Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YEB634SDS539P6CN8JFPX8

The door opened as far as the chain allowed. Lucien stood on the landing, one hand braced against the wall. Rain had darkened the shoulders of his charcoal coat, and his platinum hair had come loose at the temples. He looked down at the chain, then at Rory. “You changed your locks.” “This isn’t my flat.” “I know.” “Then you’ve come to the wrong one.” She pushed the door. His cane slipped into the gap before it met the frame. “Take that out.” “There’s a man downstairs asking for Eva.” Rory kept her hand on the door. Behind her, Ptolemy wound around her ankles, his tail brushing her calf. “Eva’s in Bristol.” “I gathered that when she didn’t answer her phone.” “She wouldn’t answer yours.” “No.” Lucien’s mouth tightened. “She wouldn’t.” Voices rose from the curry house below, followed by the clatter of a metal shutter. Rory glanced past Lucien toward the stairs. “What man?” “Grey coat. Burn mark across his throat. He came to collect a page Eva took from a ledger.” “Why would Eva take a page from a ledger?” “She didn’t tell me.” “And you came to ask her?” “I came to get her out before he found her.” Rory looked at him. His cane remained across the threshold, its ivory handle caught beneath his palm. “Move it.” “If I move it, will you open the door?” “No.” “Then we’ve reached a difficulty.” Ptolemy pushed his head through the gap and sniffed the cane. Lucien eased it back before the cat could rub against it. Rory shut the door, slid the chain free, and opened it again. “Two minutes. You don’t touch anything.” Lucien stepped inside. The flat smelled of cumin from downstairs and the lemon polish Eva used on the shelves, though the shelves held so many papers that little wood showed through. Books covered the table and the arm of the sofa. A scroll lay unrolled across the radiator, held flat by a mug at each end. Rory closed the door and fastened all three deadbolts. “You found me here. Did he?” “He saw me come up.” “Brilliant.” “I didn’t know you were here until I heard your voice.” “You could have knocked on the restaurant door and asked for her.” “I did. The man in the grey coat stood beside me while I asked.” Rory moved to the window and drew the curtain back a finger’s width. Across Brick Lane, under the awning of a closed shop, a broad man held a cigarette between two fingers. Even from the first floor she could see the scar at his throat, a pale band against his skin. “He’s looking at the building.” “Yes.” “Can he get in?” “He can knock.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” Lucien set his cane against the wall. “He can get in. The page gives him a reason not to damage the flat until he’s searched it.” Rory let the curtain fall. “What page?” “A list of names. Eva took it from a broker called Renard.” “Your friend?” “No.” “You know him.” “I know people I don’t like.” “That must make dinner parties difficult.” His gaze dropped to her bare wrist. She pulled her sleeve over the small crescent scar. “Eva found the ledger three nights ago,” he went on. “Renard noticed the page was missing this morning. He sent the man downstairs to retrieve it.” “Why didn’t he send you?” “Renard and I no longer do business.” Rory folded her arms. “Since when?” “Since I gave him the address of the warehouse in Deptford.” She stared at him. The flat seemed to shrink around the space between them, its stacks of books and papers pressing close. “You gave him that address.” “I did.” “You told me someone had followed us.” “Someone had. Renard’s men were at the front door.” “And you sent them to the back?” “I sent Renard there with a key. I knew you could get out through the loading bay.” Rory picked up a book from the sofa and put it down again. “You knew I could. I didn’t.” “I told you where the loading bay was.” “After I’d spent an hour under a table with a knife in my hand.” Lucien’s fingers curled against the top of his cane. He had picked it up again without her noticing. “Renard wanted the case you were carrying. He would have taken it from you and left you there.” “So you gave him the warehouse and let me run into him.” “I went with him.” “You stood behind him while he pointed a gun at me.” “I kept him talking until you reached the door.” “He shot at the door, Lucien.” A horn sounded from the street. Ptolemy leapt onto the sofa and settled among Eva’s papers, kneading a loose sheet until Rory pulled it from beneath his paws. Lucien watched her smooth the paper against her thigh. “I didn’t expect the gun.” “You didn’t mention that when you came to my flat.” “You shut the door in my face.” “I gave you plenty of time to explain before that.” “I gave you an explanation.” “You gave me instructions. Stay inside. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t tell Eva.” Rory dropped the paper onto the table. “Then you touched my face as if I’d thank you for it.” His expression changed. Not much. His hand left the cane. “I shouldn’t have done that.” “No.” “I wanted to know if you were hurt.” “You could have asked.” “I knew you wouldn’t answer.” “You don’t get to decide which questions I’ll answer.” For a moment he looked toward the window. The curtain had slipped open enough to show a strip of wet pavement. “I came because Eva has that page,” he said. “I need to find it before Renard’s man comes up.” “You need it.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because my name is on it.” That brought her attention back to him. “Along with whose?” “I don’t know. Eva wouldn’t let me see it.” “She showed you enough to frighten you?” “She read me one line.” Rory waited. Lucien drew a breath. “It named my mother.” The cat jumped from the sofa and landed beside Rory’s feet. She bent to stroke his back, buying herself a second. “What does the list mean?” “Renard kept records of bargains. Names, terms, what he held against each person.” “And your mother made one?” “No. I did.” Rory straightened. “What did you promise him?” “Access to a client’s accounts. He wanted to know where the money went.” “What did you get?” “A name I needed.” “Whose?” His mismatched eyes held hers. “The man who sold Evan your address.” Rory’s hand stopped on Ptolemy’s fur. “Evan knew where I lived?” “He sent someone to watch the bar. Silas noticed him.” “Silas didn’t tell me.” “I asked him not to until I knew who had sent the man.” “And when you knew?” “I dealt with him.” Rory stared at Lucien. “Which one?” “The man outside the bar. Evan hadn’t left Cardiff.” “You dealt with him.” She repeated the words with care. “Did you hurt him?” “I took the address from him and told him what would happen if he went near you again.” “That’s not an answer.” “I broke two of his fingers.” Ptolemy moved away from her hand. Rory let him go. “You made a bargain over my address. You put your mother’s name in Renard’s ledger. Then you kept it from me.” “I didn’t want Renard to know why I needed the name.” “You could have told me after.” “Yes.” The answer came without a defence. Rory had prepared herself for one, and its absence left her with nowhere to put the next sentence. Lucien glanced at the books covering the table. “Eva may have brought the page here. If Renard gets it back, he can use it to press the bargain.” “What bargain? You gave him the accounts.” “He claims I withheld one.” “Did you?” “Yes.” Rory pulled out a chair and sat. “You might have started there.” “I thought you would throw me out.” “I might still.” He remained standing. Water had dripped from his coat onto the floorboards, making dark spots between a stack of journals and a pair of Eva’s shoes. Rory fetched a tea towel from the kitchen and dropped it at his feet. “Your coat’s leaking.” He bent to wipe the boards. Rory watched his hands, the neat cuffs at his wrists, the ease with which he gathered the towel without disturbing the journals. He had once cooked in her kitchen wearing a shirt just as fine, sleeves rolled up while he argued with her about how much garlic belonged in a sauce. She had kissed him to stop the argument. He had kissed her back with the spoon still in his hand, leaving tomato on her sleeve. She got up and went to the kitchen. “Tea?” she called. A pause. “Please.” “Don’t sound surprised. I’m making one for myself.” She filled the kettle. Lucien appeared in the doorway, holding the damp towel. “You’ve searched her things before?” “No. I’ve helped her look for things she’s lost.” “Is there a difference?” “Yes. She asked.” The kettle clicked on. He hung the towel over a cupboard handle. “Call her,” he said. “I have. Twice, while you were talking.” “And?” “Straight to voicemail.” Rory took two mugs from the shelf. One had a chipped handle; she gave him that one. “Where would she put a loose page?” “She has folders.” “That narrows it down.” “She also has a filing cabinet.” Lucien looked into the sitting room. “Where?” “Under the books beside the sofa.” They moved the books together. Rory carried an armful to the kitchen counter while Lucien stacked the rest against the wall. The cabinet emerged, its top drawer held shut with a strip of red ribbon. “Don’t pull that,” Rory told him. “Why?” “She tied it there to remind herself the handle comes off.” He stepped back. Rory opened the drawer by gripping its edge. Folders stood inside, labelled in Eva’s cramped handwriting. Renard had one of his own. Lucien reached for it. Rory put her hand over the tab. “Tell me what happens if we find it.” “I take my mother’s name off the page.” “And the others?” “I’ll give it back to Eva.” “You could tear the whole thing up.” “Renard has the ledger. He’ll remember some of what’s on the page.” “But not everything.” “No.” Rory held out her hand. After a moment, he gave her the folder. Inside lay newspaper clippings, two photographs, and a sheet of ruled paper folded into quarters. She opened it. Names ran down the page in black ink, each followed by a date and a short notation. Lucien leaned close. His sleeve brushed hers. “There.” He pointed to a line halfway down. Rory read the name and the note beside it. She looked up at him. “You put her address here too?” “Renard already had it.” “You could move her.” “I have.” She found a pen in the drawer and drew a thick line through the address. Lucien watched the nib travel across the paper. “That won’t stop him reading it if he holds it to the light.” “Then get me the scissors.” He fetched them from a jar on the kitchen counter. Rory cut out the line, leaving a narrow gap in the page. She handed him the strip. “Burn it.” He took a matchbox from his pocket. “You carry matches?” “I smoke.” “You told me you’d stopped.” “I did. I started again in Deptford.” She held out her hand for the matchbox. “Give me those as well.” A corner of his mouth lifted. He placed it in her palm, and she struck a match over the sink. Lucien held the strip above the flame until it caught, then dropped it into a mug. The paper curled and blackened. The kettle had gone cold. Rory switched it on again. From downstairs came a knock against the building’s front door. Three blows, spaced apart. Both of them turned toward the sound. Lucien picked up his cane. “Stay here,” Rory told him. “He’ll ask for Eva.” “And you’ll tell him what? That you found the page and cut your mother’s name out?” “I can tell him I haven’t seen it.” “He saw you come in.” “He doesn’t know what I came for.” Rory folded the page and slipped it back into the folder. She put the folder inside her jumper, against her ribs. Lucien watched her. “That was Eva’s idea,” she said. “People search bags first.” “I remember.” “Do you?” “You did the same thing with the key in Deptford.” He stood close enough for her to smell rain on his coat. Rory had missed that smell on him, and the knowledge annoyed her. “You remember where I hid the key. You forgot to tell me you’d sent Renard after it.” “I didn’t forget.” She looked at him. “I know.” Another knock sounded below. Ptolemy darted beneath the table. Lucien set his cane down again and reached for his coat buttons. “What are you doing?” “Taking this off. I can go downstairs through the restaurant kitchen. Renard’s man saw the coat; he might not recognise me without it.” “You’re the only man on Brick Lane with that hair.” “I could borrow a hat.” Rory opened a drawer and pulled out Eva’s knitted cap, mustard yellow with a crooked pom-pom. She held it up. Lucien took it from her. “Don’t laugh.” “I haven’t.” “You’re about to.” He pulled the cap on. It flattened his hair and sat high above his ears. Rory pressed her lips together, but he caught her expression. “Give me the coat,” she said. He shrugged it off and handed it to her. She hung it on a peg behind the kitchen door, then stepped in front of him and tugged the cap lower. His hand closed around her wrist, loose enough that she could pull away. His thumb rested beside the crescent scar. “Rory.” “What?” “I should have told you about the man outside the bar.” “Yes.” “I should have told you about Deptford before we went in.” “Yes.” His grip loosened. She could have stepped back. Instead she adjusted the edge of the cap where it folded against his forehead. “You look ridiculous.” “I’ll have to rely on my charm.” “That hasn’t got you very far today.” “No.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “It hasn’t.” The kettle clicked off. Rory lowered her hand from his cap, and Lucien let go of her wrist. She reached past him for the mugs. “Take your tea,” she said. “Then we’ll decide what to tell the man downstairs.”