Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

the weather. “I didn’t know then. I know now, and I’m sorry.”

“Right,” I answered, not sure of what to do, but I did not like this conversation one bit. I glanced down, pretending to toy with my cleaning cloth as I found DCI Thatcher’s number and sent him a quick text, then another, and another. The signal out here was crap, and they struggled to send. It was better in the back room if I could get there.

“I should have done something about it sooner,” Freya told me.

“Done something?” I asked. “What did you do, Freya?”

“I made it right,” she said brightly. “For you and Stella. And me. He lied to me. That wasn’t nice.”

Dread filled me, and I grabbed my phone, hoping that the texts had sent as I dropped it into my pocket.

“No, it wasn’t,” I agreed with her, looking over to the door, to the slowly darkening sky. Stupid autumn and its stupid short days.

“But it’s getting fixed now,” Freya said. “I’m fixing it.”

“How?” I asked.

Freya sighed heavily and gave me a pitiful look. “You used to be smart, Billie. What happened?”

“You used to be nice, Freya,” I countered. “I hope you still are.”

“I am nice!” she shouted. “I did all this for you! You and Stella!”

“Stella’s dead,” I said coldly. “Don’t you dare use her as an excuse.”

Freya breathed in deeply, her eyes closed for a second. I glanced down at my phone, at the texts. Delivered. Thank God.

“You always had to talk back, Billie. To everyone. All the time. That’s not smart or nice,” she informed me tartly.

“I’ll work on it,” I answered. “Now, I’m sorry, Freya, but we’re closing now. I need to finish cleaning up.”

Freya looked around and then turned to me with a nasty glare. “Sorry, Billie. I need to finish cleaning up, too.”

She took a step towards me, and I ran, colliding sharply with the corner of the counter as I sprinted through the café. I could hear her running after me as I skidded into the kitchen. I snatched the keys for the fridge from the wall and charged down, not thinking as I hauled it open, rammed the door shut, and locked it from the inside. I stood for a second, catching my breath, jumping when she started pounding on the door, the tears I’d kept back falling free now. I grabbed my phone.

Texts were read, but I sent another one. A short one, before moving into the cold dark corner of the fridge and curled up into a ball, waiting.

Twenty-Six

Thatcher

We hit the road quickly, I even put the light up on the roof, letting it flash across the street, siren wailing as we peeled off to the café. Mills jolted about in his seat beside me, on the phone to the station to call in a uniformed team to meet us there. I tried to focus on the road, tried to keep my rambling thoughts quiet so that I didn’t steer us into a bush or something.

“Why?” Mills questioned aloud, hanging up the phone and leaving it on his lap. “Would Freya go after Billie?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe she was counting on Billie taking the blame.”

“Doesn’t seem logical to go after her then, not if you were counting on her to take the blame.”

“I don’t think Freya’s being entirely ruled by logic right now,” I pointed out darkly. But he had a point. Going after Billie, if that was indeed what we were going to find when we reached the café, made little sense to me.

The cars on the road parted for us, letting us cross the city in a matter of minutes, pulling to a squealing stop by the road outside. We jumped out, striding to the café, the doors of which were still unlocked. I pushed it open carefully, and as I walked in, my boots crunched over something shattered. I stepped inside, dumbfounded.

It was as bad as Edward’s studio. Plates and mugs shattered across the ground, tables turned over, chairs with the legs broken, discarded on the floor like they had been lobbed against the wall, leaving the artworks wonky, some fallen off entirely. The soft music still played, a strange juxtaposition to the state of the café, and apart from it, it was silent.

“Billie?” I called, stepping over the broken glass and shattered crockery, looking over to the counter. “It’s Inspector Thatcher!” I scanned the room for either her or Freya.

“Place is a war zone,” Mills muttered beside me. “Suppose it’s a good thing the windows are still intact.”

I huffed a laugh, my eyes narrowed towards the kitchen door.

“You check the backroom,” I told Mills, “I’ll check the kitchen.”

Mills nodded and picked his way carefully across the floor to the little door in the corner where we had first seen Billie come through. There was a bathroom door beside it, and he peeked in quickly before reaching for the handle and stepping in. I took my eyes off him, making my way to the kitchen. The door wasn’t far from the counter where a few things had been knocked to the ground; a bottle of cleaning product, a pad of paper and pen, some coins from the tip jar that had rolled across the smooth floor. The kitchen door was the sort that swung open both ways, and I pushed my shoulder against it, slowly making my way inside, hands in front of me just in case.

It was a mess in here too. Things had been thrown against the far walls, knives, plates, bowls, all laying on the floor at the back of the kitchen. I looked at them, looked to where they had been aimed. A metal door built into the wall, a walk-in fridge. An unsettled feeling came over me as I made way there, jumping when the door opened, and Mills joined me with a little shake of the head. I nodded to the fridge, and he frowned, following me as I trod lightly over, knocking gently on the