Page 6 of Sacrifice

“What do you remember between that moment and now?” The policeman’s voice had lowered, and his words drew her in, softly coaxing her to answer. His eyes bore into her, and Eve felt, for the most bizarre of moments, as if she knew what he was thinking.

He doesn’t want me to know what happened.

Her mouth dried. “Do we know each other?” she asked.

Michaels shifted his gaze to the notebook in his hand.

“You were pulled out of the river at Fulham Reach. There was another incident close by, and we’re looking for witnesses. Do you remember seeing anything unusual?” His tone of voice had become all business.

“I can’t remember, sorry. Am I in trouble?”

He shook his head, and a strand of blond hair fell across his face. “Not at all.” He swept it to one side and took out his business card. “I’m duty-bound to offer you counselling services should you feel that you need to talk to someone,” he said and handed it to her.

Does he think I tried to kill myself?

She took the card, and as he pulled away, her fingers brushed against his. The echo of a memory rose from the murky pool of her subconscious.

There had been a man. Strong and sure of himself. Her body replayed sensations that ran goosebumps over her skin. He’d touched her in a way she’d never felt before. Exquisite pleasure danced at the edges of her memory, but the details eluded her. Had Michaels rescued her from the river? She looked into his face and searched for the truth.

No, not Michaels.

“Thanks.” She got up from the chair and turned her face away to hide the heat racing across it. “I was just drunk and stupid. Is there anything else? I need to get ready for work.”

She could feel him looking at her.

“Do me a favor, Miss Areli. Don’t wander around on your own in the dead of night. The streets aren’t safe.” He stood up and tucked away his notebook. “You never know who you might meet.”

Four

Eve stompedalong the pavement and hugged her coat around her. It was bloody cold and in the last-minute rush to get ready for work, she'd forgotten her gloves. She jammed her hands up into her armpits and picked up the pace.

Working Saturday was the worst, especially when Saturday was the day after the night before. She rounded the corner and, as the museum came into sight, the need for caffeine formed in her sluggish brain. A morning hit would help her shake off the fug.

Early morning visitors were already making their way up the steps to the main doors.

What was the matter with these people? Have a lay in, why don’t you?

She scowled at them. There was no way Eve would be dragging her sorry ass to a museum at this time of day at the weekend if she didn't absolutely have to.

A job in the gift shop at the British Museum had never been on the bucket list of ‘ten things to do before she died’. It wasn’t in the next hundred or so either. The job at the museum was just meant to have been for the summer after university, to earn enough to go travelling, but that hadn’t gone quite toplan. Five years later, she was still stacking shelves with replica Tutankhamun masks rather than standing in the shadow of the pyramids. To say she was disappointed with her lot was an understatement.

The need for coffee intensified with the dawning knowledge that Gilbert would never let her wander off to the canteen once she'd turned up late. And shewasgoing to be late.

Salvation awaited in the form of the coffee cart guy, set up at the base of the main steps, a smattering of bistro tables and chairs set out around his kiosk for the caffeine desperadoes and nicotine junkies.

She joined the short queue and flexed her shoulders back. Falling off Hammersmith bridge into the Thames was bound to be painful and her body seemed to remember what it had been through, even if her mind was frustratingly blank.

She chewed at her lip. One thing she knew was that DI Michaels was a weird fish. She couldn't help thinking he'd been holding back on her, like there was more to their encounter than he’d been willing to say.

It hadn't been until after he'd gone and she'd had to rush about to get ready for work, that the full peculiarity of it all had filled itself in. Her clothes from the night before were in her room. They were rumpled and dirty, but also perfectly dry.

Her parents seemed to have zero knowledge of the previous evening's events. This was even more peculiar than the clothes. How had she got home, through the front door and into bed without them being involved?

Her mother wasn't exactly a busy-body and as a twenty-six-year-old woman she didn't need babying, but there were some things that a person still living with their parents just would not get away with. Being brought home by the police in the middle of the night after being rescued from a suspected suicide attempt in the Thames was one of them.

She sighed and noticed that the queue in front of her had gone. The coffee cart guy was looking right at her. He smiled and gave her a knowing nod. They didn't know each other exactly, but this wasn't their first post-nine-am encounter either.

“Skinny latte with an extra shot, please.”

---