all such thoughts immediately evaporated.
I’m so sorry - it was real
N x
The message had appeared on the mirror above the sink. Written by finger, the steam had clouded the entire mirror except for the message. She had been asked constantly whether Nick had left her a massage. Nothing had been found during the search, yet this was the simplest but oldest trick in the book. Frankie stared at the message, not knowing what to feel or do. The man she knew was dead. This was a message from dead Nick. The Nick that still lived, she didn’t know. She smiled. He had loved her. Dead Nick had loved her. Live Nick didn’t. Live Nick was going to be stopped— even if that meant killed— with her help. She grabbed her phone and snapped a photo of the message. Carson would know what to do.
Dressed and ready, she walked across the driveway and unlocked the Prius, the car she used for work. She looked at the beautiful clear blue sky and the 911s cloth top. Fuck it, she thought. She went back into the house and, grabbed the Porsche keys, retracted its roof and pulled away. Her life was an open book now. Hiding her background was irrelevant. Everyone at the center was going to know everything about her as part of the investigation. She had nothing left to hide.
Carson’s car was already in the lot when she arrived. She smiled. He had taken the Director’s spot, the spot which Turner had used the previous day. Turner arrived while she waited for her roof to close, and he tried not to show annoyance as he drove past ‘his’ spot to find another.
Frankie waited for him, pondering whether to tell him about the message. She decided against. She’d tell Carson first.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
“Is it?” was the gruff and unfriendly response.
Frankie was initially taken aback until she remembered. “What time did you find out?”
“We left here just after 2:30 a.m.” he replied, marching towards the entrance. Frankie had to jog to keep up.
“So who was in the car?”
“A teenager who’d been approached by ‘some guy’ in the street to deliver the car to Marseille for 500 euros.”
“What? And he was doing it?”
“He lives in a tough part of town and they made it clear they knew who he was and where his family lived.”
“Deliver the car or we’ll pay you a visit?”
Turner nodded holding the center’s main door open for her. “He didn’t recognize the guy?” she asked.
“The description fits every dark haired young man in France and I don’t know if you’ve been to France, but they’re almost all dark haired!”
“So he was scared?”
“Shitless. He assumed there were drugs in the trunk and still wants to deliver the car, just in case they do come after him.”
“Dead end?”
Turner nodded. “Just as you thought,” he added pointedly.
“Would you have done it differently had we told you he wasn’t in there?”
Turner pondered for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he said, much to Frankie’s surprise.
Carson was waiting for them in Turner’s office.
“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” he said, knowing Carson preferred Harry.
“Morning, Paul,” he replied. Touché.
Before they had a chance to talk, the night supervisor knocked and entered. His update was short and succinct. They had had little progress overnight. Even the black box they had retrieved from the prince’s jet on landing at Riyadh had offered nothing. It had mysteriously developed a fatal electrical fault and had failed to record any of the journey.
“Any ideas?” asked Turner once the supervisor had left the room.
“Other than work through the leads, I’m struggling,” said Carson.
“We know the prince, my mother’s cousin, is lying,” said Frankie.
Turner smiled at the reference to his comment the previous evening. “I know, your mother has thousands of cousins. I’m sorry, it was a long day.”
“That’s okay, and anyway, not one of those thousands of
I’m so sorry - it was real
N x
The message had appeared on the mirror above the sink. Written by finger, the steam had clouded the entire mirror except for the message. She had been asked constantly whether Nick had left her a massage. Nothing had been found during the search, yet this was the simplest but oldest trick in the book. Frankie stared at the message, not knowing what to feel or do. The man she knew was dead. This was a message from dead Nick. The Nick that still lived, she didn’t know. She smiled. He had loved her. Dead Nick had loved her. Live Nick didn’t. Live Nick was going to be stopped— even if that meant killed— with her help. She grabbed her phone and snapped a photo of the message. Carson would know what to do.
Dressed and ready, she walked across the driveway and unlocked the Prius, the car she used for work. She looked at the beautiful clear blue sky and the 911s cloth top. Fuck it, she thought. She went back into the house and, grabbed the Porsche keys, retracted its roof and pulled away. Her life was an open book now. Hiding her background was irrelevant. Everyone at the center was going to know everything about her as part of the investigation. She had nothing left to hide.
Carson’s car was already in the lot when she arrived. She smiled. He had taken the Director’s spot, the spot which Turner had used the previous day. Turner arrived while she waited for her roof to close, and he tried not to show annoyance as he drove past ‘his’ spot to find another.
Frankie waited for him, pondering whether to tell him about the message. She decided against. She’d tell Carson first.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
“Is it?” was the gruff and unfriendly response.
Frankie was initially taken aback until she remembered. “What time did you find out?”
“We left here just after 2:30 a.m.” he replied, marching towards the entrance. Frankie had to jog to keep up.
“So who was in the car?”
“A teenager who’d been approached by ‘some guy’ in the street to deliver the car to Marseille for 500 euros.”
“What? And he was doing it?”
“He lives in a tough part of town and they made it clear they knew who he was and where his family lived.”
“Deliver the car or we’ll pay you a visit?”
Turner nodded holding the center’s main door open for her. “He didn’t recognize the guy?” she asked.
“The description fits every dark haired young man in France and I don’t know if you’ve been to France, but they’re almost all dark haired!”
“So he was scared?”
“Shitless. He assumed there were drugs in the trunk and still wants to deliver the car, just in case they do come after him.”
“Dead end?”
Turner nodded. “Just as you thought,” he added pointedly.
“Would you have done it differently had we told you he wasn’t in there?”
Turner pondered for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he said, much to Frankie’s surprise.
Carson was waiting for them in Turner’s office.
“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” he said, knowing Carson preferred Harry.
“Morning, Paul,” he replied. Touché.
Before they had a chance to talk, the night supervisor knocked and entered. His update was short and succinct. They had had little progress overnight. Even the black box they had retrieved from the prince’s jet on landing at Riyadh had offered nothing. It had mysteriously developed a fatal electrical fault and had failed to record any of the journey.
“Any ideas?” asked Turner once the supervisor had left the room.
“Other than work through the leads, I’m struggling,” said Carson.
“We know the prince, my mother’s cousin, is lying,” said Frankie.
Turner smiled at the reference to his comment the previous evening. “I know, your mother has thousands of cousins. I’m sorry, it was a long day.”
“That’s okay, and anyway, not one of those thousands of
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