Page 296 of The Black Trilogy

How could Black’s life have been worth so little? My rates started at five times that.

Nate rubbed his temples. “I know. It’s insulting.”

“Have the cops found anything else?”

“Not exactly.” Nate walked over to the window and stared out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the lead investigator keeps spouting statistics. That it’s always a victim’s nearest and dearest who’s most likely to have killed them.”

Realisation dawned, and I sat up. “They think it was me.”

He nodded, and anger flashed in his eyes. Not at me, but at the police.

On paper it fitted. I had the connections, I had the money, and I stood to gain a massive financial benefit from my husband’s death. But what the idiots obviously didn’t understand was that I’d loved my husband, and as a part of me died when he did, I was hardly likely to have helped him on his way.

I explained this to my lawyer, Oliver, as well as the fact that I already had more of my own money than I could ever spend and so I didn’t need Black’s as well. Not to mention that if I had wanted something ridiculously expensive, like a new jet or perhaps a small country, I’d only have had to ask and he’d have bought it for me.

The other thing, which I didn’t put into words because it wouldn’t have helped the situation, was that if I’d wanted Black dead, which I didn’t, then we wouldn’t have been having this conversation. Why? Well, firstly, I’d have done the job myself, and secondly, nobody would’ve suspected it was anything but a terrible accident.

Between them, the girls got me out of bed and semi-presentable. Call it zombie chic. The police had made themselves at home in my dining room, papers and candy wrappers strewn everywhere. A steaming mug of coffee sat next to one of them, right on the polished oak table. If Bradley saw that, Black’s wouldn’t be the only murder they had to look into. I sat there for over an hour, confirming only my full name and address while my high-priced pit bull of a lawyer ran circles around a pair of detectives and an assistant DA who appeared to have barely graduated from law school and was extremely nervous to boot.

Luckily, despite the cops’ conviction I had something to do with my husband’s death and the media christening me the Black Widow, my friends didn’t doubt me. I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal or amazing bunch of people in my life, and they had my back. Always had my back. So while I wasted my time listening to Oliver snap “don’t answer that” and “that’s completely irrelevant,” they started the hunt for Black’s true killer.

Sadly, they didn’t get very far.

The van had been stolen from a long-term airport parking lot three days previously. Professionals that they were, the hitmen had even bought a few bouquets to maintain their cover story as they drove it around. Unfortunately, they’d also covered up the money trail, and so far, we hadn’t found large payments into any accounts connected with them. We couldn’t trace the origins of the cash either, although the men certainly lived well enough.

Their upstate New York homes were far too nice to be afforded by the insurance salesman and freelance piano tuner they claimed to be, and neither had family money. We found swimming pools, a vintage Rolls Royce, and enough art to make any respectable gallery weep.

But no leads to their employer.

My clients lent their support as well as my friends and colleagues. The FBI sent a couple of agents to assist in our investigation, the NSA searched through their archives, and the CIA offered to help overseas. Although, as ever with the CIA, they had an ulterior motive. They wanted to get me back on track as soon as possible so I was available to do their dirty work.

They knew that, I knew that, and they probably knew I knew that. They didn’t care.

When I did go back to the office, three days after the explosion, I wandered around in a trance. Going through the motions. I checked emails, made phone calls, and spoke to people, but although the wheel was turning, the hamster was dead. With Black reduced to a letter of condolence confirming the DNA match, I didn’t want to work, but I needed to. Work was what I had left.

Thanks to the FBI, I’d been cleared of any wrongdoing in the van chase. I’d called in a favour and they’d pulled rank, putting pressure on the local cops by claiming an interest in the case. One of their agents stepped in and got everything closed down sharpish. The police were still sniffing around Black’s murder, but Oliver was earning his money there.

Meanwhile, my team put their all into trawling through Black’s cases, starting with the most recent and working backwards, searching for some kind of connection between his life and his death. The control room ran 24/7, fuelled by caffeine and a determination to see justice done, but ultimately their efforts were in vain.

There was nothing, not a hint of a clue and no trail to follow.

At least, not until the day of Black’s funeral when I received the phone call that tipped me over the edge and sent me running to England.

CHAPTER 1

THOSE WHO KNOW despair once knew hope...

Those who know loss once knew love...

The voice of the man who’d ordered my husband’s death echoed in my ears, as did the crack my phone made when I hurled it against the wall after I hung up on him.

As if killing Black wasn’t bad enough, now he had to call me and gloat over it? And not only that, if I tried to do anything about the state of affairs, he’d start taking out the other people I cared for. The situation made me want to break bones. His bones.

But that was out of the question.

---