Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

thrown into jail or disappear into the sunset, and then something happens to Gary, people would start to wonder. All eyes would turn your way. The questions would really begin."

Abbie leaned back, pointed at the file.

"It goes like this: if you still intend to go after Gary, to do him harm or worse, me being tried and convicted of attacking you both is the last thing you'd want or need. What do you say?"

Like smoke, frustration poured off Ndidi as Abbie spoke.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said when she was done.

He was angry. Abbie could see that. But she didn’t know what he wanted and wasn’t willing to keep playing this game, so she shrugged.

“Charge me then.”

Threading his hands, Ndidi leaned back, twisting his fingers as though trying to perform some rudimentary magic trick.

“I’m trying to do you a favour.”

Abbie smirked.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ndidi said. He gestured to the file on the floor. “I can make all this disappear—no more statements. No charge, no conviction. No angry mob baying for your blood for attacking the police. You can be breathing fresh air before breakfast.”

“And all I have to do,” said Abbie. “Is disappear. Leave town. Never return.”

“Is that too much to ask? Why are you here, anyway? You didn’t live nearby, so what? Are you visiting family or friends? I’m sure they’d understand if you couldn’t stick around. You could make some excuse.”

Ndidi’s eyes burned with determination. Abbie met them and shook her head. She was still smiling, and she had no problem lying.

“Whatever you want, Detective. Let’s make this go away.”

Still trying to read Abbie, Ndidi said, “You’ll leave town?”

No chance.

“Yup,” she said. “If that’s what's needed. You think I’m here to take on police corruption? No, thank you. I’ve better things to be doing with my—“

Ndidi’s hand shot forward, grabbed her wrist, squeezed.

“How dare you,” he said.

Abbie raised her eyebrows. The detective’s grip was tight, it was starting to hurt, but Abbie showed no signs of pain or even discomfort. She looked at his hand, then to his eyes.

“Excuse me?”

When Abbie met Ndidi’s eyes, his own jerked towards the table, saw what he was doing and yanked away his hand. Stared at the offending digits as though they’d betrayed him. The grab hadn’t been intentional or planned. Ndidi had lost control.

“You don’t like being called corrupt, huh?”

“I’m not corrupt,” he said.

“Okay,” said Abbie. She should have left it there. “My mistake. Obviously, I saw you beating civilians, falsifying statements, and holding off-the-record witness interviews, and I got the wrong end of the stick. Not the first time. Please, accept my apologies.”

Hands shaking, Ndidi was staring at Abbie as though he could not process what she was saying. Would not allow himself to process it, more like.

“I’m not corrupt.”

“Okay,” said Abbie. “Whatever.”

“I’m not. I’m not corrupt.”

Abbie didn’t respond. If Ndidi had somehow become trapped in a time loop, would it also ensnare her? Abbie would take whatever action necessary to escape such a torturous fate.

In the face of Abbie’s silence, Ndidi’s panic seemed to grow. He was like a little boy, lost in a supermarket, desperate to find his mother.

Amid his growing stress, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"

“Don’t do that,” said Abbie.

Ndidi raised his hands. "I'm only asking."

"Good rule of thumb: people who offer a drink at the first opportunity—i.e. when you arrive at their house or are dragged into their interview room—are," she used air quotes, "'only asking'. People who ask in the middle of a serious conversation, when they have explaining to do, have an ulterior motive.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“Correct,” said Abbie. “I can go then? Or are you charging me?”

By now, Ndidi’s breathing was funny, unmoderated. Without really trying, Abbie was getting under his skin. Still, he surprised her when he reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet.

‘I’m not corrupt.”

“Paying me to change my mind won’t prove your point.”

He ignored her. “I’m an honest cop. Police officers I’ve looked up to have turned out to be corrupt, and it breaks my heart. Corruption makes me sick. It isn’t me.”

Abbie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Seconds after his comments, Ndidi’s eyes flicked to his feet, where lay the falsified statements. Whether he believed himself corrupt or not, at his feet lay evidence of a corrupt action he had taken.

Leaning down, he grabbed the file. Slapped it to the desk and poked the cover as though ready to discipline it.

“This isn’t what I want," he said. "I hate myself for this, but it turns out I’m weak, and I never would have guessed. Isn't that funny? I'm thirty-nine. You reach a certain age and think you've learned everything there is to learn about yourself. You must have; you stopped growing a long time ago. But there's always more—nasty secrets lurking in the background. Sometimes, one or two of your biggest character traits are concealed even from yourself. They hide, remaining dormant until, one day, something triggers them, and you realise something about yourself you never wanted to know. You know?"

After examining the front of the file, Abbie turned her gaze to Ndidi.

"One evening, a few years ago, I turned on the telly," she said. "First thing to come up was one of those crap reality shows that bring together a bunch of awful nobodies to complete some asinine, inconsequential task. This lot had to build a bridge, or a boat, or something. The task isn't important. They shove these people together so they can bicker and argue and screw each other over. Sometimes just screw each other. You know the kind of show I mean?"

“Yeah," said Ndidi. "Not sure how it relates, but—"

Abbie raised a hand. Cut him off. Wait, I'm getting to it, the gesture said.

"I knew of such shows, but I'd never watched one. Why would I? They sound frightful. So the moment it comes on, I pick up the remote. I'm going to change the channel or turn the damn box off. I'm