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

but it wasn't. She was lying to herself. The face lingered at the peripheral of her vision. The name bounced around the back of her mind, like a whisper echoing through the deepest chamber of her subconscious.

Ben.

How could his words not affect her? His fear, or the fear of his employers, was that Abbie could not focus on her job while in love. Were her concerns over who should text whom and when not proof these anxieties were warranted?

Of course not. This was scheduled downtime. There was nothing Abbie could do, and no plans she could form until Orion rang. There was no reason she shouldn't let Bobby occupy her mind. No reason she shouldn't text him and tell him she missed him; that she was fighting to get back to him soon.

But she wouldn't. Every time she tried, that whispered name got a little louder, and Ben's arguments put paid to a harmless communication.

God, how she loathed that awful man.

"You have no idea how I ache to add a dash of vodka to this."

It had just passed eleven in the morning. After breakfast, Christine had called the station and learned Kilman's condition was stable but critical. It looked more likely than yesterday that he would live, but there were no guarantees. On the bright side, Gary was going to be okay. If not today, he would be released tomorrow. Bitter at the lies he had told her on Orion's behalf, Abbie wasn't concerned if she never again saw the lanky teen.

An arrest warrant hung over Abbie's head. But Rachel Becker had knocked her from the wanted list's top spot. That might change if Kilman died, but for now, it meant the heat on Abbie was a little reduced.

Christine delivered these messages a little after eight am, and it was she who spoke next, some three hours later.

She was staring into her third orange juice when she mentioned the vodka, twisting the glass and watching the liquid swirl. It was like a form of self-hypnosis.

"Before I came to this town, I wasn't much of a drinker. A glass of wine with dinner every now and then, a couple if we went to the pub. A little more at Christmas. I can't remember ever getting drunk or drinking spirits. Maybe a shot of sambuca, once. It probably made me throw up."

"Understandable," said Ana.

Christine was still staring into the orange juice like it was an autocue, and she was struggling to read her lines. She didn't seem to have heard Ana as she continued.

"But when you can't make friends because you hate to lie, and when you're afraid to ring your family or your boyfriend in case anyone finds out you're not who you've said you are, drinking starts to become a little more appealing. When I first got here, I'd sit in front of the telly all evening, not really watching. I wouldn't always cry, but I was almost always on the verge. I bought my first bottle of wine on a whim on my way back from the station one day. I'd popped in to get something else and saw it on sale. It was a brand I'd had before, so I picked it up. Why not? That night, in front of the telly again, I poured myself a glass. I didn't exactly feel like a drink, but I'd bought the bottle, so why not?"

She raised her hands and touched her lips as though remembering that first glass of wine. A smile played across her face, but it was a sad smile. Almost bitter.

"I was surprised to find wine calmed me. There was no doubt by this point, I was suffering from depression. I was away from everyone I loved, doing a job I never wanted to do and sneaking around gathering evidence against people I genuinely liked but with whom I could never make friends. So I was full of this black depression and also a deep, all-consuming self-loathing. The wine didn't make me any happier or make me like myself anymore, but it did relax me, help me sleep. It didn't improve my mood, but it made my situation easier—maybe that sounds stupid."

"No," said Abbie. "It doesn't sound stupid at all."

Christine nodded. She brought the orange juice to her lips and drained it, then put the glass on the floor at her feet.

"After that first glass, I started buying two or three bottles a week. I would limit myself so each bottle would last three days. Except, as you can imagine, three days soon became two, and then one. Before long, I was getting through a couple of bottles a night. Then I diversified. I got into spirits and started drinking pints at the pub. The rent on this place is pretty cheap, and I had no social life, so money was fairly plentiful, making the habit too easy to keep up. I started adding a vodka shot to my orange juice in the morning and another to my tea at work. Irish tea, is that what they call that? I don't even like it. What's to like? But I needed it. How pathetic is that?"

"It isn't pathetic," said Abbie. "You were trapped in an awful situation. You never asked to join anti-corruption, yet you were chucked into a covert operation as soon as you became a detective. That would affect anyone."

"I knew how people would react," said Christine. "And I was right, wasn't I? Even though I'm on his side, even though I've been trying to lock up people involved with his daughter's kidnappers; you saw how Detective Ndidi here treated me when he arrived yesterday. The contempt in calling me Miss Lakes. It would have been like that with all of them. I would have been ostracised, cast aside. I lived in fear of discovery, knowing how they'd treat me."

As she spoke, Christine glared at Ndidi, but when she was done, she turned away. She wasn't into confrontation and didn't want to further challenge the detective.

Abbie didn't look