I had to lose security without Liam's awareness to meet with Vincent and Detective Donny Stevens. If I left the Manor through the front door, Alfie and his men would be right behind me, so I contrived an escape plan, which included hideous hiking boots, yoga pants, blonde locks, tinted, bug-eyed sunglasses and adequate climbing skills, or rather, rappelling down from the master bedroom's window after I told Alfie I was to spend the afternoon in respite due to splitting headaches.
If the double-knotted sheets unravel from the bedpost, I will plummet to bone-shattering death or get torn apart by Tony's planted rose bushes.
With the sheet secured around my waist, I abseil down the vertiginous wall. Feet planted to the brick, heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I descended gingerly, praying nobody spots me and suspects intrusion, or else I'll be face-down in the dirt with a bullet wound to the back.
I almost made it feet first to the ground when I lost my grip and landed on my backside. Pain shot up my spine, and momentary dizziness had my eyes cocked inwards. Gnawing my teeth in discomfort, I unknotted the sheet from my waist and rolled onto my stomach, giving myself a moment to engage in conscious breathing to reduce uncomfortableness.
Hearing the static sound of someone's radio transceiver, I peered through the unkempt jungle of bushes (Tony will faint when he revisits) to see two security members lingering by the garden furniture, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.
"Great stuff," I whispered to myself, rubbing soil off my knees.
Forearms positioned to the concrete slabs, I military crawled around the Manor, rustling the leaves of long-stemmed plants. Pool house in view, I double-checked my surroundings and moved like a four-legged animal across the expanse of green grass. Automatic lawn sprinklers came to life and soaked me in the process. I shot behind the annexe building, bum-shuffling towards the wrought-iron enclosure, and skulked out of sight.
Climbing the fence to abscond, I reached the summit of what felt like the highest mountain, tossed a leg over and dropped to the pavement on the other side. Dusting off my hands, I walked backwards, a smile of pure triumph and exhilaration dancing on my lips. I am a self-satisfied conqueror. Never in a million years did I believe I could break free from Alfie's confinement, yet here I am, in the middle of the street, dancing my ass off.
It occurred to me that Alfie may knock on the bedroom door at some point to check-in, and if he does, then he'll see the getaway sheets, or if not the intrusion of Alfie, another guard on duty will find evidence in the garden. Liam will have a stroke if he finds out I escaped his men, and those loyal, valiant soldiers were certainly undeserving of their boss' tyrannical admonishment.
I had to trust the process, though. If Alfie's smart, he'll leave Warren's wife to rest without interruption and wait for her to rise from the dead later on this evening.
In the meantime, I flagged down an Addison Lee and paid the driver to chauffeur to the designated café.
Portuguese patisseries and slow-roasted coffee permeated the air. Prices chalked the wall-mounted menu. Tasty looking refreshments laid on platters behind tiered glass. The old-fashioned café had a melange of cultural authenticity and British excellence. You could order Bola de Berlim alongside a Full-English breakfast and Yorkshire tea. "Latte," I told the barista, extracting notes from my purse. "Lots of sugar."
I paid for the coffee and selected a four-seater table beside the floor to ceiling windows, which separated me from the alfresco diners, yet the transparency of glass seemed to somewhat impinge on their privacy. The sunken-eyed old man with not a muscle in his face watched me until I finally lost the will to live. I soon reciprocated his contemptuous indifference. Without breaking eye contact, I sipped lukewarm coffee and contemplated giving him the middle finger when the bench opposite groaned beneath the weight of two strappingly tailored men. "Picking fights with seniors, Angel?" Vincent's intense blue eyes robbed me of my ability to speak. "It's unflattering."
Jesus, I forget how much Vincent resembles his brother. He's a carbon copy of Liam. It's not just their inky black hair, sharp facial features and emotional expressions. It's their conceited arrogance and excessive confidence. Akin to Liam, Vincent draws attention. If not for his undeniable attractiveness, then the suffocating nearness of his oppressive dominance. His eyes were neither soft nor unfocused. He stared people down to their very bones and disparaged or dismissed lionising with a glare of haughtiness.
"No problem," the female waitress stuttered, receding from our table.
I watched her leave in puzzlement. "What did you say to make her panic like that?"
"Were you not present?" Donny stroked his chin in thought, the gold curb bracelets on his wrist clinking together. "And what's with the blonde mane? You do realise there's no sun, right? The sunglasses are a bit pointless."
"She's hiding from my brother." Vincent flipped open the tattered menu to assess prices. "Isn't that right, Angel?"
"Liam's difficult," I said as if both men were clueless to the man's uncompromising despotism. "So, did you find anything?"
Previously, I called upon Vincent to help me track down Logan Broderick's biological father. Donny Stevens works for the metropolitan police department and has access to criminal records. While digging up dirt on Logan's step-father, Cyril Broderick, Donny discovered that Roxanne Bowen, Logan's mother, had acquired a rap sheet that stretches back to her call girl days.
"She was arrested for prostitution," Donny explained, handing me a printout. "Theft and drugs. Never prosecuted, though." He's perplexed-looking. "Bowen attacked a punter with a knife—claimed self-defence—yet never faced charges."
Logan's mother's mugshot stared back at me. I believe she was a looker, once upon a time, but she reminded me of a worn-down homeless person in these images. Her ratty blonde dreadlocks rolled down her back, and the stained jumper buried her cadaverous frame. Remnants of dried blood stained her pale, gaunt cheeks.
Roxanne's soulless eyes tugged on my heartstrings. I wondered what happened to make her choose a life of intoxicants and crime. You don't wake up one day and decide to sell your body or stick a needle in your arm for shits and giggles. Someone's responsible for her tragic downfall.
"Did you find a copy of Logan's birth certificate?"
"Yes." Donny exhibited vital documents. "Father unknown."
I felt hopeless. "Well, what does that even mean? We can't reconnect a father and son because the mother decided she didn't need fatherly input? That's bullshit. Someone knows something. Logan didn't appear out of thin air. His father's out there, and we need to find him."
Vincent placed his hand on top of mine to relax the tension in my knuckles. "Why is this so important to you, Angel?"
"Cyril Broderick physically abuses his step-son," I told them. "Roxanne's aware yet turns a blind eye. Logan needs our help. I fear he's in danger of his life."
"I can pull a few strings and send crime stoppers in?" Donny accepted plated croissants from the waitress. "He's fifteen, right? Child services will place him in temporary living for a few months. Once he's of age, we can rehouse him. A hostel, perhaps? Don't look so worried, Alexa. He'll be provided with a social worker who'll help him find work, etcetera. It beats a backhander."
"No," I whispered, dislodging the emotional lump in my throat. "Logan's a child. He doesn't belong in the system."
Vincent's eyes homed in on my face. "No child belongs in the system."
"Logan's different."
"How so?" The younger Warren challenged. "What makes that lad any more special than other abused kids?"
I had no credible response. Tongue pushing to my inner cheek, I tapped a teaspoon against the white mug, creating a soft crescendo of chimes. I hate to think any child suffers, especially at the hands of the very person who should be protecting them, but I have an unexplainable connection with Logan. I want his happiness so much, his safety and security. But if he learns the truth behind social services involvement, if he discovers that I lent a helping hand, he'll never forgive me. I can feel it in my gut. He's stubborn to a fault. It's beneath him, relying on others. He had to survive the hard way, and no amount of loving-kindness has the power to lower his walls. "If I asked Liam to intervene, he'd kill them," I said despondently, staring into the mug. "With or without my permission, he'd put a bullet in their heads to free Logan from evil. And I'm cool with that. I'd rather see Roxanne and Cyril in a ditch somewhere. Will Logan be okay to see his mother shot down, though? She might be a neglectful, shameful excuse of a parent, but she is still his mother. It's unconditional, the love he must carry for her, even if it's unreciprocated."
Both men listened mutely.
"Say Logan's happy to see the back of them," I continued, nursing the now cold coffee. "No more beatings or abusive slurs. He can go to bed at night without one eye open. Now, he's alone. He's living in a huge building with all these other teenagers, knowing that nobody's coming to claim him or take him home. I mean, let's be real. Foster parents want newborn babies and cute toddlers. They don't care for the grown ass kids with an irremovable chip on their shoulders. That's taxing, right? Too much stress and inconvenience."
"What's the alternative?" Vincent asked, and I shrugged. "We don't know Logan's father, so that option's off the table. You don't want Liam to exterminate the junkie guardians or have Logan set-up in care." He cocked his head. "If you think my brother will welcome a stray into his home, then you are sorely mistaken."
I took umbrage at Vincent's assumption. "I never once said Logan belonged to me."
"You didn't need to. It's written all over your fucking face." Vincent reached across the table to snag my arm. Nose to nose, we glared. His anger diminished the fierceness in my eyes. "Leave him with the mother or have him put in care. Those are your only choices. Pick one, so we can be done with this nonsense."
"There has to be another way," I countered, and his grip on my arm tightened. "What of distant relatives? A grandmother or an uncle? Please, Vincent. I am losing sleep over this."
"Bowen's an only child." Donny chewed buttered pastry. "Her parents died when she was seventeen. No aunts or uncles or fairy fucking godmothers. Vincent's right. You have limited options."
"Why don't you get out of his ass, Don?" I fired back, ripping my arm out of dickhead's hold. "Aren't you the law? What's the point in the gold badge if it only collects dust?"
"Cranky," Donny muttered into his coffee cup. "Would it hurt you to be grateful, Mrs Warren? I bent the rules to get this shit," he gestured to the folders, "for you."
I won't apologise for trying to do right by someone.
Smiling contemptuously, I faffed with the folders, slamming them shut for the sake of dramatics when a scribbled name on the bottom of a police report caught my attention. "Who is this man?" I asked, referring to DCI Morris. "He signed off on all these records." I re-opened the folder to find the other signatures. "Look, he's on this one, too." Turning the page, I highlighted the name once more and Donny, scratching the frown between his eyebrows, examined the penmanship. "Surely, it's no coincidence that the same detective sanctioned Roxanne's custody release forms?"
"I am not familiar with the name..." Donny unlocked his phone and stood from the table. "I need to make a call. Give me five minutes."
Hope burst inside of me. I glanced at Vincent to see he's already looking at me. "What do you think this means?" I wondered aloud, and he pursed his lips. "Morris might know something, right?"
"Perhaps," Vincent said evasively. "What are your thoughts?"
I nibbled my bottom lip. "I think Morris had a soft spot for Roxanne."
He cracked a wolfish smirk. "Go-on."
I gawked blankly at him. "Maybe he felt sorry for her..." His smile broadened. "Jesus, Vincent. What am I missing here?"
"On the face of it, Morris unlawfully protected Bowen to ensure she dodged deserving periods of imprisonment. Call me presumptuous, Angel. But no man puts his reputation and career on the line unless rewarded." He settled his folded arms on the table and inched in. "I think you just found your guy."
I was either dumb or naïve. "Our guy?"
"DCI Edward Morris," Donny blurted upon collapsing beside Vincent. "Get this. Ed was forced to," he uses air quotes, "hand in his resignation to avoid the embarrassing vilification of dismissal. He blew his undercover position to form a sexual relationship with someone he was employed to infiltrate."
I never blinked. "Are you saying Morris had a sexual relationship with Roxanne?"
Donny brandished car keys. "Only one way to find out."
***
Edward Morris owned a sandstone mansion within the safety of a gated community. Gilded pearls adorned the electric gates and well-tended gardens, which surrounded the property, homed white cherry blossom trees and common wildflowers. Butler Giles, I shall call him, stood by the opened door in a crisp white shirt and fitted black trousers. His bald head and unwelcoming countenance reflected his reserved personality.
Donny presented his badge, which Giles scrutinised for longer than necessary, then he welcomed us into the grand lobby of all-encompassing marble and rich opulence. Family portraits lined the walls, and antique-looking collectables showcased in glass cabinets. I am accustomed to affluence, yet I felt awfully uncomfortable.
Walking lightly to avoid heel marks on the polished floors, I stayed close to Vincent—who hasn't said a word since leaving the café—waiting impatiently for Edward Morris to grace us. Instead, a tall, long-legged statuesque blonde woman drifted down the bifurcated staircase. Iced in jewellery, designer labels and full-faced makeup, she smoothed her hands down the seam of her skin-tight dress and asked Donny the reason behind his unexpected visit.
"It's confidential," Donny replied.
"Is my husband in trouble?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am," he assured. "Is there somewhere we can wait?"
"In here." Opening the double doors to a luxurious living room, she walked us inside and told us to take a seat. "I will prepare lemonade."
I locked eyes with Vincent. He lifted his brows, silently mocking the snobbish mare. "From scratch?" he mused, and she flashed two dimples. "Do you squeeze those lemons by hand?"
Shaking my head at Vincent's flirtatious undertone, I sat on the edge of a plastic-covered sofa. A painted portrait dominated the fireplace. Their three teenage sons and daughter, I assume. Ebullience coloured their smiles and puppy dog eyes. Branded knitwear cabled the boys jumpers, and lace frills prettified the little girl's socks and white princess dress.
"Would you?" Donny asked, and my ears perked up to listen. "She's older than my mother, Vincent. Don't let the Botox fool you."
Pretending not to earwig, I toyed with my military tags.
"I was merely profiling, Don." Vincent sat next to me, so I crossed my leg over the other knee to give him space. "Nice boots, Angel."
I eyed the fugly hiking boots. "They served a purpose."
Donny picked up a glass snow globe and shook its glittering contents. When he detected advancing footsteps, he returned it to the coffee table and regained unfaltering posture. He's in detective mode now, expressionless and unsociable.
Edward Morris appeared seconds later. He's a dashing silver fox. Dressed in woollen trousers and a spotless white shirt, he closed the double doors, privatising the meeting, and gave Donny a firm handshake. "What can I do for you, Detective?"
"My colleagues," he lied, pointing in our direction. "Vincent Wentworth and Alexa Warren."
It sounded odd to hear someone call Vincent 'Wentworth.' I mean, technically, it's his birth name, but nobody from the syndicate dares to question grey areas. He's Liam's brother, which makes him a 'Warren' by default.
Edward's fundamentally aware of the unsalvageable reputation that goes hand-in-hand with my married name. He's staring at me now, expressed by distrust and wariness. Donny's a calculated shithead. He title-bombed deliberately to wrack Ed's nervous system.
"I need to ask you a few questions." Donny made himself at home, sitting on the ledge of the coffee table, opening folders. "Roxanne Bowen."
Silence stifled the room. You could hear a pin drop.
It took Ed a few moments to process Donny's words. And soon, although red-faced and tongue-tied, he cleared his throat, glimpsed at the closed door, and said, "Is she dead?"
"No." Donny's eyebrow curved. "What's the relationship between you two?"
"Relationship?" Edward said quietly, all too aware that his wife could be in the foyer listening. "I am a married man, Detective."
"You played a huge part in Roxanne's past, Mr Morris." Donny proffered documents for the man to scan. "You don't put your job on the line for nothing. Why did you help her evade criminal charges?"
"I paid the price," he countered. "I lost my badge."
"Correct, but these three names," Donny pointed at the fine print at the bottom of the page, "have no connection to the woman in question. Your dismissal had nothing to do with Roxanne's exemptions."
His body language switched. "Am I under arrest, Detective?"
Donny remained impassive. "No."
"Then, I'd like the three of you to leave—"
"You don't have a relationship with your son," Vincent interrupted, and my chin hit the floor. "Why?"
Rendered speechless, I shot him a questionable look.
Expecting Edward to clapback, I sank in awkward silence and waited for the man to snort, or laugh, or question Mr Arrogance's rationality, when he asked, "How's that any of your business?"
My world flipped upside down.
"Logan's not my problem."
In fact, I almost fell off the sofa.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Vincent squeezed my knee, demanding quietness. A small, hitched breath flew from my parted lips. Standing to let the blood flow, I placed a hand to my chest in an attempt to placate myself. It was pointless. Anger like never before disseminated through my pumping veins.
How dare he stand there unapologetically uncaring?
Calm down, Alexa. Don't let your mind get ahead of itself. There are three sides to every story: his, hers and the truth. Give him a chance to clear the air—to defend himself before you jump to conclusions.
Perhaps Roxanne prevented Edward from building a relationship with his son.
Maybe he's oblivious to his son's dysfunctional, abusive environment.
Allow Donny to do his job.
Donny's jaw tightened. "Do you cover child maintenance?"
"Can we please tone it down?" Edward gulped. "Sylvia's unmindful."
"Your wife's not privy to the love child?" I asked bitterly, and he stared right through me. "Men." I scoffed. "You are all—"
"I asked you a question, Mr Morris," Donny talked over me. "Do you provide for your son?"
"You are way out of your jurisdiction." Edward moved to the minibar to pour himself a neat scotch. "Need I remind you that I once possessed a badge."
"Don't feed us that crap," I spat, and Donny's eyes rounded, telepathically ordering me to hush my gums. "Either you provide answers, or I will march out of this room and tell the good old wife about your infidelities."
Edward slammed the glass down on the dining table. "You cannot blackmail me."
"I just did," I said smugly. "Do you pay Roxanne Bowen to take care of your son?"
"Yes," he whisper-shouts, dabbing sweat from his brow. "Yes, I pay child support. Now, if that's all, I would like you to leave."
Donny closed the folder. "Mr Morris, we have reason to believe Logan's the victim of child abuse."
"And evidence to back these claims," I added, and Donny nodded in agreement. "We fear he may be in danger."
"Child services are building a case for Logan's removal; however, we'd like to discuss other possibilities to prevent Logan from entering the system. Now, I appreciate how uncomfortable this conversation will be for you and your wife, and you'd need to participate in a paternity test beforehand, but would you be willing to welcome him to your estate and provide a safe, loving home to avoid—"
"No," Edward cut him off with a raised palm. "I am sorry, Detective. Truly, I am. But I want no involvement in that boy's life. If Roxy's too unfit to care for him? Send him away."
"Send him away?" I whispered, and three pairs of eyes turned to me. "He's not an animal, Mr Morris. He's a child."
His nostrils flared, the wisps of grey hair bristling. "I am not bringing that bastard into my house—"
"That bastard is your son." My trembles stop. "You have four children living in this house. What's another mouth to feed?"
"It's not about money." Edward's eyes bounced from me to the door. His concern for his wife's ears began to irk. "I will not let my past mistakes disrupt this family."
I simpered. "Don't say that."
"Why is she so defensive of the boy?" Edward laughed resentfully. "You speak as though you know him."
"I do know him." I planted myself in front of him. "I could tell you Logan's favourite colour, and what food he likes to eat, or how he makes the toughest feats in basketball look effortless with his slam dunks. He sings to the music in his ears, marches to his own drum and appreciates the bare minimum because it's all he has. He's intimidatingly tall but never throws his weight around. He's handsome and has the most infectious laugh. He has the type of smile that makes you feel good inside." My palms pressed to my chest. "It's like..." Heart palpitating in realisation, I whispered, "It's the smile he gives to someone he loves."
Vincent's hand touched my lower back. "Angel, I think we should leave."
Edward resisted stubbornly. "Logan's not my burden to bear."
"Logan is neither a burden nor a mistake." My lips twisted in repugnance. "If you are too much of a coward to face your wife, then more fool you, Asshole."
"You," he waggled a finger in my face, "Mrs Warren, are in no position to judge me."
"You will regret the day you turned your back on him. He doesn't need the Morris' in his corner." I tsked at the audacity. "He has the Warrens."
I stormed away before I lamped him over the head with something, swung open the double doors and almost collided with Mrs Morris, who's carrying a tray of freshly-squeezed lemonade. "Your husband is a jackass!" I yelled, and she wilted on the spot. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sylvia, but he fucked someone who wasn't you, knocked her up, and then neglected his fatherly duties for over fifteen years!"
"You need to get out of my house!" Edward stalked towards me. "Leave. Right now—"
"Oh, don't worry, Ed." White-hot rage scorched my insides. We came face-to-face, his nose squished to mine, and when he took me by the elbows, I laughed in amusement. "I am not a certifiable doormat unlike he who stares back at me—"
"Release her. Now." Vincent unexpectedly thrust the barrel of his gun to the man's temple, and I didn't even blink. "Five seconds."
"Oh, Lord," Sylvia cried, dropping the tray in fear and devastation, the shattering glass echoing throughout. "Edward, what's happening?"
"Three," Vincent droned in a bored voice, his finger tracing the trigger. "Two."
"Alright." Edward stumbled back in surrender. "Please, just leave. You have already caused enough upset."
I was ready to unleash my wicked tongue, to deliver some harsh, home truths, when Donny slapped a hand over my mouth and dragged me outdoors. It's entirely unnecessary. I was hardly putting up a fight, but the lack of oxygen earned him an elbow to the ribs. "Ah," Donny cursed, uncaging me from his arms. "What was that for?"
"You are lucky I didn't gnaw the fingers." Flipping the coronal of blonde hair out of my face, I descended the concrete steps onto the grass and inhaled a deep breath to calm myself down. "Oh, God." Falling into a crouched position, I cupped my face and tapered down distress. My chest hurt. My heart hurt. Everything hurt. "How can people be so cruel, Don? He's a kid."
Donny squatted beside me and rubbed my back. "Did you mean what you said back there?"
"I said a lot, Don." I respired in intervals. "You need to be a bit more specific."
"About Logan," he said, tucking hair behind my ear. "Being there for him."
My bottom lip quivered. "I want him so much."
It's the first time I have admitted that to someone. I would bring Logan home tomorrow, offer him a room, a safe haven, love in abundance, but only if Liam agreed.
I heard Vincent's forced sigh. "My brother will never allow it."
"I can try," I argued futilely, rising to my feet. "If anyone can convince Liam? It's me."
Vincent's jaw steeled. "Don't be so foolish."
"Liam walked a hard road to be where he is today. He understands what it's like to be unwanted, unloved and abandoned. Surely, a small part of him remembers how that feels, Vincent. We could give Logan a new life. A better life."
"You forget who you are dealing with." Vincent tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. "Liam will see the boy on the streets before he extends an invitation, and you know it."
Placing sunglasses over my eyes, I rested my back on Donny's parked car and glared at the sky. "I don't know what to do," I said downheartedly. "If someone tries to put Logan in care, I think he will run. If I ask Liam for help, he will break into the Brodericks' house and kill Logan's parents in their sleep. If I ignore Logan's abuse, he will endure never-ending beatings and neglect."
"You must extract emotions." Vincent lights a cigarette. "Do right by the boy, Angel. Let Donny send child services in."
I am selfish. "But then, I might not see him again."
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I will come back to fix any typos.
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Alexa 💋
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Vincent 🍏
Edward Morris 🔪
Logan 💜
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