The Color of Blood by Declan Hughes Page B

Casey?” There was a satisfying reaction: Shane’s jaw fell open, and Denis flashed an urgent look at Sandra, who was staring at the table. Each of them knew. None of them would answer. I leant my hands on the table. I didn’t have to fake it.
    “You people are living in a dream if you think I can do anything for you,” I said. “I found Emily without your help; keeping her safe — and your precious family’s reputation intact — isn’t going to be as easy. A case like this, it tends to shine its light into corners you thought would never be exposed. But if you’re hell-bent on keeping all your secrets, fine, just be prepared to take your chances with blackmail, maybe even jail time for Emily. Let me know what you decide — I can’t hang around — and neither will our good friends the Guards.”
     
Eight
     
    I WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE WHITE ROTUNDA OF ROWAN House when Sandra Howard caught up with me. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me around, and I shook her hand away. She looked at me as if I had slapped her.
    “What gives you the right to talk to us like that? Who the fuck do you think you are?” she said. She stepped in and raised her hand to slap me. I caught her wrist and held it.
    “I thought I could trust you,” I said. “I don’t like being lied to.”
    I let her wrist go. She held her hand in space for a moment, then reached for the back of my head, and her eyes widened and her lips parted as she pulled herself close to me and pushed her face at mine, and her smell was all salt earth and spice, and I could feel the blood in my chest, in my throat, and we were kissing, her hands in my hair, pressing my mouth to hers, her tongue on mine. She put my hand on her breast, and ran hers between my legs; we were pulling at each other’s clothes, biting each other’s lips. “Come on,” she said, and maybe she had a room in mind, but we didn’t get further than the stairs; she turned on the wide steps and pushed me down and lowered herself on me with a moan, and we fucked beneath a portrait of Dr. John Howard, and our cries echoed around the hall like memories, and when we finished, her eyes were wet on my brow.
    “What is it?” I said.
    She shook her head and put a finger to my lips and smiled.
    “I’m sorry, Ed. I’m sorry Shane has drawn you into all this. Drawn you in here.”
    She wouldn’t say any more. We fixed ourselves up and stood in the hall, not looking one another in the eye. I had a metallic taste in my mouth; I drew my knuckle across my lips and it came away smeared with blood; Sandra laughed and did the same. It was the kind of sex you spend your life dreaming about and doing your best to avoid, the kind that, even if you almost always regret it, makes you feel like you’re truly alive. There was a sound from across the hall, as if someone was approaching; when no one came, I thought it more likely that someone had been watching, then slipped away.
    Sandra came out with me to my car. The mist seemed to have cleared a little, at least enough to make out bonfires south toward the mountains; the damp night air was thick with smoke. Sandra leant against the roof.
    “You don’t have to know everything, Ed,” she said. “What happened twenty years ago may not be relevant today.”
    “You thought it was in the case of Jessica. You think it is for Jonathan and Dr. Rock.”
    “And what, we should share everything with you and let you decide what’s important?”
    “That’s right,” I said, smiling because she was, smiles as steady and false as masks.
    “And what does that make you? More father confessor than detective.”
    “Call it what you will,” I said. “I’ll find it out anyway. What happened here didn’t start last week, and it’s not going to stop overnight. All you can do is slow it down. Once it’s begun, you can’t stop it. Unless you want to sacrifice Emily and Jonathan. Because they’re the ones who are suffering for your silence.”
    This time I let the