Fifty Fifty (Detective Harriet Blue #2)(83)

I grabbed onto Whitt’s shirt. I held on, partly so I didn’t fall. Partly so that I could shake him if I needed to. My whole body was afire. He wiped at the tears running down his cheeks.

‘He got away,’ he said. ‘I let him get away.’

‘We’ve got to find him,’ I said. ‘We … Where was he last seen? Have there been sightings since? Where’s Tox? What hospital is he in?’

‘ Harry.’ Whitt held on as I tried to twist away. His grip was hard. Painful. ‘Word came through from the prison a couple of hours ago. There was an incident early this morning. A fight broke out in Sam’s cell block. Harry, your brother’s dead.’





Chapter 132


I STARED UP at Whitt’s eyes. The airport around me had been reduced to nothing. No light. No sound. Just a hollow in which this man and I stood. The words tumbled out of him, even as I willed them to stop. Whitt ran a hand through his filthy hair.

‘Sam’s dead,’ he said again.

The words rang in my mind, vibrating, the echo of a bell struck hard. I held onto Whitt’s shirt. He pulled me into his chest, wrapped an arm around my head, trying to shield me from the onlookers I could still see over his shoulder. Whitt didn’t know what to do. He rubbed my back hard, tried to squeeze the pain out of me even as it began to creep into my blood. I shook my head against his chest. My eyes were wide. I was terrified of closing them, of losing my fragile grip on the room around me. If I could just stay here in this moment, in the airport terminal, if I could just hold on, maybe it wouldn’t be real.

No, a voice inside me said. Please don’t take my brother. Please. I don’t want to be left here alone. Don’t leave me here alone.

As the tears formed and I closed my eyes, I recognised what I’d been feeling since I left Last Chance. The sickness, the heat, the giddiness. It was Sam.

He was gone.





Chapter 133


I FELT THE fabric of Whitt’s shirt pull tight as someone tapped him on the arm. ‘Sir, ma’am? Is everything alright? Can I offer you some assistance?’

Whitt pulled away from me, took in the sight of the flight attendant before him like she was an alien creature, her spotless red blazer and unreal make-up a puzzlement. He spoke to her. Gestured. I didn’t listen. I turned and looked at the faces of the men and women who’d gathered around us. I looked from face to face. An elderly lady and her husband clutching their matching suitcase set. A pair of pierced young women lugging backpacks. A family. A group of businessmen. I looked at them, and I didn’t recognise them.

Once, I would have thought of these strangers as ‘civilians’. Non-police. Members of the public whose protection was my duty. They were what I woke for. What I breathed for. These strangers standing around me, those walking back and forth beyond them, getting on planes, getting in taxis.

Now they were just faceless people standing in my way.

I felt a rush of warmth over my limbs, an inner surrender. I was no longer a good Harry struggling to control her bad half. A battle had been lost. I felt dark inside. Hollow, dark and empty of goodness.

Because somewhere out there, beyond them all, beyond the terminal and the airport, Regan Banks was waiting. He was my purpose now. He would be what I continued breathing for. There would be time to grieve properly for Sam later, once I had Regan in my hands. I needed to find him, make him confess what he had done, force him to exonerate my brother. I couldn’t let the tears fall yet. There wasn’t time for that.

Second by second, he was getting away from me. And I was not going to let him escape.

I was not going to let him be caught by my colleagues, by Whitt or Tox, men who would spare his life.

He was going to be mine.

I walked away through the crowd. By the time Whitt noticed I was gone, it was too late.





I CAN’T STOP running. Not now. Not ever.

I think the police are following me. Unless they’re not.

That’s the crazy part. I’m just not sure.

Maybe somebody recognized me …

My picture’s been all over. I bet someone called the NYPD and said, “There’s a crazy guy, about forty-five years old, stumbling around SoHo. On Prince Street. Wild-man eyes. You’d better get him before he hurts himself.”

They always say that—“before he hurts himself.” Like they care.

That crazy guy is me. And if I had seen me, I would have called the cops, too. My dirty blond hair really is dirty and sweaty from running. The rest of me? I feel like hell and look worse. Torn jeans (not hip, just torn); dirty army-green T-shirt, dirty classic red-and-white Nikes. “Dirty” is the theme. But it doesn’t really matter.

All that matters right now is the box I’m carrying. A cardboard box, held together with pieces of string. What’s in it? A four-hundred-and-ten-page manuscript.

I keep running. I look around. So this is what SoHo’s become … neat and clean and very rich. Give the people what they want. And what they want is SoHo as a tourist attraction—high-tech gyms and upscale restaurants. Not much else. The cool “buy-in-bulk” underwear shops and electronics stores selling 1950s lighting fixtures have all disappeared. Today you can buy a five-hundred-dollar dinner of porcini mushroom foam with frozen nettle crème br?lée, but you can’t buy a pair of Jockey shorts or a Phillips-head screwdriver or a quart of skim milk.