Missing Foxx: When you least expect it...

By Lisa Mackay

Following a lead, Max has flown down to Portsmouth in the hope of finally bringing Monica to justice. But justice seems to have already been served when he arrives to find Monica, and Steve, one of his trusted employees, dead in a hotel room. Monica's death has finally given Max the closure he so desperately needs. She no longer poses a threat t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Mackay
• Release date: Jul 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781913279059

Book preview

Missing Foxx

When you least expect it…

By

Lisa Mackay

Sexy M.F. Series - Book II

Published by Lisa Mackay

This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed, or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law.

Any unauthorised distribution or use of the text may be a direct infringement of the Author’s and Publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

V9-EPub-FE

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~

Copyright © 2014 Lisa Mackay

Published by Lisa Mackay

All rights reserved.

[e-mail]

@lisamackayuk

www.lisamackay.uk

www.facebook.com/lisamackayauthor1/

ISBN-13: 9781913279059

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Front cover artwork: Saxonoak Photography - Shiralee Swan

www.saxonoak.co.uk

THANK YOU

To all my amazing readers who have not only read my first novel M.F. but were kind enough to tell me how much they enjoyed following Max and Vivienne’s story

My deepest gratitude.

X:-)

To my wonderful friends and family who suddenly realised I was serious about writing these stories and offered me their undying support throughout.

Love you more.

X:-)

To Brenda Alford Josey for her passionate support of the series.

X:-)

To Shiralee Swan of Saxonoak Photography for giving me exactly what I was looking for on the front cover of Missing Foxx

You’re a Star! Thank You.

X:-)

To Nathan Sykes - Over & Over Again

To John Legend - All Of Me

Beautiful songs, perfect lyrics

X:-)

To my beloved sister, Tracy, for always having faith in me.

Love you. Miss you more.

X:-)

And finally, to our own imagination, may it never fail us!

May we all find our Sexy M.F. But if not…

May we always have books.

Read, fall in love, repeat.

Them’s the rules!

X;-)

CHAPTER 1

BAD FEELING

(Max)

Our bond cannot be broken, lest you wish it or forget.

Our bond defies the burden of lamentable regret.

And if your heart’s reflected in another lover’s eyes,

when you least expect it, I will come to claim my prize.

So break it not, nor fracture it. This bond holds strong and true.

For when you least expect it…

My prize, my love, is you.

She could be anywhere by now, Guv’. With all that cash, she could have chartered a boat to Timbuktu.

She can run all she wants, Parker. But I will find Monica. And when I do …

Are you okay, Guv’?

Hardly. I’ve just attended the funeral of my four-year-old nephew, poisoned to death by his psycho-bitch of a mother. How can anyone be okay after that? I will be when we find that fucking bitch.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and I’ve thought of little else since we left F1. Just a few hours ago, I was carrying Charlie’s tiny little coffin into the church. God knows I’ve known pain in my life, but the pain of losing Charlie has cut me deep. I should have protected him. I should have saved him. I’ll never forgive myself for failing him like that. Never. Raising my hand to a woman is not my style. But right now? I’d gladly wrap my hands around Monica’s throat and squeeze until the life drained from her treacherous eyes. She killed her own son. She took him away from me. She’ll fucking pay for that.

Trencher has sent me a text, Guv’. There’s a car waiting for us at the airfield.

Okay, good. We’re almost there. Is Steve’s ID still sending out a signal?

Parker checks the iPad. Yep, still at the same location too. What about the police? If Monica’s here, you’ll need to involve them sooner or later.

Why? They’ve come up with fuck all so far. And she’s had more than enough time to find a way out of the country. She’s long gone by now. But I will find her.

Landing at the airfield, I power down the helicopter, then Parker heads off to the small office building to retrieve the car keys. I’m feeling edgy and agitated, I need to be doing something, so I decide to drive.

We follow the signal transmitting from Steve’s ID card, Parker navigating to an address near the seafront. It’s a hotel, but as we pull into the street, we have to stop when faced with a roadblock. What the fuck? Two police cars with flashing lights are parked across the street, and further down, I can see the entrance to the hotel is littered with people, police cars, and ambulances. Are you sure this is the right location? I reverse into a parking space and cut the engine while Parker checks the iPad.

Yep, hundred percent. Looks like a shithole, though.

We stare at the scene for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

What are you thinking, Guv’?

I think there’s a very good chance that Steve is dead. Parker doesn’t respond verbally, but his expression tells me he’s thinking the same thing.

Leaving the car, we walk up the street toward the hotel. Every building in the street looks run down and neglected. It’s obviously been a long time since any of them have seen a fresh lick of paint. As we pass several news crews crowding the pavement outside the hotel, I hear some of them reporting about a shooting. My bad feeling was right. It has to be Monica they’re talking about. And I’m guessing Steve had finally exhausted his usefulness to her.

Parker and I exchange a look, and as I lift the police barrier tape to enter the hotel grounds, a young officer rushes over, blocking my path. You can’t cross the line, Sir. Please, step back. Only police personnel past this point.

Who’s in charge? I ask with an exasperated sigh.

The officer frowns at my abruptness. DI Mills. But you can’t see him. He’s busy.

I need to speak with him. Right now.

I’m sorry, Sir, but–

My name is Maxwell Foxx. I need to speak with him right away. It’s very important. Reaching into my pocket for my business card, I hand it over. The young officer looks down at it, then up at my stony glare. When he realises that I’m not going anywhere until I get what I want, he reluctantly radio’s his Detective Inspector.

Sorry, Sir, but I’ve got a Mr Foxx at the front of the hotel. He says he wants to speak with you and that it’s very important.

Did you say, Foxx? the voice on the radio asks.

Er, yes, Sir. Maxwell Foxx, the officer replies, reading from the card.

Okay, send him up.

The young officer warily eyes us both before lifting the barrier tape. He’s up on the sixth floor. Just ask for DI Mills.

Entering the dark, shabby lobby of the hotel, we find the elevator with a handwritten note taped to the door, ‘out of order,’ so we take the stairs. As we reach the sixth floor, a female officer stands in our way. I’m sorry, Sir, this floor is closed to the public. You’ll have to–

I’m looking for DI Mills. He’s expecting us. I hand her my card with an impatient sigh.

Oh, okay, follow me. She leads us down a dark, tatty corridor toward a room buzzing with activity. Stopping a few feet away from the open door, she asks us to wait while she goes to find DI Mills.

There’s a heavy smell of iron in the air. Blood. The nauseating smell of it is something I’ve hated since I was a child – my stomach rolls. I’ve never been able to handle the smell, and it takes all my willpower to banish the flashbacks of my parents’ death from my mind.

Parker’s hand lightly rests on my shoulder. You okay, Guv’?

I nod, swallowing the bile forcing its way up my throat. As me and Parker exchange a knowing look, I realise we’re both thinking the same thing. Monica has killed Steve. And by now, she’s probably miles away. Shit, I murmur under my breath. I knew I had a bad feeling about this.

After a few moments, a slim, bearded man comes out of the room and walks toward us. Mr Foxx? he asks, glancing between us.

That’s me. I reach forward to shake his hand. And this is Parker. I don’t bother to elaborate any more than that.

DI Mills, the man replies, his inquiring eyes lingering on mine. He opens a notepad and retrieves a pen from his breast pocket. Are you a relation of the deceased, Mr Foxx? You have the same name.

What? My wide eyes travel past DI Mills to the room still buzzing with activity. Monica’s dead?

I’m sorry, I thought you knew, he says awkwardly. I thought that’s why you were here … Was she your wife, Mr Foxx? He’s waiting for me to focus on him again, but my eyes are trained on the door while my mind tries to understand what he’s just said.

What? No, she’s … She was my sister-in-law.

What about Steve? Parker asks while I’m still trying to get my head around this.

DI Mills looks down at his notepad, flicking through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. Steve Lombard?

Yes, he was with Monica when she went missing last week.

The detective pauses for a moment, mulling something over in his head, then he returns to his notes before swinging his narrowed eyes back up to mine. Mr Lombard was an employee of yours, wasn’t he, Mr Foxx?

Yes, he works for Treadstone Security. My company, Foxx-Tech Global, employ Treadstone for all our security needs … What the hell happened here?

He writes something down in his notepad before his eyes swing back up to mine. There appears to have been some kind of altercation between Mr Lombard and Mrs Foxx. Mr Lombard received gunshot wounds to his thigh and his neck. Unfortunately, the gunshot wound to his neck hit an artery, and he bled out.

And what happened to Monica? I ask impatiently.

Scratching his beard, the detective glances over at Parker, then back to me, his expression cautious. Mrs Foxx received three gunshot wounds to her face at close range. The paramedics said she would have died almost instantly.

Jesus! I look over to the room, a little bewildered. Dragging a hand through my hair, I leave it on the back of my neck as I absorb what he’s telling me. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

Are you all right, Mr Foxx? Do you need some water?

No, I’m fine. I refocus my attention on the detective. But I don’t understand. Who shot Monica?

Forensics have established that both Mrs Foxx and Mr Lombard had gunpowder residue on their right hands. This would indicate that they had both fired a handgun, and we believe it was the same weapon. Until ballistics can confirm it, we’re working on the assumption that Mrs Foxx fired the weapon at Mr Lombard, but before he bled out from his injuries, he somehow managed to take the weapon from her and returned fire at close range.

Jesus!

We’ve got an approximate time of death at around eleven o’clock this morning. The town’s annual parade along the beachfront was well underway by then. Loud music, boat horns blasting out, thousands of people wandering around, nobody heard a thing. And as there’s nobody else staying in this dump, the bodies weren’t discovered until late afternoon. We got the call a couple of hours ago from the manager.

I rub my forehead, trying to get a handle on this. It’s come as a bit of a shock.

I’d like you to come down to the station to give me a statement if you will, Mr Foxx? We’re pretty much finished here. I’m on my way back there now if you have the time?

I’m distracted by an officer carrying a transparent plastic bag from the room. The contents are covered in blood. What? Oh, yes, of course. Where is it?

Do you have a car? It’s not far from here.

Parker takes up the slack while I’m still trying to get my head around this. We’re parked just down the road. We’ll follow you.

My mind is all over the place. I can’t think straight. I can’t believe Monica is dead. But what strikes me most is how unemotional I feel about it. That bitch deserved to die.

The smell of blood fills my nose, its nauseating stench churning my stomach.

Come on, Guv’, let’s get some fresh air.

When we reach the front of the hotel, Parker indicates to DI Mills where we’re parked and then strides off to the car. I stand on the steps taking a couple of deep breaths to clear my head. I need to call Vivienne. I need to hear her voice.

Max? Are you okay?

The sound of her beautiful voice warms my heart, calming my restless mind. God, I miss this woman. Yeah. I’m struggling to hear her above the racket from the crowds gathered on the pavement. The reporters are jostling forward, shouting questions at me as I walk away from the hotel. It’s very distracting; I can barely hear myself think.

What’s wrong? Did you find her?

Vivienne sounds anxious, but now the press pack is blocking me, shoving microphones in my face for a story. I ignore them, as I always do, and keep walking.

Max?

Sorry, baby. It’s very noisy here. I can hardly hear you.

Did you find Monica?

The tremble in her voice makes my heart ache. Yeah, Steve too! They’re both dead. Looks like Steve shot her before he died from his own wounds. I still can’t believe Monica is dead.

Finally reaching the car, I stand at the passenger door, resting my elbow on the roof. I suddenly feel a sense of relief, like a pressure has been lifted. I had wanted to hunt Monica down to make her pay for what she did to Charlie, but now she’s gone, and I didn’t have to lift a finger.

Are you coming home?

Her simple question fills me with longing. Home is wherever she is. I just want to hold her, gaze into her beautiful brown eyes, and never let her go. Soon. I’ve got to give a statement at the police station, but we should be home in a few hours. Are you okay, baby?

Yes, I’m fine. I just want you home. And Max? … I want you to ask me that question.

What?

She’s completely floored me. This beautiful, amazing, gorgeous woman brings me to my fucking knees. I’ve asked her to marry me so many times, but I never thought I’d be lucky enough for her to say yes. I ache for this woman. I’ve loved her since the very first moment I laid eyes on her. I had longed for someone like Vivienne before I even met her. She’s everything I could wish for. Everything. I am so fucking happy to hear her say that.

Max? Are you still there?

"You make me so happy, baby. I’ll be home as soon as I can, and Vivienne … I will ask you that question. I love you, baby. I love you so much."

I love you too, with all my heart.

Her words ring in my ears, filling me with pride and longing. I can’t believe I’m the guy she wants to marry. How could I be so lucky?

As I get in the car, Parker starts her up, and DI Mills waves at us to follow him as he emerges through the roadblock.

Everything okay? Parker asks, pulling away from the kerb.

I can’t help the silly smile creeping across my lips. S’all good.

Aye-aye, what’s brought that cheesy grin on?

I release a long, contented sigh while my grin gets bigger and bigger. Vivienne makes me so happy.

He throws me a knowing look. I can see that Guv’. She’s a diamond, that girl. She’s got a beautiful heart.

Yes, she certainly has, Parker. And it’s all mine. Butterflies fill my stomach. I feel so lucky to have the love of such an amazing woman, my woman. And I can’t wait to see her. She’s the one, Parker. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life. And when I get home, I’m going to propose to her. Parker’s smiling face is fixed on the car in front as we follow it to the police station. And I’m going to need a best man.

Doing a double-take, Parker almost swerves out of the lane. What? Me?

I smile at his stunned face. Of course, you. You’ve been like a brother to me. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me and my family.

Looking a little choked up, Parker’s eyes blink a few times, then he smiles his big cheesy grin. It would be an honour, Guv’. A real honour. His smile slowly disintegrates as a concerned frown slips into his brow. It’s good to see you happy, Guv’. I know Charlie’s death has knocked you sideways. It’s been hard for all of us, but … I’m so proud of you for not … you know, for not …

I smile. Yeah, I know.

Everyone’s been watching me like a hawk since Charlie’s death. I know they’re all worried that I’ll slip back into my darkness, and I can’t blame them. It’s been my solution for dealing with my emotions since I was a young boy. But I feel so much stronger now. I’ve never felt so content. Finding Vivienne is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Everything makes sense with her. Everything feels right, perfect – she is perfect. You don’t have to worry about me any more, Parker. I’m okay. I’m more than okay. The bitch is dead, and I’m going to marry the woman of my dreams.

He slips me a look, a mixture of pride and concern. He’s always looked after me and always been there when I needed him. He really is like a brother to me. Well, then, he chuckles. I’d better take Jan shopping for a new hat.

CHAPTER 2

IDENTIFY

As we pull into the car park of the police station, I leave Parker in the car and follow DI Mills into the building. He walks me through a myriad of corridors until we finally end up in a small, sparse room with just a table and four chairs. Leaving the door open, he sits in the chair opposite me and calls out to one of the officers passing the door. Eric? Could you bring me a couple of coffees? Cheers.

Another officer arrives with a folder. Sir, GSW-seven and GSW-eight are being transferred to pathology. And I think Doctor Mendez is doing the PMs tonight. The officer hands the folder to DI Mills. Anything else, Sir?

No. Thanks, Sally, that’s all.

She glances at me shyly before leaving the room.

Taking his time to sift through the papers in the folder, he removes his notepad from his coat pocket. After asking me to state my name, date of birth, and home address, he proceeds to ask me questions about Monica and Steve. Okay, Mr Foxx. I just need to clarify a few points about Monica Foxx. I understand she’s wanted for the murder of her four-year-old son, Charlie, is that correct?

My throat constricts, forcing me to swallow. Charlie’s death still feels so raw and painful. I take a calming breath. Yes, Monica poisoned him to death. His funeral was this afternoon.

I see. He writes something down on his pad. I assume you have witnesses for your whereabouts today, Mr Foxx?

Prick! I wait for him to stop writing and look up at me, my irritation clearly showing on my face. Of course.

His shrewd, assessing eyes linger on mine. So, what brought you down to the south coast today?

Clasping my hands in front of me, I lean my forearms on the table. I only found out this afternoon that Steve Lombard had been assisting Monica in her escape. He carries an ID card, which Foxx-Tech provide to all our personnel. The ID transmits a signal. I followed the signal and wound up here.

His eyebrows spring upward. Wow, technology really is great, isn’t it?

His glib remark irritates me. I’m starting to lose my patience. This line of questioning feels like a total waste of my time. Technology is my company’s field of expertise – look, is there something more specific you wanted to ask me?

Actually, yes. He pulls another sheet of paper from the folder. Your statement to the Met Police after Charlie’s death says that on the day Monica went missing, you believe she stole five hundred thousand pounds and a handgun from your safe, is that correct?

Yes! I bark, my hands flying up in the air. I’ve already given a full statement about that. What more can I tell you?

Unperturbed by my outburst, he folds his arms across his chest, resting back in his chair, then he stares at me for a few moments, like he’s trying to psyche me out.

Eric returns with two plastic cups of coffee, throwing some sachets of sugar and milk onto the table. There you go. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

DI Mills pours the milk into his cup, takes a sip, and screws his face up. Euww, don’t bother. It tastes like shit. Placing his cup back down on the table, he slides it away in disgust. The thing is, Mr Foxx. I’m a bit confused. You see, between Mrs Foxx and Mr Lombard, we only found eighty-nine pounds and some loose change. Do you know what could have happened to the rest of the money?

Leaning forward in my seat, I give him my quit-fucking-me-around, glare. I don’t care about the money. What difference does it make?

He smirks and seems surprised at my answer. I’m just trying to figure out what they did with half a million pounds? They certainly didn’t spend any of it on their hotel accommodation.

His comment snags me for a moment. It’s a fair point. As I said, I don’t care about the money. What about my gun?

The DI looks down at the folder. Pulling out a photograph of a black handgun, he places it in the centre of the table. Is this yours, Mr Foxx?

I slide the photograph toward me to have a better look. It looks like my gun, and when I check the close-up insert of the serial number, I’m sure. Yes, that’s my gun. I slide the photograph back to him, tapping my fingers on the table impatiently.

With little regard for the passage of time, he places the photograph back in the folder. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem and for forensics to match up the bullets found in the victims, but as Mr Lombard was still holding your gun when we arrived, I think we can safely assume that he used it to shoot Mrs Foxx.

Leaning back in his chair, he crosses his arms over his chest, that suspicious look still staring back at me. However, he says, pausing to chew the inside of his lip. We’ve checked with Treadstone Security, and they have confirmed that Steve Lombard was issued with a firearm when he started with the company five months ago. The funny thing is, Mr Lombard’s holster was empty, and we haven’t yet found his gun at the scene. Do you have any idea where Mr Lombard’s gun may be, Mr Foxx?

I don’t know. Maybe he left it back in his apartment.

Then why wear the holster?

… Yeah.

He sits there studying me for a few moments like he’s thinking something over, then he gathers all the papers together and closes the folder. Do you have any objection to being fingerprinted and DNA tested, Mr Foxx? It’s just for elimination.

No. Whatever you need, just get on with it.

Okay, I’ll send someone in to take your prints and a swab. His chair scrapes loudly as he rises to his feet, placing the folder under his arm. Oh, and before you go, would you be able to formally identify the bodies?

Er, yes, of course.

Okay, good. If you could wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.

Identifying the bodies is not something I want to do, but the sooner I get everything cleared up down here, the sooner I can go home to Vivienne. I miss her. And right now, after the shitty day I’ve just had, I really need to be with her.

I check my phone, but there are no messages or missed calls. I’m just about to dial Vivienne’s number when the door opens, and a man enters carrying a metal briefcase. I’m Terry, he smiles, I’m just going to take your prints and a swab for DNA. Opening his briefcase, he begins to remove all the required items.

Shortly after Terry has finished, DI Mills returns, asking me to follow him. We leave the main building of the police station and walk through a small courtyard to another more modern building. Pressing a button on the intercom, DI Mills looks up at a small camera above the panel. Shortly after, the doors click open, and I follow him inside.

The small lobby is stark and bright, with only a tall wooden reception desk. A young woman behind the desk looks up, acknowledging the DI with a smile, and me with a blush and a bat of her lashes. Her eyes roam over my face, lingering a little too long for my liking. I’m taken, sweetheart. Just get on with it.

DI Mills places a document on her desk. Personal effects for GSW-seven and GSW-eight, please.

The girl drags her eyes away from me to check the document. If you could just wait a moment, I’ll get them for you. She throws me a coy smile, batting her lashes and smoothing her skirt before disappearing into another room behind her desk.

Yeah, yeah, just do your job, so we can all go home.

After a short while, she returns with two clear plastic bags and a large opaque yellow bag. Opening the large yellow bag, she shows us the contents. I recognise some of Monica’s clothing, and there are some men’s clothing items too, which I assume are Steve’s. All of them are drenched in blood. And as the stench filters into my nose, I swallow repeatedly to clear the bile from my throat.

Because of their condition, if you don’t want to keep these items, we can dispose of them here, if you would prefer? the girl asks, smiling at me seductively.

Yes, just get rid of them, thank you.

The girl places the two clear bags on the counter, along with two forms, then she leans into me, much closer than necessary. These are the personal effects of Mrs Monica Foxx and Mr Stephen Lombard. If you could check the items and then sign for them here.

Take the hint, sweetheart!

Ignoring her blatant flirting, I take a look in the bag containing Monica’s effects. I see her passport, credit cards, a photograph of Charlie as a baby, her wedding ring, some cash, and the delicate silver necklace with entwined hearts that I had given to her when we first met. I hadn’t realised she’d kept it. These are definitely Monica’s things.

Steve’s bag only contains a watch, his ID card, a wallet with eighty-nine pounds, a driving licence, a silver lighter, and his empty gun holster.

Once we’ve dealt with all the formalities, we continue down a short corridor into a larger area with a glass wall on the left and open-plan offices on the right. The DI walks over to a metal panel set into the glass wall and presses one of the buttons, creating a loud buzzing noise inside the bright, white and stainless-steel room beyond. Hi, Sam. GSW-seven and GSW-eight, have you started the postmortems yet?

An attractive, middle-aged woman, wearing the full forensics kit, turns to face us. Oh, hello, Oscar. Nice to see you again. Glancing over at her computer screen, she lowers her glasses to read her report. Yes, I’ve just started the postmortem on Gunshot wound-seven. She’s a white female, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, five feet nine, green eyes, red hair, small tattoo on right ankle, and a c-section scar on lower abdomen.

Her voice drones on, but my eyes are drawn to the pale-skinned, red-haired body lying on the metal trolley behind her.

Monica.

My stomach knots as a wave of nausea makes my head spin. The smell in here is very strong, very clinical, almost burning my nose.

Well, before you continue, Sam, I’ve got someone here who can formally identify the body for us. Is there any chance we can do that now?

Lowering her head, Sam gives him a steely glare over the top of her glasses. Oscar! You know full well that I cannot allow anyone to contaminate the room during a postmortem.

Yes, I know, Sam, but it would really help me out if we can clear this up tonight.

No! she huffs with an exaggerated sigh, clearly irritated by our intrusion. You know the rules, Oscar. However, if you look at the screen behind you, I can relay the image from my headcam. Will that suffice?

That would be perfect. I owe you one, he says cheekily.

The pathologist raises an eyebrow. You owe me several, DI Mills. I shall call in my favours one day, so you’d better be prepared.

Rolling his eyes, the detective nods for me to follow him to the office behind us. We sit at one of the desks and wait for the monitor screen to display the image. Mentally, I brace myself. The DI had spared no details when he told me what to expect when I saw Monica’s face. She’d been shot three times at close range; it wasn’t a pretty sight. He explained how one of the bullets had ripped almost all of the skin away from the bone of her right cheek. Her left eye was completely gone, and the bones in her left cheek and jawbone had been shattered.

As detailed as his warning was, it still hadn’t prepared me for the stark reality of what finally flashed up on the screen. And yet, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The image was both macabre and compelling. Jesus, I whisper to myself, swallowing to keep my stomach from erupting. Monica’s usually voluminous red hair is matted with blood around her almost unblemished alabaster forehead. The rest of her face is horribly disfigured and swollen. Bone and teeth easily visible through the torn and bloodied flesh.

As I stare wide-eyed at the screen, almost transfixed in horror, the pathologist raises Monica’s swollen right eyelid, revealing a dead and lifeless green eye staring out from her ruined face. And as the pathologist’s headcam lingers on what was once such a beautiful face, she manoeuvres a flap of skin back into place over her cheekbone.

My stomach wants to eject, so I quickly look away. And flashbacks to my mother’s ruined face on the day she died floods my mind with painful memories, wrenching at my gut. Shit! I need some fresh air. It’s her. It’s Monica. Stumbling to my feet, I try to ignore the bile rising and burning in my throat.

The DI walks over to the intercom. Okay, Sam, we’re done here, thanks. Is GSW-eight in the fridge?

She turns to face him, glancing over at me with a sympathetic expression. Yes, and he’s in a much better condition.

Are you okay to carry on? the detective asks.

I nod impatiently. I just want to get this over with and go home.

Walking a short distance to the mortuary, the DI punches in a code, and we enter the grey tiled room. The temperature is freezing. And on either side of the room are more glass-walled partitions with stainless-steel trollies in each. Steve’s body lies on one of the trolleys, covered up to his chest in a black plastic sheet. I recognise him instantly. His pale grey face is relaxed, almost serene, and the small reddish-black circle on his neck looks innocuous enough, and yet here he lays, in the mortuary. Yes, it’s him. Steve Lombard.

Good, thanks for doing that. Will you notify the next of kin, Mr Foxx?

I nod, unable to voice anything for fear of vomiting all over the place.

Okay, good. I just need you to sign a couple of forms before you leave.

We walk back to the reception desk to collect the personal effects and sign the required documentation. Escorting me to the exit, DI Mills opens the heavy metal door. If I need to reach you, can I contact you at Foxx-Tech?

Of course. I assume you’ll let me know when the bodies can be released for burial?

Yes, of course. We’ll contact you as soon as possible. Forensics will need to process your firearm, but we’ll notify you as soon as it’s ready for release.

We shake hands, and then I quickly march out of the building, desperate to breathe in some clean, fresh, unadulterated air.

Parker’s leaning against the car and walks around to open my door as I approach. All right, Guv’?

Let’s get out of here. Sliding into my seat, I throw the bags into the back.

What are they, Guv’, personal effects?

Yeah. Make sure Steve’s family get his things. And tell his parents, I’ll pay for all their funeral expenses.

Will do. What about Monica’s stuff?

Apart from the photograph of Charlie, I couldn’t give a fuck. Toss it all in the trash.

As Parker makes quick work of getting us back to the airfield, I take my phone out and dial Vivienne. The phone rings and rings. And I start to wonder if she’s in the shower, or maybe she’s asleep? It’s been a very long emotional day for all of us.

Just as I’m about to end the call, it answers. Vivienne? ... Baby? The line suddenly goes dead, so I check the signal strength and redial. This time, it goes straight to answerphone. Vivienne’s giggly answerphone message makes me smile. I remember while she was trying to record this message, I was kissing her neck, which of course, led to much more distracting activities. I guess she never got around to re-recording it.

Baby, we’re on our way home. See you soon. I can’t wait. I love you.

Once I’ve left my message, I stare down at the image of Vivienne on my screen. I’m so looking forward to seeing her tonight. It’s been a really shitty day, one of the worst in many respects. Burying my beloved nephew was one of the most painful experiences of my life. But knowing that I’m going home to Vivienne and knowing she will soon be my wife, nothing could spoil how I feel right now.

Oh, by the way, Guv’, John called while you were in the police station. He dropped Jan home after the wake, and he was going to take your mum home too, but she wanted to go and see your dad in the hospital, so he’s waiting with her until she’s ready to leave. I told him what happened to Monica and Steve, but I told him not to mention it to your mum yet.

Okay, good.

Since the day they adopted us, it was clear that Sylvie and William were inseparable. It’s been hard for Mom since Dad’s been in the hospital. She doesn’t like to go a day without visiting him. But with the funeral this afternoon, I guess she’s missed him.

I’ve always respected the love they have for each other. It’s a rare thing these days. And I never thought I’d ever find a love like that until I met Vivienne.

How are things working out with you and Jan? I ask with a smirk. You seem very happy together.

A stupid grin spreads across Parker’s face. That woman melts my heart, Guv’. But what she sees in me, I’ll never know.

Admit it, Parker, underneath that hard exterior, you’re just a big old softy at heart.

We both burst into laughter, at ourselves, of course. Two powerful men besotted and bewitched by two beautiful women.

Once we’re back at the airfield, I fire up the helicopter, and we head off home. Parker spends most of the flight talking to Trencher, filling him in on all the latest developments. Then he has a long and giggly conversation with Jan. The man is besotted.

Fifty minutes later, we land on the roof of the Foxx-Tech building.

CHAPTER 3

I SHOULD HAVE PROTECTED HER

The elevator arrives at F1. Parker’s heading down to his car in the basement, and then he’s off to see Jan. And I can’t wait to see Vivienne. It’s been an exhausting day. All I want to do is hold her in my arms and gaze into her beautiful brown eyes.

Well, good luck, Guv’, Parker smirks, waggling his eyebrows as we shake hands. The elevator doors glide open, and suddenly his smirk disappears. With widening eyes and a pale complexion, he looks past me. Something’s wrong.

I turn, my smile sliding when I notice there are no lights on in the foyer, which is strange in itself, but as the light from the elevator hits the penthouse doors, my blood chills. The penthouse doors are open, and it’s dark inside. What the fuck? Vivienne! Fear triggers every muscle in my body, and I dart across the foyer.

Guv’ wait!

But I can’t wait. I need to find her. I need to know she’s all right. Please, God. Don’t let anything have happened to her. Running into the penthouse, I try the switches in the hall, but it remains dark. The moon is blanketed by clouds tonight, so there’s hardly any light coming in through the windows. It’s too fucking dark to see anything. My eyes fiercely try to adjust as I frantically call out to her, Vivienne? Baby, where are you?

I’ll go and check the fuse box, Guv’. Here, take this. Parker hands me a small flashlight before rushing back out to the foyer to try and get the lights on.

Standing still, I listen for a moment, but there’s no sound at all. It’s eerily quiet – just the sound of my heart beating out of my chest. What the fuck happened here?

Feeling uneasy, I take out the gun Trencher had given me and disengage the safety. Shining the flashlight around the hall, I check the dining room first and then the kitchen, but everything looks normal. Slowly making my way into the living room, trying not to bump into the furniture, I shine my flashlight around the open space. My hands are trembling, my heart rate fucking sprinting. And as the flashlight lands on the study door, I see a long smear of blood. My heart stops, and the blood in my veins becomes ice cold. Oh, dear God, no. As I quickly move toward the study, a heavy, metallic smell hits my nose, churning my stomach the way blood always does. The door is open about four inches. I stop to listen, but there’s nothing, not a sound. Tentatively, I push the door open a little further, then a little more, then finally all the way, but there’s no one here.

I shine my flashlight around the pitch-black room and see the desk lamp on its side, the fragments of a shattered bulb twinkling in the beam of light. Everything else in here looks okay until the flashlight lands on the wall behind the door. Fuck. My eyes widen in horror at the blood spatters and smears on the cream-coloured wall. The scene rolls my stomach, draining the blood from my head as saliva builds in my mouth. So much blood. What the fuck happened here? As I follow the trail of blood down the wall, the beam of light lands on a glistening pool of red, like a puddle of red glass on the pale marble floor. Sickness overwhelms me, my heart now pounding wildly in my chest, like it’s kicking to get out. I can’t breathe. No! No, no, no, not Vivienne.

I stumble back to the doorway, but when I stand on something hard, I quickly shine the light down on it. The smashed and splintered remains of Vivienne’s phone lie on the floor at my feet. It’s then that I notice a trail of blood spots and a bloody bare footprint leading out of the study. Following the trail back into the living room, I frantically call out to her. Vivienne? Please! Where are you, baby? Please be okay. Please!

Suddenly, all the lights come on at once, flooding the living room in a painfully bright, white light. Parker must have reset the system. I take a quick look around me, there’s more blood out here too, and the trail leads me toward the door to the terrace. Vivienne! I run for the door and yank it open, blood now all over my hands. But my heart fucking sinks, and I skid to a stop when I find her lifeless body lying in a pool of blood out on the terrace. Parker! She’s here! Call an ambulance. Hurry! Sinking to my knees, I immediately feel for a pulse on her neck with trembling fingers and an anxious heart. "Please don’t leave me, baby. Please be okay. I can’t lose you now. Seeing her like this fucking kills me. I’m here, baby. You’re going to be okay."

Choking back the rock in my throat, my wide, tear-filled eyes scan over her body, checking for any signs of life. And as my shaking fingers press into the side of her neck, I begin to feel a very weak pulse. My head bows down on a whimpered sigh as relief washes over me. She’s still alive. Vivienne is alive. Thank God. Her skin is freezing, so I quickly remove my jacket and cover her half-naked body. She’s only dressed in a short, silk, blood-drenched nightgown. She needs more warmth. Parker! I need a blanket and something to stop the bleeding! Hurry!

Moments later, Parker appears beside me. Throwing me a blanket and some towels, he ends his call to the hospital. They’re on their way Guv’. Is she breathing?

Yes, but it’s so fucking shallow, I’m frightened to move her. She has a terrible head wound, and she’s lost such a lot of blood. Covering her with the blanket, I quickly press a towel into the wound on her head to try and stem the flow. Her skin is pale, and her lips are grey. The gash on the side of her head is still pouring with blood, so I press as hard as I can to stop the bleeding.

I can’t fucking lose her, Parker. Not her. The trembling words catch in my throat as tears spill down my cheeks. I look up to him for reassurance, but the look on his face tells me that he’s as scared as I am. She has to be okay. The thought of losing Vivienne slowly crushes me, tearing me apart. There is no me without her. With a trembling, blood-stained hand, I caress her cheek, leaning down to kiss her tenderly on her cold lips. I love you, baby. Please, please don’t leave me.

Parker’s phone rings. Yeah! he barks enthusiastically. Oh, good. The code for F1 is three, zero, zero, three. Hurry! They’re here, Guv’. I’ll meet them at the lift, and I’ll call John and Trencher to give them a heads up. He quickly marches off.

~

For fifty-five paralysing minutes, I anxiously watch the paramedics as they try to stabilise Vivienne for transfer to the hospital. Her pulse is incredibly weak, her blood pressure is dangerously low, and she hasn’t regained consciousness. I feel so lost and useless, and the ache inside is unbearable. If anything happens to her …

I should never have left her alone. I should have been here to protect her. What if? No, I can’t even think about losing her.

When the paramedics finally manage to stabilise her, they take her down to the ambulance and blue-light it all the way. A knot of sheer dread sits in the pit of my stomach, and my chest feels like it’s going to burst as Parker drives like a bat out of hell, following the ambulance.

What do you think happened, Guv’? Parker asks, his eyes still locked on the ambulance in front. I checked all the locks on the doors and windows, but none of them were forced or damaged. And nothing appears to have been stolen either. Although, I don’t know about the safe. But I don’t get it? Could Vivienne have fallen or something?

No. It was no fucking accident, Parker. She was attacked.

What?

I feel Parker looking at me, waiting for a response, but my brain is now clouded by rage. A white-hot, blinding rage, turning my hands into tightly clenched, white-knuckled fists against my thighs. The paramedics showed me the finger marks on Vivienne’s neck and shoulders. Somehow, some fucker got inside our home and– My stomach rolls, knowing she must have felt so scared and helpless. Jesus! Why wasn’t I here?

But who? Parker asks, a confused frown on his face. And how the fuck did they get inside? Parker pulls into the hospital car park, stopping at the entrance. Unless … Unless Vivienne let them into the penthouse? He looks at me, waiting for a response, for my thoughts on who that someone could have been. But I haven’t got time to worry about that now. Vivienne needs me.

I get out of the car and sprint into the hospital. My main focus is Vivienne. She’s all I can think about right now. I need to know she’s going to be okay. I need to be with her. Since I found her lying half-dead in a pool of blood, I’ve asked myself the same questions Parker did. Who? How? Why? But nothing makes any sense. Vivienne wouldn’t let anyone into the penthouse she didn’t know – she’s way too cautious for that. Unless … Mike?

I have to endure another agonising wait while Doctor Alexander and his team examine her. She’s then rushed straight into surgery after the scan revealed a skull fracture and swelling of the brain. I’m scared shit-less, and they won’t let me see her until she comes out of surgery.

Parker joins me in the waiting room as I pace up and down like a caged animal. Any news? he asks, handing me a clean shirt. The one I’m wearing is covered in Vivienne’s blood. I just shake my head. I can’t speak. The wait is fucking killing me. She’ll be okay. His soft, reassuring voice isn’t enough, but I hope he’s right. I can’t lose her.

My mind keeps flipping over all the possible scenarios for what could have happened at the penthouse tonight. When I spoke to Vivienne earlier, she sounded fine. What the fuck happened after that? Did she let someone in? Did Mike turn up?

As I’m buttoning up my clean shirt, Parker hits me with a question like he’s just been tuning into my thoughts. You don’t think Mike could’ve had anything to do with this, do you?

Vivienne would have told me if Mike had been pestering her again. Wouldn’t she?

My heart sinks when I recall the night she ran away from me. Vivienne had found out that I had slapped Mike around a bit because I thought he was responsible for trashing her apartment. I know Mike’s still in love with her, he told me so himself. And he made no attempt to conceal his feelings toward me that night I showed up at his apartment. Maybe Vivienne has spoken to him recently?

Anger boils to the surface at the thought that maybe Vivienne had told Mike that we were getting married, and maybe he had turned up at the penthouse to try to talk her out of it. To try to get her back. Maybe they’d had a fight? Maybe it all escalated out of control and– Fuck! I hiss through gritted teeth, rage coursing through my blood like molten steel. I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch!

Parker watches me closely as I continue to pace, grumbling under my breath, then he moves into my path, stopping me in my tracks. Don’t go getting your knickers in a twist over Mike, he says, with a firm frown. I try to move past him, but he lays his hand on my chest, holding me back with a steely glare. "Mike is a bully, all right. But he isn’t the kind of bloke to have the balls to rattle your cage. Especially not after your last visit."

I scowl at him, gritting my teeth so hard it hurts. Maybe he was looking for revenge?

Parker shakes his head, still staring me out. He loves the girl. Why the hell would he want to hurt her? I mean, you? Yeah! I’m sure Mike would love to punch your fucking lights out. But he wouldn’t want to hurt her. Not Vivienne.

Then who? I grate angrily.

Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll speak to Miles to find out who came into the building last night. And I’ll get Trencher to check the CCTV.

I glare down at his solid, tattooed hand still pressed firmly against my chest. Move it, or lose it, Parker, I murmur gruffly. On a contemptible scowl, he does, and I walk around him, continuing to pace. It’s the only way I can keep myself from freaking the fuck out. Why are they taking so long?

Huffing out an irritated sigh, Parker starts to walk out of the room.

And tell Trencher to check out Vivienne’s mother too! I yell over my shoulder.

He stops at the door. Her mother? Why?

I turn to face him, dragging my hands through my hair. Vivienne’s mother is an alcoholic drug addict. When she found out from the newspapers that Vivienne was dating me, she contacted me asking for money. Vivienne doesn’t know. I look down at the floor in shame. I hate keeping secrets from her. I refused to give her mother any money unless she went into rehab. She wasn’t interested.

Confusion flits across Parker’s face. So, you think she might have come to the penthouse to ask Vivienne for money?

I’m not ruling anything out.

But you don’t think she’d hurt her own child, do you?

Why not? It didn’t seem to bother Monica. A deep sigh of frustration huffs out of me as my hands fly up to clasp around the back of my neck. Oh, I don’t know. But it had to be someone Vivienne knew. Why else would she let them up to the penthouse and open the door?

Parker stands there for a while, processing the idea before leaving me on my own.

After what feels like an eternity, Doctor Alexander’s soft voice draws me out of my dark thoughts. I stare at him, trying to read his expression, my stomach tightening as I anxiously wait for him to speak. Please, let it be good news.

The surgery went very well, he says, offering me a reassuring smile. But the look in his eyes keeps my level of anxiety at maximum. We’ve moved Vivienne to the critical care unit and put her into a medically induced coma for the time being.

Bam! Suddenly every breath feels toxic. Oh, my god, no.

With a sympathetic smile, he places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It’s just a temporary measure while we assess her. The scans show a linear fracture in the skull and swelling of the brain at the point of impact. It’s not severe, but we’d like to