Page 110 of 56 Days
The doors slide open to reveal another reception area, this one outside a pair ofdouble-glassdoors with KB Studios stenciled on them in gold. Two gray sofas form an L shape around a coffee table strewn with glossy brochures while, in the corner, a water dispenser gurgles next to a scale model of an office block. Its miniature trees look like wispy cotton balls that have beenspray-paintedgreen.
“Take a seat,” the blond says. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Ciara obeys and watches her disappear through the glass doors. Beyond them, she can see the promise of anopen-planoffice space, people milling about. She’s too far away to properly search their faces, but—
Her eyes land on a framed picture hanging on the wall next to the doors.
It’s of a smiling, slightlyred-facedman in his late fifties, early sixties, accepting a chunk of blown glass from a woman in a glitzy evening dress. And he looks exactly like what the Ken Balfe she found on Instagram might in a few decades’ time.
The man who’s about to interview her must be Kenneth Balfesenior. Not a teenager at the time of the murder, but a grown man. An adult whose teenage son was friends with the brother of one of the killers.
Which makes him, she thinks, far more likely to remember things from back then. Including peripheral figures. Like the other family members, for instance.
Her, possibly.
She can’t chance meeting him. She has to get out of here.
Ciara grabs her bag and starts to walk away, just as she becomes aware of the glass doors to the office swinging open behind her. She holds her breath, thinking it’s the blond woman coming to collect her, waiting for the call of her name.
But it doesn’t come.
She can’t risk waiting for the elevator, so she starts hurrying down the stairs instead. Blood rushes in her ears. She winces at the conspicuous clacking of her heels on the marble. She reaches the first landing and turns to start down the next flight—
And that’s when she sees him.
Standing at the top of the stairs. Looking at his phone in his hand. Tall. About her age. Neither muscular nor soft, but solid.Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, thick and messy, but in a way that suggests it was carefully teased to look so.
Oliver St Ledger.
It’s him.
It’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him it’shim.
She knows this for sure, even if, at the same time, she can’t quite believe it.
Out of sight, she hears the double doors to the office swing open again and a female voice say, “Ciara—? Oh,” and then, after a pause, “Oliver, did you happen to see a woman here when you came out? Brown hair, black suit?”
Oliver’s head begins to rise, his gaze lifting from his phone.
Ciara hurtles herself forward, nearly missing the first step, awkwardly regaining her balance and then dashing out of sight, heels clacking loudly, all the way down the stairs.
22 Days Ago
Oliver awakes on the couch, immediately feeling the pinched pain of a tight muscle in his neck. His tongue feels thick and bristly, his insides gnawing and empty. A cluster of dented, empty beer cans sit on the coffee table. The light in the room suggests it’s early morning.
Then he hears the sound that woke him up: his phone, ringing.
He thinksCiaraand whips about, desperately looking for it, chasing the sound before it stops, knocking cushions and—
Sending the phone flying onto the floor.
He just wants to hear her voice, he thinks. It doesn’t even matter to him what she’s saying with it.
But it’s Ken B that’s calling him.
“Kenneth,” he says, his voice thick with sleep.
“So youarealive, then. This is my third time trying you.”
