back.
Then, just two days after she’d pulled the archived files she’d been called into the partners’ conference room. Mr. Stapleton had been seated behind the expanse of the highly polished table while she’d sat in a single, straight-backed chair facing him. The look in his eyes had been cold and no hint of a smile had graced his face. He was a far cry from the paternal looking man who’d interviewed her for the job less than a year earlier. She had felt like she’d been called in front of the Spanish Inquisition.
“Ms. Campbell, it has come to our attention that your present caseload is taxing your abilities.”
“Taxing my abilities?” Her eyebrows had shot upwards; her professional skills had never been questioned before.
“Yes. You’ve been putting in long hours to meet your deadlines. Your work is…satisfactory but…” He shook his head.
Satisfactory? Damned by faint praise. She’d opened her mouth to protest—just six months ago she’d been given a commendation for her handling of the Brisbane account—but wasn’t given an opportunity to speak.
“However, we fear it isn’t leaving you much leisure time. A case of all work and no play. We take the well-being of our clients and our employees seriously.” The sharp look on his face had morphed into the fatherly look she was accustomed to seeing only there’d been a distinct air of insincerity about it. “An over-taxed employee makes mistakes, requires more sick leave, becomes dissatisfied which negatively impacts the morale of the whole company. With that in mind, we’re moving you to the New Image account. It should be an excellent fit for you.”
“New Image – the beauty salon chain? But what about Montrose Incorporated?”
“Ian Newcombe will take over that portfolio.”
“Well…” She’d thought quickly, not wanting to lose all access to the Montrose files given her growing suspicions. “I’ll be more than happy to help Ian with the Montrose account, at least until he’s familiar with the books.”
Mr. Stapleton had frowned at her suggestion. “We have the utmost faith in Ian’s abilities.”
“It’s just…” She’d nervously licked her lips, feeling if she didn’t speak up, she’d never have the opportunity again.
“Yes?”
“I…I’ve noticed a discrepancy in the Montrose files and I became curious about some of the entries. The numbers seem to balance, but when I checked back a few months—”
“Enough.” Mr. Stapleton had leaned forward and hit the desk surface with his hand, the sound causing her to jump. “Ms. Campbell, I’ve been more than patient with you. It’s obvious that even the bare basics of accounting escape you when dealing with a portfolio as large as Montrose. You’ve been given your new assignment. Confine yourself and your curiosity to New Image.”
“But…”
His voice had deepened, took on a warning tone. “Stay away from the Montrose account. If you continue to poke around in places where you’re not invited you may find it bad for your health.”
She’d opened her mouth to protest but closed it when he’d narrowed his eyes at her. Something about the way he’d said ‘bad for your health’ sent a shiver down her spine.
“You are dismissed.”
She’d risen from her seat and hurried from the room before Mr. Stapleton decided to fire her. If she was let go by the firm, how long would it be before she could find another position as good as this one?
Making her way back to her work station, the once friendly atmosphere of the firm had seemed absent. Those she’d passed in the hall hadn’t met her gaze for as long as usual, the nods and smiles were cooler. And when she’d passed by the small coffee station, had the conversation paused and then continued on in quieter tones? Maybe it was all her imagination. Or maybe she’d been wearing rose-coloured glasses all these months. Surely everyone in the firm couldn’t know she’d been subtly demoted for poking her nose into the Montrose account?
Back in her office, she’d pulled up the New Image file but her mind hadn’t been on learning the ins and outs of a beauty salon. Thoughts of what she’d discovered kept swirling around in her head. What if her suspicions were true? What if Montrose’s businesses weren’t on the up and up?
She’d spent the next few weeks giving Ian Newcombe gentle prods and eventually not-so-subtle hints about there being problems with the books. The man had brushed her off, even going so far as to tell her he’d been informed that unpleasant things might happen to people who got too curious, and that he, for one, was just going to do what he was told. He rather wanted to keep his job. He’d raised an eyebrow and given her a meaningful stare. That had been two days before the shooting.
Pulling herself back to the present, she stood up, tugged the curtains shut and returned to her chair only to bounce back up to her feet. Dammit, was she going to sit next to the fire and mope or was she going to try and find out what the hell was going on? She was made of sterner stuff than this! Alex deserved better than one person mourning his death. He deserved justice; to have his death avenged by someone throwing his murderer behind bars. And, based on her conversations with the police, that someone would have to be her. She’d ferret out his killer and make the police listen to her! In her gut, she just knew this had to be related to the error she’d found in Montrose’s books. She gave a decisive nod. Those books would be the logical place to begin her snooping.
Checking her watch, she saw it was almost midnight. Hmm… Perhaps she could put in some extra time on the salon chain’s books. A long, lonely weekend stretched ahead of her so she might as well get some work done, right? At least that was the excuse she’d give if anyone asked what she was doing. And, while she was collecting her papers from the office, she might just copy some of Montrose’s as well.
She smirked, feeling pleased with her plan. No one would be around at this time of night, especially on a Friday. Well, no one except the security guard, Mr. Morris, and he was a sweetie. He was often coming in to work just as she was leaving, his thermos of coffee and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He wouldn’t give her any trouble.
Giving a nod, she reached for her coat only to pause. What about that guy downstairs watching her apartment? Emma turned out all the lights and eased the curtain away from the edge of the window. He’d gone! She pulled the curtain back completely and looked up and down the road outside. Nothing. Not a sign of him.
Someone watching her wasn’t good but not knowing where that person had gone was even more unnerving. For a minute her imagination got the better of her. What if he’d entered the apartment building and was, at this very moment, standing in the hallway waiting to break down the door? Her heart started to pound and she hurried towards the door, intent on barricading herself inside when her more sensible self finally took over. There was a security lock on the building’s entrances, front and back. It was the main reason she’d moved in to the place despite the steep rent. Most likely that man wasn’t watching her at all. It was just a coincidence that she’d seen him twice today.
But you were shot at, the other half of her insisted. You need to be careful.
For a few moments she stood indecisively in the middle of the room before deciding to take action. She wasn’t going to hide for the rest of her life but she’d take precautions. Risking her life after Alex gave his saving her hardly seemed a fitting way to repay him.
It only took a matter of minutes to change her clothes, stuff her long curls under a hat and to wrap a scarf around her face. Not a great disguise and it wouldn’t stand up against close scrutiny, but the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment. Turning up her collar, she headed for the door.