Page 4 of London Dynasty

tion to act like he was the frustrated one. The stranger stepped back, allowing me to get a better look at him. He was dressed in an expensive suit, the kind men bought on the High Street in one of London’s ritzier neighborhoods. The kind that was far too expensive for him to be a police officer coming round to ask questions. His salt and pepper hair, coupled with the lines creasing his forehead and eyes, only made him look more distinguished. He didn’t belong in Bexby. He didn’t even belong in this postcode. So, why was he here nearly breaking down the door to my flat?

“I’m looking for a woman who works at that pub,” he said flatly, craning his head to get a better look at me through the chained door. He slid his hand into his breast pocket, and I fought the urge to slam the door in his face. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps he was a police officer with good taste, and he was simply reaching for his badge. He drew out a phone, and I relaxed. “This woman.”

He held the phone screen out so I could see it. It was a picture of me from the pub. I looked flustered, and the angle was terrible. It was the photo the jerks had snapped of me yesterday without asking permission.

“Why do you want to talk to her?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t see much of me through the opening. My heart began to race, and I wished Eliza had answered the door. She would have known how to handle a strange man showing up on our doorstep.

“I need her help,” he said curtly.

A brilliant idea occurred to me. Something told me I needed to get him out of here and fast. I needed to distract him long enough to figure out what to do. Eliza had an ex-boyfriend who might provide some backup muscle. I just needed to get rid of the stranger long enough to call him. “Maybe you should try the pub.”

“The pub is closed today, and I need to return to London as soon as possible. If you know this woman, I would be very grateful for any information. In fact, allow me to show you how much.” His hand reached into his pocket again and drew out a billfold. A moment later, three crisp 100-pound notes were in his hand. “Do you know her?”

“Just a moment,” I stammered. Closing the door, I leaned against it and tried to breathe. It was a remarkably stupid idea to open the door to a man, no matter what he was offering. He was probably a murderer who sought out women who lived in shabby flats, knowing they’d open the door for the right price. The smart thing would be to lock the door, call the police, and hope he went away.

I didn’t move from the spot.

But three hundred pounds meant I wouldn’t have to take Eliza’s handout again this month. I could do my part. I could even buy some groceries or set some aside in case my shitty waitressing skills kept me from earning enough for next month’s bills. If he left, I’d regret it. Good fortune didn’t usually find itself on my doorstep, and it might not bother calling again if I slammed the door on it now.

I straightened and drew my robe more tightly around my waist. There was no time to check the mirror, and after a night of drinking, I couldn’t imagine the state I would be in. I slid the chain free with my index finger and opened the door.

The man had turned away as though he was about to leave, but he spun toward me now. His mouth was opened but whatever he was going to say died on his lips.

“How?” he breathed before shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You look like…”

“I’m Kate,” I interrupted him. “That picture is of me.”

I didn’t know what else to say or what to expect. A few moments passed in stony silence as he stared at me as though trying to process these two facts. Finally, he held out the money. “I’d like to talk to you, Kate. May I come in?”

I stepped back, prayed he wasn’t concealing an ax in his tailored suit jacket, and waved him inside. He stepped through the door, his eyes searching the flat as though he was looking for something. They stopped on the small table in the front room cluttered with empty wine bottles. Then landed on the ashtray full of Eliza’s cigarette stubs. Other than that the place was very tidy, owing in no small part to our lack of worldly goods. The flat had been spartan when I moved in, and I hadn’t brought more than a bag of clothes with me. Since then, we’d picked up a few cast-off pieces of furniture, accumulated a stack of newspapers, and not much else.

I spotted Eliza’s bra peeking out from behind a pillow on the sofa, and I scrambled over to grab it. “Please have a seat,” I said, sinking down and shoving it deep into the cushions.

He took an armchair we’d found in the second-hand shop around the corner, his fingers grazing over its worn arms. A look of distaste curled his upper lip, but he said nothing.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered.

“Don’t go to the trouble,” he said, somehow making it sound both polite and condescending at once. “I came to speak to you.”

“Why?” I asked. I was nobody. He was sitting in the very proof of that fact now.

“That photograph I showed you,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “to be honest, I’d hoped to find someone else here.”

“Kerrigan?” I asked and his eyes widened.

“Yes…”

“That’s what the ass who took that photo of me, without permission I might add, called me.”

“Then, you haven’t seen her?” Disappointment colored the question. When I shook my head, his shoulders slumped like branches sagging under their own weight. “I suppose I had hoped you might be…”

“Her?” I couldn’t contain my surprise. “No, and I told that guy yesterday that.” Had he really come all the way from London to see if I’d been lying? “I looked up Kerrigan last night. I doubt you’re going to find her anywhere this...humble.” It was the nicest way I could put it. It would have been more accurate to say that I doubted she would lower herself to even stepping one pedicured foot into West Bexby let alone take a cheap flat over a hair salon.

“You must forgive me. I’m just rather desperate to find her.”

“Did you lose her?” I thought of the recent photos I’d seen on Kerrigan’s social media accounts. Most of them included snow and Christmas decorations. It was late summer now, which meant she hadn’t posted recently. No doubt her hundreds of thousands of followers were disappointed. Maybe one had finally tracked her down. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know her or where she is.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted.