The Enemy

Chapter 18

Chapter 18: March 2018 - Stapleton Residence

Emma kept looking at the time on her phone. It was just around lunch. She'd exchanged more texts with Tom to assure him of her safety and relative fineness, current turn of events unmentioned, and then she'd scoured her digital copy of the Howards file for the thousandth time. She stared at her old smartphone. Her thumb hovered over the first number on speed dial before she tossed the phone away. She'd spent the first thirty minutes after Howards's departure organizing the house and sifted once more through his effects. Then, she'd let him back in when he rang the bell and promptly hid in her bedroom.

Currently, she could hear him upstairs. On her favourite floor of the entire place. The floor meant for ... she sighed, playing with the frayed edge of a blanket. She'd done her best to move out any of the clutter, though there wasn't much. Most of her furniture had belonged to John, so she'd been starting somewhat from scratch since moving in. Emma figured Howards wouldn't mind the books, the beautiful four poster bed, or the expensive sofa she'd purchased on a whim. This place was the exact opposite of John's style. He'd have hated it. She found that knowledge surprisingly comforting.

She hadn't planned to purchase such a large house. It was too spacious, too big. It wasn't meant for one person, but a vindictive need to spend some her enormous divorce settlement had gotten the better of her. She stood and brushed off her jeans, adjusting her King's College sweatshirt. She looked up at the ceiling; she had nowhere else to put Howards. No matter how wrong it felt.

She returned to the kitchen to set out the Indian takeout and then made her way back upstairs. She couldn't wrap her head around this entire day. She tried to focus on the small details. She couldn't believe that he had a cat. It was just so normal for one of Britain's preeminent juvenile criminals and her school nemesis. She'd have pegged him more for the reptile type.

Emma knocked on the guest room door and movement stilled from within the larger of the two top floor bedrooms. She found herself holding her breath. Before today, she hadn't spoken more than twenty consecutive words to Beck Howards in years without biting his head off. She never thought she'd speak a word to him again considering he'd died. She'd never particularly wanted to. Nothing more needed to be said.

The door opened. She nearly lost her footing.

Gone was the slick dark hair, the scraggly beard, and the coloured contacts. A grown Howards stood before her like some morbid magic trick. Narrowed, pale blue eyes stared back at her.

Emma took a giant step back. "It really is you."

"I assume this means food is ready." He strode around her, scowling. "I figured it was safe to look like this since you own the place and seem to have taken the necessary precautions."

She followed him down the stairs. If she weren't careful, that comment could be mistaken for a compliment. "Do you have to be Dartmouth all the time?" There was an unmistakable curiosity in her voice, and she scolded herself. She needed her wits about her. This was Beck Howards. He had worked with the government to trick the world about his death for the past five years. He was smart. He was dangerous. He was just another job.

He stepped in front of one of the styrofoam containers on the kitchen counter. "Do you have something against furniture?" He sat down on one of two stools and passed her a plastic fork.

"This place is a work in progress." He didn't answer her question. She didn't really answer his either. They began to eat and the cat appeared around the corner. She swallowed. "What's his name?"

Howards paused. "Lukas."

"Nice." She chewed on her butter chicken. "Want something to drink?" She stood and moved to grab one of three glasses from a cupboard.