The Enemy

Chapter 1

Emma—Almost 10 Years Later, March 2020

Emma sat bolt upright. "God," she cursed, dropping her head to her palms. She clawed fingers through her tangled, dyed blonde hair. "Fuck." Her hand went to the jagged, pearly scar on her left forearm. She brushed her fingers across it and winced. The memories felt so real, almost as if the cut were still tender to the touch. She'd been dreaming of that day so much lately. She groped the box next to her bed serving as a nightstand, bumping into and toppling various bottles and empty crisp packets, until she found the pack of Richmonds. She pulled one out, lit it, and took a long drag. She exhaled, the smoke dissipating into the hollow space as she dropped the pack and lighter on her bed. She eyed her cigarette, not even minding the smell of it now. It only took three months of adopting the habit for it to become a proper addiction. She closed her eyes. She brought her knees up towards her chest and rested her chin on them. That damn day. It was almost ten years ago now. She took another inhale of smoke. Of course, on top of all the other effects of this divorce came a return of her nightmares. Lovely. She picked up her phone: 3:07. Time to get moving anyway.

Navigating around more boxes, she rinsed off her body in a too hot shower, pulled on the one pair of pants she'd bothered to unpack, a vest top, a uni hoodie, a black cap she stuffed her hair underneath, and his overlarge black wool peacoat that she couldn't part with. She didn't bother to wash her hair or put on makeup. Tom wouldn't care, and she wouldn't care if he did. Finishing her cigarette with one final inhale, she stamped it out and grabbed the one thing she rarely left home without: her 9mm Glock 17 self-loading pistol. She holstered it underneath her sweatshirt.Emma jogged her way to the closest tube station. It was a couple blocks farther away than at her old place, and she still hadn't gotten used to it yet. Plus, the smoking wasn't exactly helping things. It was freezing outside for March, but there was no way she was taking a taxi. She wound a thick scarf around her neck and face as she descended to the platform.

The sparse clientele of the early morning didn't pay her any mind, and she found a spot with good visibility in the back corner of the second-to-last car on the train. Her senior inspector used to warn her of the dangers of public transport, especially now with her renewed notoriety, but Emma didn't pay his, nor anyone's, counsel much mind. It was through following her gut that she'd made it as far as she had in the first place.

She stood leaning against the inside of the train with an itch to have another smoke. From force of habit, she pulled out her still-foreign flip phone as if to scroll through unopened emails. She paused. It still felt so wrong. Not working. Not commuting with working people while she used to delete most of her work emails to pass the time, even some she knew she shouldn't at the time. Another one of her gut decisions. 

Restless, she grabbed an abandoned copy of Metro UK and skimmed through the features, relieved that her face wasn't on the cover. Inside there was a photo of a found, intricately designed Celtic ring, a feature on the inclusion of female-created arts decorating new tube stations, and a throwback section. Yesterday had been Thursday. She flipped there first. 

Staring back at her was a smiling, photoshopped image of herself in a ridiculously ornate black gown from one of John's to-do's. She didn't recognize the woman. Seeing herself in print never got any easier, and she had been doing such a good job of avoiding being in it altogether. Emma couldn't stop herself from reading.

Nearly 10 years ago today...
by Viper Sharp

The tragedy and scandal at Charterhouse occurred. The famed school of John Huxton and his newly-ex-wife, now Emma Stapleton again, was attacked by a gang of hired hitmen while the two were on campus awaiting their graduation day. It was later revealed that a member of the House of Lords, George Howards, had orchestrated the attack in order to extort his main political rival. 

George Howards died in prison and his wife Ellison and son Beck were tragically targeted and killed by the hired criminal group a few years later. Beck Howards had also attended Charterhouse with Huxton and Stapleton, and he became well-known for his heroic actions on the day of the attack that saved Emma Stapleton's life. 

The lead member of the terrorist gang Robert de Ferrers remains at large. Aside from the recent split of the famous pair of school sweethearts, Stapleton, Huxton, and most of their classmates have grown up to live successful, peaceful lives. 

She set down the paper, clamping down on the urge to tear it to shreds. Don't they realize we are actual fucking people? She would rant to John. This is our life they're talking about! It's not tabloid fodder. Media-trained since the age of nine, this type of press never bothered John. He was always cool as a cucumber.

Fuck it. She lit another cigarette. Again, the crowd hardly seemed to notice. Ten minutes later, she pulled her cap lower over her eyes and strode up to the stone and glass facade of the Met: Metropolitan Police Services and New Scotland Yard. Grimacing, she chucked the now empty tea cup she'd picked up from a cheap spot inside the tube into the nearest bin and pushed into the building. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be here, but Tom still needed her help, and she needed a distraction. She gave a salute to the two guards manning the doors tonight.

She opted for stairs over the lift, cursing that last cigarette, and stepped out onto the floor housing the Homicide and Serious Crime Command also known as SCD 1. The floor was empty at this hour. Inspectors were on call but were no longer forced to endure the ungodly shift hours of regular patrol police. About to take the turn towards the main offices, Emma stopped short. Secretary Mary Whittenmoore's desk was left alone and vulnerable just as it had been for the past three months during Emma's nightly visits. Mary was the young secretary who worked for SCD 1's Central London team. She was the type of woman whose naturally blonde hair fell about her willowy shoulders in a shiny, smooth sheath. Emma's own hair would take hours of coaxing and pounds of product to even imagine looking like Mary's. She took a breath. She knew just where the blind spots were on the floor's surveillance. Quickly, Emma left another note. She knew Mary'd been receiving them, but also that the girl hadn't replied.

"You're early."

Emma fought back a jump of surprise. Trust Tom to sneak up on her while she enacted her one, small act of revenge. "Good to see you, too."

"Christ, you smell like a chimney."

"And you look you haven't slept in ages." She turned to face him. He gave her a look.

"In case that wasn't clear, it means like shit."

Tall, fit, and possessing possibly the world's most handsome smile, it was doubtful that Inspector Tom Field had ever looked like shit. Back when she officially worked here, he was Emma's right-hand man. They'd survived the Academy together and quickly ascended to the highly competitive SCD 1 division. Emma's unparalleled skill with a firearm, university education, and sheer willpower helped her gain rank at the top of her class. He was also recently engaged to her best friend and ex-sister-in-law.

"Trust me, it was clear." Tom was still giving her that look as if he could read every transparent thought within her sad head.

She cleared her throat. "Do you have anything new on the Andrews case?"

Tom handed her a cup of tea.

She took it but didn't make eye contact.

"So, we're not going to address the fact that you leave poison pen letters for Mary Whittenmoore?"

She froze. It had been three months, but Tom hadn't breathed even a reference to The Divorce. She looked at him, chin jutted out. Anger stung behind her eyes. She'd known this would come, but it didn't suck any less. "I'll allow you the one jab tonight, but that's it."

Tom paused. She was certain he was sizing her up same as the number of criminals they'd come up against. Would she throw the tea on him? Break down into tears? Take her weapon and open fire on the wedding photo of her and John still perched on her desk behind the door just down the corridor?

"Emma—"

"Look—" she put up a hand. She took him in. The dark skin around his deep brown eyes pinched with worry. "Tom, we have been through the shit together and back again. Please don't treat me like I'm the patient to your therapist. I really don't want to hear it."

He took a step forward. "If not me then who?" He looked away. "I'm quite sure that I'm the only human you've interacted with in the past ninety days. I understand the grieving period, but . . . we're getting worried."

Damn. A familiar burn tickled the back of her throat. She promised herself she wouldn't ever cry over this. That she was over it. "Don't. I'm fine. They say I get a month's worth of grieving for every year together, so I've still got six more to go." She exhaled. "The divorce is final. I've got more money than I know what to do with. I've got a place. I'm making it."

"Ah yes, the place that no one knows about."

"I'm protecting my privacy."

"You're hiding."

"You don't know how those savages can be when you're down!"

Tom took a step back.

It took her a second to realize she'd bared her teeth and was short of breath.

He pressed his lips together. He nodded. "Got it."

"Good."

"Just one more thing," he said.

Emma brought a hand to her face, pressing her fingers across her brow. "Okay. But just one more thing and then we're talking about the Andrews case."

"Lily still wants me to remind you that she's here for you, and that she's sorry that her bloody brother is such a complete bloody idiot and wanker. Her words."

Emma almost smiled. Lily. She'd been avoiding all contact from her—from everyone but Tom—since it had all happened. Since before Christmas. Since Tom and Lily's engagement party.

"I've got a choice few words for him myself, but I'll save those for a rainy day." Tom smiled.

She actually did smile a little back at him. Then, she sighed. "Christ, Tom, stop making me forget to act the part of woman scorned." She sipped her tea. It was her preferred strength. "And tell your lovely fiancee that I love her." Tom blanched at the mention, and she waved him off. "For God's sake, I'm not going to shatter recognizing that there are other, happy couples out there in the world getting married. Honestly, I couldn't be happier for you two."

He nodded. "Thanks, Em." He shrugged. "So, the Andrews case."

"Quite the segue."

His lips twitched. "The only lead we've got is this bloody penmanship." He took out the copy of a scribbled address that they'd slaved over for the past week. "No DNA on the victim after all that time in water. No unaccounted-for outgoing or incoming phone calls. No leads with the forensic graphologist"—Emma rolled her eyes—"because yes I was desperate enough to ask her."

"And the—"

"Yes, I personally supervised the evidence being exposed to cyanoacrylate vapors for more than the appropriate amount of time, but there's nothing. Absolutely nothing, not even a hint of a fingerprint. And, I've had a heartbroken father from California practically stalking me for the past two weeks." He strode back to the offices, and she followed. "C'mon, Inspector Huxt-I mean Stapleton." He winced. "I need your uncanny ability to theorize right now. What do we do? How can we solve the case of the murdered American tourist?"

He opened the door to their shared office space, and she took a breath before going in after him. Her desk had been left untouched. Her eyes wavered over the space of her side. No one had been brought in to replace her. She was on unpaid leave. Hesitating, she moved to Tom's side and sat in one of his guest chairs. "What did the esteemed penmanship Penelope the forensic graphologist have to say?"

"That slashing, uppercase T's indicate a dominating, cruel personality."

She scoffed.

"She's probably right," he said.

"About the person who brutally murdered a twenty-year-old by drowning her in the Thames? I'd hardly call the finding that he's a cruel, controlling monster genius."

"Noted just like the other 300 times."

"I just can't believe she's on the payroll. A forensic graphologist? She's a hustler. She's no better than a downtown psychic!"

"Steady on, Hux-I mean Stapleton. We need a theory."

"Fine!" She leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Her brain still hadn't grown fully accustomed to functioning at four in the morning. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin close to her chest. Tourist. Penmanship. No DNA. Handwriting. Other thoughts kept butting in. The Metro UK article. Art in the tube. Handwriting. Lost Celtic ring. She opened her eyes. "Why not make it public?"

"What?"

She turned to him. "The penmanship? If it's unique, maybe someone would recognize it?"

"Huh." Tom perched on the side of his desk. "Now there's a thought."

"Attention, all units!" The radio on his desk crackled to life. "This is an emergency. Attention, all units!"

Tom tried to make the grab, but she was closer. She picked up the radio and raised the volume.

"Emma!" he hissed.

"Shhh!"

Her body was still with attention. In both their careers, they'd only heard the emergency all-call three times, and it was only during a major, threatening attack. "Harrow school reports eight masked, armed men have entered the grounds and are holding students hostage. They're demanding to locate certain students."

She clipped the radio to her coat and moved towards the door.

"Emma—" he reached for her, but he was too slow.

"Early reports indicate that one man fits the description of Robert De Ferrers."