own career. So Lorcan went off down to London to get started up, expecting her to join him – but by then she had his old job, managing the entire casino, and she was happy.
There had followed weekends together, arguments, endless wearying debates. And all it boiled down to was this: he was settled in London. She was settled in Manchester.
Gracie heaved a sigh that shuddered through her frame. She’d loved him. But she had loved her career too, her burgeoning, swiftly growing career up here in Manchester with Dad.
Never one to mince his words, Lorcan had told her flat out that something was going to have to give, but it seemed he was sure it wouldn’t be his career to go, it would be hers. Then he had said he wanted children, but Gracie had been so busy forging a career that she didn’t want children, not yet anyway. Why couldn’t he understand that?
He didn’t.
During one bitter, final phone call he’d laid down an ulti -m atum: either she moved back down to London, or it was over.
‘Okay then!’ Gracie had screamed down the phone at him. ‘Okay, you bastard! Enough! It’s over!’
She had slammed the phone down. After five years of trying – and failing – to reconcile their differences, they gave up. They never spoke again.
She poked the papers with one finger. Divorce. Horrible word. An admission of failure. She looked down at her long, pale hands, bare of ornamentation. She hadn’t worn her wedding or her cabochon-cut, beautiful emerald engagement ring in years. Why the hell did he have to choose now , when she felt so stressed, when bad memories of her father’s death and new disasters were besetting her, to start proceedings?
Irritably she turned away, shrugging off her coat and throwing it aside. Time for the other post. Bank letters, those blank credit-card cheques that she never used and were a bugger to dispose of. A jiffy bag. She tore open the fastenings and tipped the contents out on the table. A bundle of mid-length dark red hair fell out, and a note.
She literally leapt back, away from it, her hands flying to her mouth.
It was a dead animal.
What the fuck?
Her heart started stampeding around in her chest as she stared wildly at it. She felt a hot sour surge of sickness building in the back of her throat. Oh Jesus. Had some sick bastard posted a dead thing to her? Then she noticed that the hair was exactly the same colour as her own.
Gulping hard, she reached out and tentatively touched it. There was no substance, no form, no small dead body. It was just hair, a lot of it – and it was just like hers. She looked at the folded note. Her hand shook with shock and fear as she picked it up, unfolded it, and read the typed words.
Smoke getting in your eyes?
Blame your scumbag brother.
I’m watching you, Red.
Call the filth on this and you’re all dead.
Gracie sat down hard on one of her bar stools. Her brain felt hot-wired suddenly, the blood singing in her ears. She couldn’t get her breath. She wondered for a moment if she was actually going to pass out. Smoke getting in your eyes. The fire at Doyles . Blame your scumbag brother. George in hospital. The tearful call from the girl, Sandy. Harry . . . Harry was missing.
George had always been trouble, and Harry had always followed his lead. What had they been getting into this time? And even more frightening than any of that , which was terrifying enough, the final line. I’m watching you, Red.
Gracie snatched up the jiffy bag. The label was neatly typed, like the note, and postmarked London. Whoever had sent this, they knew where she lived. They knew where she worked. They could be watching her right now.
Gracie glanced at the window. Outside, night had fallen, and there were stars starting to twinkle in the sky. There was no wind; the air was still, clear and cold. There would be frost tonight. Lights were winking cheerily down there on the narrow boats moored all along this stretch of the canal. There were buildings right
There had followed weekends together, arguments, endless wearying debates. And all it boiled down to was this: he was settled in London. She was settled in Manchester.
Gracie heaved a sigh that shuddered through her frame. She’d loved him. But she had loved her career too, her burgeoning, swiftly growing career up here in Manchester with Dad.
Never one to mince his words, Lorcan had told her flat out that something was going to have to give, but it seemed he was sure it wouldn’t be his career to go, it would be hers. Then he had said he wanted children, but Gracie had been so busy forging a career that she didn’t want children, not yet anyway. Why couldn’t he understand that?
He didn’t.
During one bitter, final phone call he’d laid down an ulti -m atum: either she moved back down to London, or it was over.
‘Okay then!’ Gracie had screamed down the phone at him. ‘Okay, you bastard! Enough! It’s over!’
She had slammed the phone down. After five years of trying – and failing – to reconcile their differences, they gave up. They never spoke again.
She poked the papers with one finger. Divorce. Horrible word. An admission of failure. She looked down at her long, pale hands, bare of ornamentation. She hadn’t worn her wedding or her cabochon-cut, beautiful emerald engagement ring in years. Why the hell did he have to choose now , when she felt so stressed, when bad memories of her father’s death and new disasters were besetting her, to start proceedings?
Irritably she turned away, shrugging off her coat and throwing it aside. Time for the other post. Bank letters, those blank credit-card cheques that she never used and were a bugger to dispose of. A jiffy bag. She tore open the fastenings and tipped the contents out on the table. A bundle of mid-length dark red hair fell out, and a note.
She literally leapt back, away from it, her hands flying to her mouth.
It was a dead animal.
What the fuck?
Her heart started stampeding around in her chest as she stared wildly at it. She felt a hot sour surge of sickness building in the back of her throat. Oh Jesus. Had some sick bastard posted a dead thing to her? Then she noticed that the hair was exactly the same colour as her own.
Gulping hard, she reached out and tentatively touched it. There was no substance, no form, no small dead body. It was just hair, a lot of it – and it was just like hers. She looked at the folded note. Her hand shook with shock and fear as she picked it up, unfolded it, and read the typed words.
Smoke getting in your eyes?
Blame your scumbag brother.
I’m watching you, Red.
Call the filth on this and you’re all dead.
Gracie sat down hard on one of her bar stools. Her brain felt hot-wired suddenly, the blood singing in her ears. She couldn’t get her breath. She wondered for a moment if she was actually going to pass out. Smoke getting in your eyes. The fire at Doyles . Blame your scumbag brother. George in hospital. The tearful call from the girl, Sandy. Harry . . . Harry was missing.
George had always been trouble, and Harry had always followed his lead. What had they been getting into this time? And even more frightening than any of that , which was terrifying enough, the final line. I’m watching you, Red.
Gracie snatched up the jiffy bag. The label was neatly typed, like the note, and postmarked London. Whoever had sent this, they knew where she lived. They knew where she worked. They could be watching her right now.
Gracie glanced at the window. Outside, night had fallen, and there were stars starting to twinkle in the sky. There was no wind; the air was still, clear and cold. There would be frost tonight. Lights were winking cheerily down there on the narrow boats moored all along this stretch of the canal. There were buildings right
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