Page 20 of A Life Betrayed

She loaded tiny portions of food onto her plate, not because she was interested in eating them but more as a thing to do. “It was pretty amicable. We had different ambitions.”

Ethan’s had been to get married and have babies, little girls he’d already named Poppy and June. Hers had been to make superintendent by the time she turned forty. In a way, the timing worked out perfectly. His leaving freed her up to take on the Quebec investigation, which put Frances one step closer to a promotion. They never could have made it work while they were together. She’d have turned the opportunity down and quietly resented Ethan for the rest of her career.

“How long were you guys together?”

“Eight years,” Frances said as though it wasn’t a big deal. It had been—still was.

She’d met Ethan one morning after leaving a security briefing at Parliament Hill. He’d been part of an antiwar protest that had turned violent, and Frances had helped rinse the tear gas out of his eyes with her water bottle. He’d looked up, face red and eyes streaming, and flashed her that disarming smile of his, like he figured it was as good a moment as any to hit on her. They were together by the end of the week. He’d loved telling that story to people they met at parties.

Now it was like time had skipped forward and she had nothing to show for it. While Frances had always been lukewarm about the idea of a family, Ethan was the only man she could imagine having one with. Getting back out there was supposed to feel empowering, but instead, it brought into sharp focus just how good she’d had it.

“Wow, I can’t imagine,” Louis said, shaking his head sympathetically and scooping what looked like a fake crab cake onto his plate. “Skylar and I were together for two, and that felt like a lifetime.”

Frances almost rolled her eyes. Two years was foreplay.

They made uncomfortable small talk through the rest of the meal and parted with an awkward hug. It had been clear fromthe outset that they were poorly matched. She didn’t know what Diana had been thinking.

Fortunately, Frances had far more pressing concerns on her mind. That was the beauty of a demanding job—it left little room to mull over the other things in her life that weren’t working.

Chapter Nine

Mathias sat at the bar and watched the line of people queuing for drinks. For a crumbling joint, it was surprisingly busy at two thirty in the afternoon.Does anyone have a job in this fucking town?

Gurin had called the previous evening and asked to meet with him to discuss what he’d uncovered about Inspector Allen. Mathias had made the trip out to Hamilton that morning, knowing he couldn’t stay long as there were pressing things to be dealt with back in Montreal. He glanced down at his watch. Granted, he was early, but Gurin would have to haul ass if he expected to make it on time. They’d agreed to meet at the same piece-of-shit bar in North Glanford where they used to trade intel when Mathias was stationed in the city.

During his brief stint in Hamilton, he’d grown to appreciate Gurin’s practical efficiency, along with his capacity for discretion. Even back then, he’d trusted the Russians more than he had the bumbling head of the Reapers. The Bratva had been in the game longer and knew the value of caution—keeping your mouth shut and your friends close. He would soon find out whether Truman had forsaken both of those tenets.

“I’m not late,” Gurin announced as he sidled up and took a seat beside Mathias at the bar.

“Cutting it close.”

Gurin grinned and signaled the bartender with his hand. “Still a stickler for the time.”

“Time is money,” Mathias said.

“That it is,” Gurin agreed. The bartender took his order, and Mathias tapped the edge of his empty glass for a top-up. “Rare to see you in town. Not exactly going out of your way to visit these days.”

“You could say that.” And when he was here, it wasn’t Gurin he came to see.

Gurin waited until the drinks were poured and the barman had stepped away before continuing. “So, your girl’s been rather busy as of late,” he said, reaching into his jacket and handing Mathias an envelope of photos. “Spent some time in the capital with her sister’s kids and had herself a romantic evening out.”

Mathias flicked through the collection of shots—Allen leaving the RCMP headquarters in Ottawa, at the park with two young children, seated across from a well-dressed man at a restaurant. Then the last set of images made his hand still.

“She even managed a trip out here to catch a hockey game.”

There she was, high in the stands of the Copps Coliseum, two seats down from the easily recognizable bulk of the Red Reapers’ head, William Truman. Mathias slipped the photos back into the envelope and tossed it onto the bar. The anger rose, a pressure against his chest.

“So now we know,” Gurin said. “Truman’s been getting cozy with the Horsemen.”

“Or maybe they’re both Bulldogs fans,” Mathias muttered sarcastically. He took a swig from his drink.

Gurin snickered. “Are you really that surprised, Mathias? He’s always been a shifty bastard.”

“I figured he had too much to lose to squeal. She must have something on him.”

“My money’s on that as well,” Gurin agreed. “If he’s willing to go against you and the family, she has him by the fucking balls.”

“Any ideas?”

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