Page 34 of Damon
“So McKinney,” he begins, “how are you really?”
“Three days and I’m already struggling. The last eight weeks have been hard enough, never mind having the pressures of work on top. Babies are time-consuming.”
“I can imagine,” he says, “but this is what must be. And you need normality in your life. So does Annie. How is your new nanny? Julia, is it?” For a man with so many responsibilities and a twenty-four-hour job, my friend remembers everything—it always surprises me.
“It’s early, but so far she seems happy with the arrangement. Once Mother is gone it will be easier, I think.” He doesn’t respond, just leaves empty air begging to be filled with words. “How is Emma?” I ask, before I can change my mind. It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask him for weeks, but I’ve been avoiding the awkward interrogation it would cause. My friend looks at me blankly for a moment.
“Why?”
“I need to know.”
“You don’t. It’s none of your business.”
I rub at my face with my hands, frustrated by his lack of willingness to share. It’s not only my daughter causing me insomnia; it’s the woman who carried her and shared my home. The woman I feel obligated to protect.
“Please, Waite. I only want to know if she’s okay.”
His face softens and he takes pity on me. “She’s fine. Back at work a few weeks ago, studying Monday to Thursday online. Mrs. D is still helping out at her apartment two days a week. Overall, she seems content enough, moving forward in the direction as planned.” My disappointment at hearing she is happy without me fills my chest, and I physically deflate with the thought. “That’s what you wanted? Her to move on with her life and forget you.”
“Yes, of course. I’m glad she has.” But the words leaving my lips are the exact opposite of how I feel. Part of me wishes she would miss me, because fuck, I miss her.
Chapter thirteen
Chase, Chase and Waite Law Firm, Canary Wharf
Emma
One of Harrison Waite’s specialties is exonerating already-convicted criminals. He is paid obscene amounts of money to go over old cases, appeal, and win. My role is moving in a similar direction, and each day in the office is spent pouring over old files and notes. Then I take the records home and study them when not attending online lectures. The focus keeps my head busy and away from everything else I have to think about; the losses in my life that I don’t want to consider.
It's my fifth Friday in the office. The clock strikes 8 p.m. I glance up at it as it buzzes in its frame on the hour, as it does every hour. It’s annoying.
“Go home, Emma,” Harrison says from behind me as he closes his office door. “The weekend has begun; everything can wait till Monday. Plus, Mrs. D will have your dinner on the table, and she hates food going cold.”
“I’m finishing up,” I say, still looking at my computer screen.
“I’m not leaving until you do.” He walks over and stands at my shoulder. Before I can stop him, he leans down and switches my computer off at the wall socket. “Now, go home.”
“Fine,” I huff, pushing my chair back and standing. After shrugging into my heavy winter jacket and zipping it up to my chin, I follow him to the staircase that takes us down to the street level below. Both of us live within a five-minute walk of the office, but in different directions.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“Don’t be silly. I live closer than you do, and it’s freezing.” The pavement is slippery with ice as a flurry of snow falls from the sky. Winter has hung around longer in London this year; spring feels as if it will never arrive. “I’ll see you next week,” I tell him, then wave and walk off in the direction of my apartment. When I glance over my shoulder, he is still standing, watching me, and does so until I turn onto a side street that heads toward home.
My shiny black heels snap against the icy paving, clicking loudly with every step. The small alley cuts between two large office blocks. It’s a haven of quiet within the bustling district of Canary Wharf. The streets are filled with busy professionals who are finishing work and heading out on a Friday night to let off some steam. The bars I’ve walked past are already packed; people even sit in the beer gardens wrapped up in winter clothes.
The alley isn’t long, perhaps one hundred meters, and the sound of my shoes is the only thing I can hear…until it isn’t. The distinctive heavy step of a booted foot echoes behind me. I pause and peek over my shoulder, but no one is to be seen. Turning back, I increase my pace, wanting to be out in the open with others around me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like I’m being watched. Each Friday, upon leaving my apartment for work, I take the same route past a small coffee shop with cheap pine tables on the patio at the front. The same man sits drinking an espresso and reading a newspaper each day—no matter the weather. Each time I pass, he’s looked at me blankly, then his eyes have returned to his paper. But there was something that made me uneasy about the look in those eyes. It was like he was evaluating me.
Last week, I took a different path to work. The same man was sitting in a different café, and the scenario played out once more. I don’t believe in coincidences. The experience has put me on edge since.
Occasionally, when I’ve nipped to the store for some groceries or taken a run in the local park, I’ve had a sense of being followed, but I put it down to my paranoia playing tricks on me. This year with the McKinney family has been hard, but it was nothing compared to what I lived through in my teens, and why now I must always be aware of who’s around me. The police tell me I’m safe from my past, and my heart aches to believe them. My head doesn’t.
I shrug off the uneasy feeling and continue marching as fast as I can toward home. With the odd look over my shoulder, I satisfy myself that I was indeed imagining being shadowed. No one is there. Finally, I step out into the busy street where my home is located.
After rummaging in my bag for my key card, which evades my fingers, I eventually find it. As my eyes lift, they fall on two men standing further down the street in front of an office used for remote working. It’s one of those places where you can hire a desk for a few hours. Rarely do I see the same person entering or leaving the building; it seems to have ever-changing attendees.
Damon stares back at me with those big, stunning green eyes. My whole body tenses. I’ve not seen him since he was handed his daughter and left the birthing suite. All the emotions I felt that day come rushing back: the pain, the rejection, and the overwhelming sadness. He swallows visibly then returns his focus to the other man, whom I also recognize, but his appearance is most unwelcome. It’s someone I was promised would never see me again. A person I thought I was safe from.