The Northern Line at 7:45 in the morning smelled distinctly of the collective despair of people who had given up on their life choices somewhere around the Camden Town stop.
Love stood wedged between a man reading the financial times and a woman whose backpack zipper was rhythmically digging into Love's left shoulder blade. She didn't move. Moving required expending calories she had spent the last three days refusing to consume properly, and besides, shifting her weight meant risking a domino effect that would end with her face planted firmly against the glass door.
In her right hand, she clutched a takeaway cup from an independent place near King's Cross—lukewarm oat milk latte, extra shot, which she had ordered ten minutes ago, forgot she was holding, and then tried to drink while the train violently jerked over a warped rail, splashing a neat white streak across the front of her charcoal trench coat.
"Brilliant," she muttered under her breath, "Just fucking brilliant."
She stared down at the stain, her blue eyes narrowing behind a haze of sheer exhaustion.
Her copper-red curls, usually a rebellious halo of unruly waves when she forgot to brush them—which was always—were currently half-tucked into the collar of her coat because she'd lost her hair tie somewhere between her flat in Islington and the ticket barrier. She looked less like Scotland Yard's most irritatingly competent consultant and more like a Victorian orphan who had accidentally stumbled into a high-speed transit system and decided she hated everyone in it.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Once. Twice.
Love let out a long sigh through her nose, tipped her head back until it hit the metal pole behind her with a dull thump, and fished the device out.
From: Inspector Vance
Where are you? The Commander is already in the briefing room. If you're late today, I swear to God, Love, I will personally throw your favorite mug out of the fourth-floor window.
Love typed back with one thumb.
To: Inspector Vance
Tell the Commander I'll be there when the gods of public transport deem it acceptable. Also, touch my mug and I'll hack your browser history.
She hit send with a grim satisfaction that lasted precisely three seconds before the crushing reality of her morning set in.
She was late. Again. Not because she overslept—though she had, obviously, having spent half the night staring at the ceiling fan while turning over a cold-case file about a series of impossible cardiac arrests in Tokyo that had crossed Interpol's desk last week. No, she was late because she had spent twenty minutes tearing her flat apart looking for her warrant card, only to find it tucked neatly inside the freezer next to a half-eaten tub of vanilla ice cream. Why it was in the freezer remained a mystery that even her brilliant, deductive, painfully overactive brain refused to solve.
The train screeched to a halt at Euston. The automated voice chimed with aggressively cheerful British politeness: Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.
Love surged forward with the human tide, her boots clicking sharply against the linoleum as she fought her way up the stairs, past the barrier, and out into the biting London drizzle. The grey sky hung low and heavy, pressing down on the city like a wet blanket.
She pulled her trench coat tighter around herself, shivering slightly. Despite her outward display of sarcasm, her go-to defense mechanism whenever her heart rate spiked, her stomach was doing a sickening jitterbug.
Today wasn't just another routine homicide. Two days ago, a secure memo had landed on her desk through channels so heavily encrypted they made her teeth ache.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
The Third Notebook
FanfictionShe was a London detective. He was the world's most brilliant detective. And between them stood a notebook, a Shinigami, and a ticking clock. Yumi didn't plan on falling for L. She just planned on making sure he survived the game. Too bad Light Yaga...
