The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) by Jamie McLachlan

suddenly find myself eager to be alone. Furious beyond words, I glare at the housekeeper and slam my bedroom door closed. In the darkness, my breath sounds loud and uneven. I will not cry.
    In the heat of my rage, darkness spreads around me, thick and heavy, and threatens to consume me. I’m behaving like a child and the detective’s conduct was to be expected.
    You’re nothing but a whore to him . He’s repulsed by you, a nd yet you keep throwing yourself at him. You may be pretty on the outside, but your soul is ugly. He sees that, and he’s disgusted.
    I bury my hands into my hair and pull, desperately trying to shut it out. But it’s too late. The words have taken root in my mind, spreading like poison to blacken the rest of my thoughts.

4
    F or the first time since I arrived at the detective’s townhouse, I’m not at all bothered by the silence between us. In a way it’s a relief, because I’m not forced to talk to him. Instead, I seethe in silence, hating both him and myself for what occurred last night. Breakfast passed by quickly with me eating as per usual, despite the constant feel of Keenan’s eyes on me. Afterwards, I politely excused myself and left him alone for the rest of the day. And though we haven’t spoken since this morning, I know my silence bothers him.
    I’ve kept myself busy upstairs for the past few hours, yet the pungent smell of regret still manages to find me. It’s as if he stands behind me, staring at me with unconcealed guilt. I ignore the emotion, unable to forgive him for his behaviour last night. Of course, it doesn’t mean I succeed in distracting myself. I’ve gone over the scene in my mind several times, and I’m still left baffled. Even when I think I understand where I may have gone wrong, the thoughts I read from Keenan’s mind resurface to taunt me. I’m nothing but an unwanted distraction.
    I’m just a tool to be used and discarded once the Phoenix is found. To be honest, I’m not sure what I expected. Even if something happened between me and the detective, where could it have possibly ended? Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. I was a fool, deluded into thinking someone could possibly care for me. I’m reminded of Rachel. The other empath claimed she and Constable Evans had been in love. And where did their love lead them? To both of their deaths.
    When evening approaches, I preoccupy myself with preparations for the private event held at Mr. Harrison’s estate. My dress is a deep burgundy, with glittering beads decorating the length of the soft fabric, and the colour complements my olive complexion. The unconventional length of my dark hair has been curled slightly to frame my face, momentarily taming my usually thick mane. Mrs. Whitmore and the other maid silently help me prepare for the evening, while I try to hide my sullen expression beneath powder and lipstick. The detective is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and he glances up to greet me when I appear at the top of the staircase. He’s wearing a pristine black suit, with a matching tailcoat, but beneath the rim of his charming top hat is a solemn expression. I avert my gaze, focusing instead on descending the stairs without falling.
    “Good evening, Moira.” He holds up my coat so I have no option but to allow him to slip it on. He draws close behind me and adds in a quieter voice, “You look beautiful, as always.”
    I ignore both the comment and his proximity. “Shall we? We wouldn’t want to be late.”
    He follows closely behind me as we walk toward his motor vehicle and even attempts to help me into my seat. Once, I would have been excited at the prospect of physical contact. But now, I refuse his proffered hand, even if it’s a little difficult to climb into my seat with the evening dress. I’m forced to lift the front of the dress, while the back trails behind me and threatens to get caught. It’s a wonder how the other women of society can bear to parade around in such uncomfortable