Page 41 of Damon
“Morning,” she trills as she meets my gaze. “Oh sorry, am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Damon says. “I was just about to leave for the gym. Have a good day, both of you.” He walks past me, then approaches his daughter and drops a kiss onto her forehead. “See you later, my special girl.”
“When you return later,” Julia says, “can I have a word, please?”
“Of course. Is everything okay?” She smiles, but doesn’t respond. “I’ll meet you in my office at two if that’s suitable?”
“That would be perfect,” she replies. “I’ll see you then.” He nods in acknowledgement then leaves.
***
That evening my phone buzzes, alerting me to a message. I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, considering what happened with Damon in the kitchen earlier today. I stretch over to the bedside table and lift the device from its resting place. One unread message, the screen says, from Damon.
Emma, we need to talk. Would you be able to meet me in my office now Annie is in bed? Julia has left for the evening. Damon.
I stare at the short, direct communication. Uncertainty swirls in my stomach, and I wonder if he is regretting our moment earlier. Was the interaction between us as dynamite for him as it was for me? From these words, it’s impossible to tell.
Part of me wants to run, simply pack my things and walk out of the door. If he sits me down and rejects me today, I’m not sure I could stand it. It may be better not to know. Then again, it’s insanity to think he would want any sort of romantic relationship with me. What happened this morning was nothing more than over-contained emotion spilling out into the open due to the toxic situation we find ourselves in.
I will be down in ten.
I send the simple message before I can change my mind, then head to the mirror to freshen up before I tackle what’s coming. Today, I’ve lounged around between my room and the conservatory at the back of the house. I spend my time reading or tidying the little mess there is. Julia keeps on top of everything; she’s like Superwoman. Other than that, my days are spent in constant boredom with nothing to do. Harrison told me to take as much time as I need. My law course has been deferred until at least after summer due to mental duress. A suicidal law student is a liability they don’t want.
As I look at myself, my nerves rise. My blonde hair is scraped back against my scalp and pulled high into a ponytail which curls off in all directions down my back. That’s what happens when I wash but don’t dry my locks—they take on life on their own. The simple black leggings teamed with a white t-shirt I’m wearing are demure, and the material covers my overly wide hips. With no make-up, I look a simple, plain Jane, easily forgotten. Once I’ve slid my feet into my slippers, I make my way to Damon’s office.
The door is closed when I arrive, but I can hear his deep voice talking to someone on the other side. He laughs, and my heart lifts. It’s a joy to hear him happy for a change. His light moments are few and fleeting, but when they happen, my whole day gets better, even if I’m only observing. Watching him with Annie is my favorite pastime, especially when he doesn’t know I am looking.
I wait for a few minutes for him to stop talking before knocking on the door gently. “Come in,” he calls, and I push the heavy wood open. Damon is sitting behind his black gloss desk—it is void of any clutter. The only items on the surface are his laptop and a large brown sealed envelope which is turned face-down. As I walk into the room and move to sit on the chair opposite him, his fern-green eyes never leave my face. “Thank you for coming,” he says as I lower myself onto the black leather chair.
“That’s okay, what did you want to see me about?” I try to keep my tone calm, though inside I am in turmoil. The unknown reality of what he is going to say is frightening.
“I wanted to talk to you about your future, and your plans now that a couple of weeks have passed since the incident.”
“Incident?” I snap. “You mean when someone tried to kill me.”
“There has been no substantial proof that anyone else was in your apartment, Emma,” he rebukes bluntly.
"What about the blood from the bastard I cut?”
“The only blood found at the scene was yours in the bathroom,” he tells me. “There was no visible sign of any altercation. The front door was closed, and you were found with injuries that could have been self-inflicted.
The barbiturates found in your system are a common drug prescribed by doctors for sleeping disorders. The medication is one used often by those wishing to end their life,“ he summarizes. “As a result, the police have decided not to pursue that line of inquiry. They have accepted the doctor’s report.” He lifts an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side. His expression is goading me to argue, and I bite.
“I did not attempt to take my life!” I shriek and slam my hands down on his desk. His laptop vibrates with the blow. He leans back on his chair and undoes two buttons on his shirt at his throat. The bastard is completely unflustered by my outburst. “I don’t give a fuck what the doctor said, my injuries were not by my own hand.”
“Emma, why would an unknown intruder try to kill you and make it look like a suicide? It seems like a lot of work for someone who didn’t seem to take anything.” He lifts a hand and runs it through his short dark hair. His muscles flex beneath the white shirt he’s wearing. It strikes me as odd that he’s dressed for a meeting at this time on a Sunday evening. “Tell me the truth, please. Did you know your attacker?”
His question surprises me, and I blink at him. “You believe me?” I whisper, as my body relaxes.
“Of course I do,” he says, his voice softening. “But I need to understand why someone would want you dead, and I’m wondering if it has something to do with this.” He lifts the brown envelope from his desk and throws it across the table. It lands squarely in front of me. “Turn it over.”
I lift the sealed envelope and flip it over. In the top left corner is a small square label with the name Kathryn Haining typed in simple black font. Damon watches my every move, assessing my reaction to the item in my hands. The sight of my real name is unsettling.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him, lifting my eyes to his.
“I don’t know what is in it,” he tells me. “I was hoping you would volunteer the information before I looked for myself. But my contacts at the office have assured me that this name is linked to you, and according to them, Kathryn Haining died almost a decade ago. Her name is also connected with a case I am working on. I need to understand how this is all intertwined.”
My mind whirls. Has he connected the dots? Does he realize that I am Kathryn or think that I merely have knowledge of her? I close my eyes, trying to take a moment to figure out how to deal with the situation. I have no fucking idea.