Chapter One
“You’re saying the numbers were altered after approval?”
The man across from her hesitated. Mid-fifties. Nervous hands. Wedding ring worn dull with age. He had spent the last twenty minutes insisting he shouldn’t have come.
Now he looked at his untouched coffee like it might answer for him.
“I’m saying,” he said carefully, “someone changed the safety projections after the review process closed.”
Victoria held his gaze steadily. Calmly. Not pushing yet.
“And you have proof?”
Another hesitation.
That was always the moment. The thin edge between fear and decision.
Outside the café windows, central London blurred beneath the rain. Inside, the heating was too warm, fogging the glass, trapping the smell of espresso and wet coats. Victoria sat motionless despite it all, dark wool coat folded neatly beside her, notebook closed and in her bag.
She had learned years ago that people spoke more freely when they forgot they were being interviewed.
The man exhaled shakily.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“But you can. I'll keep your identity hidden.”
His eyes flicked up to hers.
There it was again, that moment where people realised she already knew more than they expected.
“You journalists,” he muttered quietly.
Victoria almost smiled.
“No,” she said. “Just me.”
His mouth twitched despite himself. Then his expression darkened again.
“They buried structural concerns,” he said. “If this gets out, people higher than me go down for it.”
Victoria felt something cold settle quietly beneath her ribs.
Structural concerns.
Engineering.
“Which firm signed off on it?”
The man rubbed his forehead once before answering.
“Calder & Rowe Consulting.”
The world did not stop.
That was the problem.
It should have.
Instead, everything remained painfully normal.
Rain against the glass.
A spoon clinking against ceramic somewhere behind her.
Someone laughing near the counter.
Victoria’s pulse remained steady, but only because years of journalism had trained her body not to betray her.
Calder & Rowe.
Lawrence’s firm.
Not his project, necessarily. The company employed hundreds of engineers across the country. It could mean nothing.
But beneath the logic came another quieter thought:
Or it could mean something.
“Miss Strickham?”
Victoria blinked once, realising the man was watching her carefully now.
Reassemble professional mask. immediately.
“Sorry,” she said smoothly. “Continue.”
But for the first time since the interview began, her concentration fractured.
Because Lawrence Calder had never lied to her.
Not once in twenty-eight years.
By the time Victoria left the café, London had dissolved into mist and headlights.
She walked quickly, heels sharp against the wet pavement, her coat pulled tighter against the cold wind curling through the streets. Her phone buzzed once in her pocket.
Charlie.
She ignored it.
A second later:
CHARLIE: You alive or buried under another story?
Despite herself, she smiled faintly.
Another message appeared before she could answer.
CHARLIE: I’m choosing to assume alive because dead people are terrible at replying.
Victoria typed back while waiting at a crossing.
VICTORIA: Busy.
Three dots appeared instantly.
CHARLIE: Which means you’re definitely investigating something you shouldn’t be.
The light changed.
Victoria slipped her phone away without replying.
Because he was right.
She already knew he was right.
And she already knew who she needed to call.
Lawrence answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
His voice was lower when he was tired.
Victoria leaned briefly against the wall outside the station entrance, rain misting the shoulders of her coat.
“Were you asleep?”
A pause.
“No.”
“You sound asleep.”
“I was reading.”
“At midnight?”
“Some people relax normally,” he said. “Some people voluntarily interview dangerous sources in Soho during thunderstorms.”
There it was.
That dry, familiar tone.
The strange immediate settling she only ever felt with him.
Victoria closed her eyes briefly.
“I need to ask you something.”
Silence.
Not empty silence. Lawrence’s silence. Attentive. Focused.
“What’s happened?”
“You assume something bad has happened?”
“You only sound this formal when something’s wrong.”
Damn him.
Even now.
Even after all these years.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said carefully.
“That usually means the opposite.”
Victoria exhaled slowly through her nose.
“I heard your firm’s name connected to a project under investigation.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
When Lawrence spoke again, his voice had sharpened slightly beneath the calm.
“What project?”
She gave him the name.
More silence.
Then:
“I know the site.”
Something tightened low in her stomach.
“Were you involved?”
“No.”
Not defensive.
But immediate.
Victoria noticed immediately because she'd been an investigative journalist for twelve years.
And Lawrence noticed her noticing because he'd known her longer than that.
“You think I’m lying?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
On the other end of the line, Lawrence said nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“Victoria.”
Her name sounded different in his voice when he was hurt. Softer somehow. Less defended.
She hated that she could hear it.
“I didn’t say I thought you were lying.”
“You considered it.”
The problem with Lawrence had always been this: he was smart and observant.
He noticed everything she tried not to say.
Victoria looked out at the blurred city traffic.
“This investigation could become serious.”
“I know.”
“If your firm knowingly approved altered safety figures...”
“They didn’t.”
Again, immediate.
Absolute certainty.
Not corporate loyalty.
Personal conviction.
Victoria frowned slightly.
“How can you know that?”
“Because I know who reviewed the project.”
“And?”
Another pause.
Then quietly:
“Because I reviewed it.”
Her stomach dropped.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
London roared around her in wet headlights and distant sirens.
“You said you weren’t involved.”
“I said I wasn’t involved in altering anything.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Lawrence agreed softly. “It isn’t.”
Victoria pressed a hand briefly against her forehead.
This was exactly why journalists weren’t supposed to have personal attachments to stories.
Objectivity fractures around people you love.
The thought arrived suddenly and uninvited.
People you love.
She straightened immediately against it.
Dangerous thought. Ignore.
“Victoria.”
His voice gentled slightly.
“I need you not to assume the worst before you have facts.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“I know.”
Not irritated.
Not dismissive.
Just tired.
Which somehow felt worse.
“You should come over,” he said after a moment.
“What?”
“So we can talk properly instead of you standing in the rain catastrophising.”
“I'm not catastrophising.”
“You called me at midnight sounding like you’d just uncovered a body.”
“I’ve done that before.”
“I remember.”
And suddenly she did too.
Age twenty-four. A South London corruption case. Victoria shaking from adrenaline outside a police station at two in the morning while Lawrence arrived without complaint carrying cheap coffee.
He had always arrived.
Always.
The crossing light changed again beside her.
Victoria realised she still hadn’t answered.
“Victoria.”
“What?”
“You’re freezing.”
She blinked.
“How would you know that?”
“You go quieter when you’re cold.”
God.
That was the problem.
Not the history itself.
But the intimacy of it.
The unbearable accumulation of tiny observations gathered over nearly three decades.
You go quieter when you’re cold.
No one should know a person that well.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re avoiding my questions.”
“I’m trying not to discuss a potentially sensitive investigation over the phone.”
That was fair.
Annoyingly fair.
Victoria looked up at the sky.
“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll come over.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I always drive carefully.”
“You once reversed into a concrete bollard while arguing with me.”
“That was one time.”
“You cried.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You absolutely cried.”
Despite herself, Victoria laughed softly.
The sound surprised both of them into silence.
Because laughter between them had always done that:
momentarily revealed how easy this could all be if neither of them were afraid of it.
Victoria swallowed carefully.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
Neither hung up immediately.
Another problem.
Always another few seconds too long.
Eventually Victoria ended the call herself.
Then stood completely still beneath the station lights while rain blurred the city around her.
Because underneath the investigation, underneath the firm, underneath all of it...
something had shifted tonight.
Not visibly.
Not enough to name.
But enough to feel.
Lawrence opened the door before she knocked.
Grey jumper. Dark joggers. His glasses low on his nose.
Victoria hated how attractive the glasses were.
That felt like an inappropriate thought she should absolutely not be having at this stage of her life.
“You took thirty-two minutes,” he said.
“London traffic.”
“You live twelve minutes away.”
“Are you timing me now?”
“Yes.”
Victoria stepped inside, warmth immediately wrapping around her from the flat.
The familiar scent hit her first:
coffee, cedarwood, paper.
Lawrence’s home always smelled like concentration.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You still have that awful lamp.”
“It’s a good lamp.”
“It looks interrogational.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
She slipped off her coat, hanging it automatically beside his.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
Lawrence watched her quietly for a second too long before stepping back toward the kitchen.
“Tea?”
“Yes.”
“You sound traumatised.”
“I may be.”
“That’s promising.”
Victoria followed him into the kitchen, watching as he filled the kettle with absent efficiency.
Everything Lawrence did looked deliberate.
Measured.
Even tiredness seemed organised on him.
“You really reviewed the project?” she asked.
Lawrence leaned against the counter.
“Yes.”
“And you’re certain figures were altered afterward?”
“I’m certain the numbers I approved were compliant.”
“That isn’t the same answer.”
“No,” he said again. “It isn’t.”
Victoria crossed her arms.
“That worries me.”
“I know.”
“You seem remarkably calm about that.”
“I’m trying not to panic before there’s evidence.”
“And if there is evidence?”
Lawrence looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
There was something exhausted in his eyes tonight she didn’t fully understand.
“If someone changed those figures after approval,” he said quietly, “people could get hurt.”
Not:
the company could collapse.
Not:
my career could be ruined.
People could get hurt.
Victoria felt something painful move through her chest.
Because this was Lawrence.
Careful. Principled. Fundamentally good in ways that rarely announced themselves.
And because some part of her had hated herself for even briefly questioning that.
“You trust me that much?” he asked suddenly.
Victoria looked up sharply.
“What?”
“You had one conversation in a café and immediately came here instead of publishing anything.”
“That’s called responsible journalism.”
“It’s also trust.”
His gaze held hers steadily.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
Victoria looked away first.
“You’re impossible,” she muttered.
“I’ve been told.”
The kettle clicked.
Neither moved immediately.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Lawrence frowned slightly.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
Another knock.
More impatient this time.
Lawrence pushed away from the counter and walked toward the hallway. Victoria followed instinctively, unease prickling unexpectedly beneath her skin.
When Lawrence opened the door, Charlie Lambert stood outside holding a bottle of wine.
His smile appeared instantly.
“Well,” Charlie said lightly, eyes moving between them, “this is interesting.”
