Trust No One by Alex Walters Page A

to speak to. She wanted to cut herself off, put the real world on hold. Forget what she was doing, what she was involved in.
    What she had done to Jake.
    She kept telling herself that Jake had known exactly what risks he was taking. And that, last night, she’d done what she could. If she’d tried to do more, she’d be dead herself.
    Even so, as she’d told Salter, it didn’t feel good. Just at the moment, it felt fucking awful. It wasn’t even that she was overwhelmed with grief. She kept expecting that it would hit her – the real emotion, the full sense of loss. But it hadn’t, not really. She felt horror at what must have happened to Jake. She felt fury at those who had done it, and even more, at those who had paid for it to be done. She felt anxiety about her own possible exposure.
    But there was a numbness, a dead spot, at the heart of her response. When it came to Jake himself, when it came to the simple fact that Jake was gone, she felt – what? Sorrow. Regret. Loss. But nothing like the depth or strength of emotion she’d expected.
    She knew all the emotional clichés. She could envisage exactly what Winsor or the counsellors back at the Agency would say if she were ever in a position to share her feelings. That she was in shock. That she hadn’t yet accepted the reality of Jake’s death. That she had to work through all the fucking stages of grieving. And maybe that was all true. But, for the moment, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like Jake had been a good friend – good company, a good laugh, pretty good in bed – and that now he was gone. The world hadn’t ended. But Jake had left town, and he wouldn’t be coming back.
    Christ, she didn’t know what she felt. When she’d embarked on the affair, she knew she was putting both of them at risk. It had been a few months of madness. She’d have ended it soon, whatever happened. It had been a fling – fun, dangerous, exhilarating, doomed. Why should she be surprised that, in the end, such turbulent waters turned out to run shallow?
    Beyond the door, the ringtone trilled on. Finally losing patience, she skimmed her magazine across the bathroom floor so that it crashed like a wounded bird against the white-tiled wall. Cursing Liam, she dragged herself out of the water and reached for a towel. Still naked, trying to dry her body as she hurried out of the bathroom into the living room, she picked up the phone. Inevitably, just as she touched it, it fell silent.
    She threw the towel around her shoulders and looked at the display. Two missed calls. The first number, sure enough, was Liam’s. The second, though, wasn’t the voicemail service she’d expected, but another mobile number. The number wasn’t one she recognized. If it was important, she thought, the caller would leave a message. Most likely, it would be a wrong number or a cold call. In any case, her instinct now was to let others do the running. If someone had a job, she could be found.
    She was still holding the phone when it rang again. Liam’s number. She thumbed on the phone and spoke before he could. ‘I’ve told you not to use this number.’
    â€˜And a good evening to you,’ Liam said. ‘You’re answering now, are you?’
    â€˜Yes, and I shouldn’t be. I’ll call you back.’
    Before he could object, she disconnected and fumbled in her handbag for the other mobile. She ought to stop and put on some clothes, she thought. The bedroom was warm enough, but she preferred not to be at any disadvantage when talking to Liam. But if she delayed he’d just call back again on the original line.
    It took her a moment to switch on the phone and dial Liam’s number. She expected him to be irritated, but he sounded only resigned.
    â€˜On the right phone now, then?’ he asked. ‘Important to get these things straight.’
    She paused, mentally counting to