At First Sight, Hannah Sunderland [thriller books to read txt] 📗

in my chair so fast that I rolled all the way to the window, my knee bouncing against the floor-to-ceiling glass pane as I came to a stop.

‘Nothing,’ I said rather unconvincingly. ‘Change of plan. I’m going out after work, so I’m gonna have to take a rain check on spag bol and true crime.’

‘Please tell me that you’re not going with Joel.’ He pouted and tilted his head.

‘It will be a Joel-free evening.’ From the corner of my eye, I saw the flustered mess of who I assumed was now a very late Caleb come crashing through the door, his lanyard twisted around his neck and looped under his arm as if he’d put it on while flying around in one of those skydiving simulators. ‘And I think that’s my cue.’ I signed off the computer, grabbed my notes and made my way to Barry’s office, with excitement zinging in my stomach like popping candy.

Chapter Four

I sighed into the smudged mirror of the poorly maintained bathroom and wondered what tricks I could pull out of my sleeve to make myself look a little less like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. My hair had begun to break free of the elastic that held it in a topknot. The messy bun slowly sliding down the right side of my head like an ice cream, slipping from its cone on a hot day. I tucked my finger under the bobble and pulled it free, my hair knotting around it and sending a sharp pain down into my scalp as it tugged against the roots. I hissed and untangled the strands before letting my hair fall down in a curtain of chestnut mess. I combed it with my fingers and scrunched the ends to try and make it presentable before wiping the eyeliner from beneath my eyes and pinching my cheeks to give them a tiny bit of colour.

The sound of loud, tuneless music drummed through the door and into my skull and I wondered how people possibly enjoyed this type of noise. I could cope with there being no words, it was the lack of anything other than a bassline that made me question its validity as music.

I turned away from the mirror and opened the door, the music assaulting me with its loudness as I stepped back into the bar.

The Street Food Market was somewhat crowded, for a Thursday night, and the air hung with the mingling smells that drifted in from the various food trucks outside. The trucks collected in a courtyard three days a week, decorated with fairy lights and neon signs, selling everything from pimped-up brownies to Indian fish and chips, a miasma of all the combined foods making one delicious odour. Aside from the street food, there were also three bars, each boasting a different theme. I’d been here a few times before and tried them all at least once, but this time we’d opted to try the bar at the far end, a 1920s-themed one with pied floor tiles and plush red seating.

I weaved my way through the crowd back to where I’d left Charlie at the bar, perched on a tall stool and picking unenthusiastically at some jerk chicken with a wooden fork. He smiled goofily as I pulled myself up onto the stool beside him. The man who’d sold it to us had, I think, been borderline insane and, when Charlie had asked how spicy the food was, he had replied, ‘It’ll slap you in the face and take you shopping.’ Neither of us had known exactly what that meant and if it was even a good thing to say about what you were going to put in your mouth. He’d been such a born salesman that we hadn’t been able to turn away without parting with what seemed like a great deal of money for such a small portion.

‘How’s the food?’ I asked, catching the eye of the barmaid and signalling for a refill of our empty beer glasses. ‘Did it slap you in the face and take you shopping?’

‘Not exactly how I’d describe it. It’s more like eating napalm,’ he said, touching the fork to his tongue and wincing a few moments later when the heat hit him.

‘That’s the mild one.’ I chuckled, reaching over, taking a piece with my fingers and popping it into my mouth. The heat was most certainly there, though it didn’t make me turn puce like Charlie. He let the fork slump back into the cardboard tray and pushed it towards me.

‘Be my guest. My poor Irish tongue can’t handle it.’ The bartender brought over two frothing pints, one of which Charlie grabbed and glugged until it quelled the burning in his mouth. I tapped my card to the card reader and the bartender sent me a wink.

I picked up the wooden fork and ate the rest of our ‘shared’ meal in what I expect was a matter of seconds. When I looked up, he was watching me with fondness. I blushed and quickly wiped at my mouth with my sleeve.

‘Sorry. I tend to forget that the rest of the world exists when I eat. I’m sure it’s horrifying to witness.’

‘Not at all,’ he countered.

I pushed away the empty tray and reached for my beer.

I had a surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol for someone of my size and so two beers were nothing to worry about. I sipped at the cold beer and felt it mingle with the spice on my tongue, the bubbles aggravating it before the coolness calmed it again.

‘So, tell me about Carrick,’ I said and his body language changed instantly. He looked at me through dark, fanning lashes but didn’t reply. I shrugged my eyebrows and tilted my head. I could tell that he didn’t really want to talk about it, that pushing away whatever it was that was playing on his mind was his way of dealing with his worry, but it was my job to extract the