The Likeness

There’s so little mercy in this world. Lexie sliced straight through everyone who got between her and the door, people she had laughed with, worked with, lain down with. Daniel, who loved her like his blood, sat beside her and watched her die, sooner than allow a siege on his spellbound castle. Frank took me by the shoulders and steered me straight into something that he knew could eat me alive. Whitethorn House let me into its secret chambers and healed my wounds, and in exchange I set my careful charges and I blew it to smithereens. Rob, my partner, my shieldmate, my closest friend, ripped me out of his life and threw me away because he wanted me to sleep with him and I did it. And when we had all finished clawing chunks off each other, Sam, who had every right to give me the finger and walk away for good, stayed because I held out my hand and asked him to.

“I want to go back to Murder,” I said, “but it doesn’t need to be now. It doesn’t even need to be soon. Someday, sooner or later, one of us will do something brilliant and we’ll have all the brownie points in the world, and then we’ll ask for special permission.”

“And if we don’t? If we never do anything brilliant, or if they say no anyway. Then what?”

That wing brush again, along the line of my jaw. To go consenting.

“Then,” I said, “I’ll survive. And you’ll have to put up with me bitching about Maher for the rest of our lives.” I stretched out my hand to Sam and I saw the look that was dawning in his eyes, and as he reached over to put the ring on my finger I realized there was no jagged black terror falling through me this time, no wild scream at the irrevocable thing inches away and rising, I wasn’t frightened at all; the only thing I felt was sure.

***

Later, when we were cocooned in the duvet and the sky outside was turning salmon-colored, Sam said, “There’s one more thing I need to ask you, and I’m not sure how to do it.”

“Ask away,” I said. “Comes with the territory.” I waved my left hand at him. The ring looked good on there. It even fit.

“No,” Sam said. “Something serious.”

I figured at this point I was ready for anything. I turned over on my stomach and propped myself up so I could look at him properly.

“Rob,” he said. “You and Rob. I saw the way you were together, the two of ye; how close you were. I always expected… I never thought I had a look in.”

This one I had not been ready for.

“I don’t know what went wrong between ye,” Sam said, “and I’m not asking. I’ve no right to know. Just… I’ve some idea what you went through, during Operation Vestal. And after. I wasn’t trying to be nosy, nothing like that; but I was there.”

He looked up at me, steady gray eyes, unblinking. There was nothing I could say; my breath was gone.

It was that night with the headlights, the night I went to get Rob at the crime scene. I knew him well enough to know that otherwise he would disintegrate, just smash into a million pieces, but not well enough to guess that he would do it anyway, and that all I had done was draw the flak my way. We did something good; I thought that meant no damage could come of it. It’s occurred to me since that I may be a lot dumber than I look. If I learned one thing in Murder, it’s that innocence isn’t enough.

I’m not Lexie, I’m not clockwork, specially not when I’m wrecked and stressed and wretched. By the time the terrible sinking feeling kicked in, I had moved to DV, Rob had been bounced into bureaucratic limbo somewhere and all our bridges were burned to bitter ash; he had gone so far away I couldn’t even see him on the other side. I didn’t tell anyone. I got the boat to England before dawn one sleety Saturday and was back in my dark flat that night-the plane would have been faster but I couldn’t take it, the thought of sitting still for an hour each way, squashed elbow to elbow between strangers. I walked up and down the deck of the boat instead. On the way back the sleet came down harder, soaked me to the bone; if there had been anyone else on deck they would have thought I was crying, but I wasn’t, not even once.

Sam was the only person I could stand to be around, then. Everyone else was on the other side of a thick, wavy glass wall, they yammered and gestured and pulled faces and it took all the energy I had to work out what they wanted from me and make the right noises back. Sam was the only one I could hear. He has a beautiful voice: a country voice, slow and calm, deep and rich as earth. That voice was the one thing that made it through the glass and felt real.