Forever Black

Prologue - Part 2

PROLOGUE - PART 2

NICK DREW BACK and tried to look me in the eye, but I couldn’t meet his gaze.

“You don’t know for sure that Black’s dead.”

He clearly hadn’t been to the hotel and seen the c*****e outside reception.

“Yes, I do. Nobody survived that explosion. Trust me; I know.”

Nick went quiet. Any words he could have offered would have been inadequate. Instead, he tucked me in his arms, shielding me from onlookers and two dozen cops who didn’t have an ounce of tact between them. One tried to approach, full of questions, and got the sharp end of Nick’s tongue.

“Back off and leave her the hell alone. She’s not speaking to you today.”

The guy from the back of the van was loaded into the ambulance and shipped off to the hospital, but I barely noticed. Even the fire brigade who came to extinguish the burning vehicle hardly registered. The only thing I was vividly aware of was the burning smell of human flesh from the barbecued driver. That stayed with me for weeks afterwards.

“Nate’s at the hotel,” Nick said, after a brief phone conversation. “Do you want to go there?”

I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see the mangled, charred wreckage of the car my husband had burned to death in, especially since it would be accompanied by the same stench.

“Can you take me to the hospital instead?” I wanted to be first in line if tyre-iron guy survived.

But he didn’t.

“Massive internal injuries, I’m afraid,” the bespectacled doctor told me, feigning sympathy. “He was gone before we got him out of the ambulance.”

I sank onto a hard plastic seat in the waiting room, my mind black. Empty. In less than half a day, my whole world had twisted into a nightmare I’d never wake up from.

Nick must have taken me home although I had no recollection of the journey. By the time he carried me upstairs and put me to bed, I’d gone numb. His lips moved, but I heard nothing. I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t move; I couldn’t think.

That night, I relived the explosion. Over and over and over and over. I lost count of the number of times I woke up screaming. Nick stayed with me, fidgeting on the sofa by the window, undoubtedly ready to make a swift leap off the balcony if the need arose. A long time had passed since he spent a night in the same room as me, and on the last occasion, I’d sent him on a trip to the hospital. It was a testament to how worried he must have been that he stuck it out. I did notice he had a Taser in his lap, though, just in case.

Things only got worse the next day when the police arrived. I couldn’t get out of bed. If I stayed buried under the covers, perhaps this horror story would turn out to be a bad dream. My three closest girlfriends, Dan, Mack, and Carmen hovered at my bedside, at least one of them there at all times, never leaving me alone. Dan had the hugs, Mack had the tissues, and Carmen had the gun.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Nick slipped inside.

“There’s a couple of detectives downstairs.”

“So?”

Let them stay downstairs. There was no love lost between me and the local cops.

Nick sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed my hand. “Baby, they can’t identify Black by sight, and his teeth were too badly damaged for dental records to be an option.”

“It’s him. I know it’s him. I was right there, Nicky.”

“I understand, Ems. But they say they have to be sure. They want a DNA sample.”

Black and I had always guarded our privacy fiercely. Neither of us had fingerprints or DNA on file. On the rare occasions they did pop up, Mack simply hacked in to whatever system they’d appeared in and erased them. But he was dead now, so what did it matter?

“Fine. Give them the DNA. Then tell them to get lost.”

While Nick went to Black’s room to hunt for a hair sample, I rolled over and curled up again.

Don’t think; don’t think; don’t think; don’t think.

But the police wouldn’t leave. Nate stood outside my door like a guard dog for the rest of the day, and every so often, I heard an angry exchange of words. Eventually, though, after ensuring I was suitably lawyered up, he had to allow the police to question me.

“Just stick to the bare minimum, Ems.”

“Do we know anything new?”

“They’ve identified the dead fucker from the hospital. A wanted hitman, and the driver too. The pair of them had a collection of outstanding warrants from here to California.”

So I was right.

“Any news on who hired them?”

“The money trail’s a dead end. The cops found two hundred thousand in cash when they searched their hotel room, but it could have come from anywhere.”

“Two hundred? Is that all?”

How could Black’s life have been worth so little? My rates started at five times that.

Nate rubbed his temples. “I know. It’s insulting.”

“Have the cops found anything else?”

“Not exactly.” Nate walked over to the window and stared out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the lead investigator keeps spouting s**t about statistics. That it’s always a victim’s nearest and dearest who’s most likely to have killed them.”

Realisation dawned, and I sat up. “They think it was me.”

He nodded, and anger flashed in his eyes. Not at me, but at the police.

On paper it fitted. I had the connections, I had the money, and I stood to gain a massive financial benefit from my husband’s death. But what the idiots obviously didn’t understand was that I’d loved my husband, and as a part of me died when he did, I was hardly likely to have helped him on his way.

I explained this to my lawyer, Oliver, as well as the fact that I already had more of my own money than I could ever spend and so I didn’t need Black’s as well. Not to mention that if I had wanted something ridiculously expensive, like a new jet or perhaps a small country, I’d only have had to ask and he’d have bought it for me.

The other thing, which I didn’t put into words because it wouldn’t have helped the situation, was that if I’d wanted Black dead, which I didn’t, then we wouldn’t have been having this conversation. Why? Well, firstly, I’d have done the job myself, and secondly, nobody would’ve suspected it was anything but a terrible accident.

Between them, the girls got me out of bed and semi-presentable. Call it zombie chic. The police had made themselves at home in my dining room, papers and candy wrappers strewn everywhere. A steaming mug of coffee sat next to one of them, right on the polished oak table. If Bradley saw that, Black’s wouldn’t be the only murder they had to look into. I sat there for over an hour, confirming only my full name and address while my high-priced pit bull of a lawyer ran circles around a pair of detectives and an assistant DA who appeared to have barely graduated from law school and was extremely nervous to boot.

Luckily, despite the cops’ conviction I had something to do with my husband’s death and the media christening me the Black Widow, my friends didn’t doubt me. I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal or amazing bunch of people in my life, and they had my back. Always had my back. So while I wasted my time listening to Oliver snap “don’t answer that” and “that’s completely irrelevant,” they started the hunt for Black’s true killer.

Sadly, they didn’t get very far.

The van had been stolen from a long-term airport parking lot three days previously. Professionals that they were, the hitmen had even bought a few bouquets to maintain their cover story as they drove it around. Unfortunately, they’d also covered up the money trail, and so far, we hadn’t found large payments into any accounts connected with them. We couldn’t trace the origins of the cash either, although the assholes certainly lived well enough.

Their upstate New York homes were far too nice to be afforded by the insurance salesman and freelance piano tuner they claimed to be, and neither had family money. We found swimming pools, a vintage Rolls Royce, and enough art to make any respectable gallery weep.

But no leads to their employer.

My clients lent their support as well as my friends and colleagues. The FBI sent a couple of agents to assist in our investigation, the NSA searched through their archives, and the CIA offered to help overseas. Although, as ever with the CIA, they had an ulterior motive. They wanted to get me back on track as soon as possible so I was available to do their dirty work.

They knew that, I knew that, and they probably knew I knew that. They didn’t care.

When I did go back to the office, three days after the explosion, I wandered around in a trance. Going through the motions. I checked emails, made phone calls, and spoke to people, but although the wheel was turning, the hamster was dead. With Black reduced to a letter of condolence confirming the DNA match, I didn’t want to work, but I needed to. Work was what I had left.

Thanks to the FBI, I’d been cleared of any wrongdoing in the van chase. I’d called in a favour and they’d pulled rank, putting pressure on the local cops by claiming an interest in the case. One of their agents stepped in and got everything closed down sharpish. The police were still sniffing around Black’s murder, but Oliver was earning his money there.

Meanwhile, my team put their all into trawling through Black’s cases, starting with the most recent and working backwards, searching for some kind of connection between his life and his death. The control room ran 24/7, fuelled by caffeine and a determination to see justice done, but ultimately their efforts were in vain.

There was nothing, not a hint of a clue and no trail to follow.

At least, not until the day of Black’s funeral when I received the phone call that tipped me over the edge and sent me running to England.