My head leans back on the sofa, another wave of sickness just about ready to make me race to the bathroom again. Now what? At least I haven't told Landon I’ve found her yet. That’s a good fucking start. Don’t have to call him up now and tell him the little bitch just outsmarted me – again. I smile to myself about that, a throaty chuckle thinking about gaining some volume. Cat and mouse is becoming more like dog hunts fox because she’s pissing me right off now, and making me sick was a class act I did not see coming.
Talking of …
I’m back at the toilet for the next fuck knows how long, and then it’s just a slog to concentrate, let alone think about moving. I lie quietly on the sofa, a bowl at my side and a wet cloth on my head. Not going to make any difference, but seems like the only thing that’s going to get me moving again is rest for a while.
I take in the time lazily – eight thirty am – and think about the flight. I’ve got time. Forty minutes to the airport, and the fight’s not until eleven fifty. I’ll just stay still for a while longer, maybe think about where the hell she’s gone now. With any luck, she’ll be waiting for me at the airport when I get there, that wry look on her face that makes her seem important.
“Bitch.”
Done thinking about her, I crawl off the sofa by ten and make sure I’ve got the rest of the vomit out of me before I leave. I flag a taxi down in the market and listen to more fuck-awful music all the way back to the airport. He doesn’t stop talking the entire way there either, trying to entice me into more sightseeing trips. Not even when I ask him to pull over so I can throw up again.
“Shut the fuck up,” I grate out, annoyed with everything.
He doesn’t. He starts talking about his mother’s hotel and the fact that she could put me up for the night. Sickness bad, he says. Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I rise up from my crouched position on the side of the dusty road, then get back in the cab and glare at him to get moving. I’m not staying in this country a second longer than I have to. I’d rather die on the first-class flight than I would out here.
By the time I’m actually there, through arrivals, and getting my arse onto the plane, I feel a bit more fucking human than I have done. Considering I haven’t eaten or drank anything since last night, I’m guessing there’s nothing else left in me to come out. I rest on the chair, barely interested in anything that’s going on around me. The outside moves, wheels underneath me turn, and I close my eyes as the plane takes off. Home. Good.
Sleep.
A flight attendant wakes me. I look up at her smiling down at me and asking if I want some lunch. Just the thought is enough for me to run for the bathroom. More sickness, but at least it’s more like heaving than actually vomiting this time. I take a bottle of water that’s been left on the tray for me when I get back to my seat, sipping again. That’s got to be all there is, for fuck’s sake. And then the attendant’s back, offering me crackers and some powder.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just take it, sir. It will alleviate the sickness.”
I do. Fuck it, nothing can make me feel worse. Thankfully, she’s right. Within twenty minutes, my stomach’s settled enough for me to think clearly again. The first thing that comes to mind is calling Landon to report in. Can’t even lie to him to make myself feel better about being outsmarted by one of them. That’s the most aggravating thing about the call I should make. A Broderick woman got one over me. It’s enough to make me not bother making the call at all. He said report back when I’d got her – I haven’t.
Yet.
~
London is, as usual, busy, and by the time I pull up to my place and get in, it's gone six pm. I feel like a bag of shit, but I don’t have time to pander to that crap. I’ve got a Broderick to hunt down. I rip my sweaty shirt off and walk straight to my office to start booting up all my systems, logging into each one and starting the usual protocol of checking shit out. An hour later, after some research of ferries and ports from this side of the water, I still can’t find her little arse anywhere.
Feel hungry, though.
I step out into the old kitchen, reaching for the fridge. Several bottled beers sit there waiting for me, but I grab some food and start putting a sandwich together. Smart enough to know you don’t eat quickly after that amount of vomit, I take my time with small bites and sip at some water slowly. I make my way out into the garden after that, staring out into the nothingness.
Wide-open fields spread around the old farm, and the only thing that breaks the view is the crumbling animal buildings scattered about. Been here a while now. It’s nice. Quiet. No people. It’s a far cry from my roots, but no one wants to stay where I grew up. Lucky, I guess. I made enough to get out of there. Might have been dodgy as fuck making it, but needs must. Gramps told me that. Get out of here, son, he said. Make a life. Pretty sure he meant get married, have kids, live like other people do. That’s not for me, though. But this? This was bought a few years after he died and my brother got put away. A new start.
Died?
Anthony Broderick’s funeral is in a few days.
Maybe our little murderer is on her way home for that. Not that I’m sure she is a murderer. She seemed pretty convincing last night while she talked. In fact, she damn near begged me to believe her. Some of what she said made sense. I mean, why would she? What reason would she possibly have to kill her own father? It shouldn’t bother me, or interest me, but it does. I don’t mind bringing her to heel for Landon, and what goes on after that point shouldn’t be my business, but I think I believed her.
I go back inside and look through the paperwork I’ve still got from Ivy. It’s a skill - lying. And whilst she might be good at running, I didn’t read any lies in those eyes of hers. She knew what she was talking about. She knew the Davis name, knew things she shouldn’t have known unless she was investigating like Ivy was. Or someone fed her the info.
Lewis Davis. I link into the genealogy site and start tracking through the old correlations I made for Ivy. And there he is. It doesn’t take much more work to get a firm fix on where he’s stated as living, but with all this shit going down, and if what Neve is saying is the truth, it’s not a certainty that the place isn’t fake. She said he worked in cybersecurity, or so she thought. If he is anywhere near that game, he’ll be as skilled as she is and potentially as good as I am. And, at this point in time, I don’t have anywhere near enough info from her to know any more than that. I need more. More intelligence, more reasons and situations. Why the fuck am I searching, anyway? I should be tracking her down, not him.
I shove the keyboard away from me and stand, stretching. She poisoned me, and now I’m having a look around to see if I can prove her innocence to her family? Fucking stupid. And not my job. What I should be doing is letting Landon know there’s another potential killer on the loose, one who could be coming for them. Don’t know what to do about that. Not even that fucking bothered if he does get killed. Might even help me. At least I wouldn’t be bent over a barrel anymore. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already. All those years dealing with the Canes must have put him in the direct line of fire a fair few times.
I walk to the kitchen and get a beer, and then head back to my screens to keep on searching for her. Ferries and ports, planes and shit. That’s all I’ve got for the time being. She’ll come back sooner or later. I’ve got a feeling she’s going to need to see her daddy put in the ground. Fake passport or not, there isn’t a way into this country without going through some border checks, either as Neve Broderick or Samantha Whittle. And that means I’m going to find her.
Whether she wants finding or not.
Chapter Eight
NEVE
