Read Chapter 2: An Unwelcome Interview

The safe flat smelled of lemon disinfectant and someone else’s life. Everything in it was beige, anonymous, the kind of place you’d find on a corporate housing list, with a single window that looked out over a rain-slicked car park. Evelyn Hart sat on the edge of the sofa, arms wrapped around herself, watching Marcus Cole check the lock on the front door for the third time. He did it like a man checking his watch, an absent habit, but his eyes were anything but absent. They moved, cataloguing the room, the window, her.

“You can stop looking at me like I’m a package you’re about to deliver,” she said. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “I’m not a thing to be secured.”

Marcus turned from the door. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, with the kind of stillness that made other men look busy by comparison. His jaw was set, his gaze level, and there was nothing in his expression that suggested he’d been stung. “I’m not looking at you like that.”

“Then how are you looking at me?”

He paused, as if the question required genuine consideration. “Like someone who needs a cup of tea.”

Evelyn blinked, and before she could stop it, a short, breathless laugh escaped her. It was the first real sound she’d made since the panic had gripped her throat in the theatre’s foyer. Marcus crossed to the small kitchenette and filled an electric kettle with water, his movements economical, no wasted motion. Evelyn watched him, trying to see the threat the press release had hinted at, the man who’d broken a fan’s wrist with two fingers and no visible effort.

“You’re ex-SAS,” she said, not a question.

“I don’t talk about that.”

“Great. So you’re a mystery with a pulse.” She stood, pacing to the window, peering through the slats of the blinds at the indifferent London drizzle. “My manager, Fiona, she sent you. She thinks I need a guard. She thinks I need a lot of things.”

“She said you’d argue.”

Evelyn turned. “Did she also say I get a say in who follows me to the loo for the next six months?” He didn’t answer. The kettle clicked off. He poured water into two mugs, no sugar in either, and set one on the small table beside her. “I don’t want tea, Marcus. I want to know who you are. Before I let you into my life, I’m going to vet you myself. Over coffee. Real coffee. Not this… boiled water situation.”

Marcus glanced at the mug he’d prepared, then at her. A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed his face before he smoothed it away. “There’s a café around the corner. They do espresso.”

“Is it safe?”

“It’s within my sightline. And I’m with you.” He said it simply, without bravado, as if stating an obvious fact. Evelyn found that more unsettling than a boast. She grabbed her coat from the back of a chair and threw it over her shoulders.

“Fine. But if you’re boring, you’re out.”

The café was small, steam-fogged windows, a brass bell over the door that chimed as they entered. Marcus guided her to a back booth with one hand hovering near her lower back, a light touch that nonetheless steered her with unmistakable intent. He sat facing the door, back to the wall, and when the barista came over—a young woman who did a double-take at Evelyn’s face but had the good grace not to say anything—he ordered a flat white and a double espresso.

Evelyn waited until the coffee arrived before she leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Ex-SAS. Special forces. That means you’ve killed people.”

Marcus wrapped his hands around his cup. “It means I’ve done a job. Same as you.”

“Acting doesn’t kill people.”

“It kills careers. Sometimes faster.” He took a sip of his espresso, watching her over the rim. Evelyn felt the weight of his attention, cold and precise, like a surgeon’s lamp. She hated how it made her want to look away. She didn’t.

“You’re deflecting,” she said.

“You’re trying to see if I scare easy.”

She smiled, a thin, practiced thing. “Did it work?”

“No.” He set his cup down. “You’re angry, not afraid. You’re afraid of being afraid. You built a wall out of sarcasm and you’re checking my mortar for cracks.”

Evelyn felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “That’s very poetic for someone who ‘doesn’t talk about it.’”

“I don’t talk about myself. That doesn’t mean I’m blind.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “What else do you want to know, Miss Hart?”

She didn’t flinch at the formality, though it grated. “Who do you work for? And don’t say the agency. Who pays you?”

“A private security firm. Holds contracts with your production company. I was assigned because I’ve done close-protection for public figures before. Actors, politicians, a tenor who liked to wander into alleyways.” A corner of his mouth curved. “The tenor was a problem.”

Evelyn almost smiled again. Almost. “And why can’t I trace you? I looked you up while you were securing the flat. There’s no Marcus Cole on LinkedIn, no Instagram, no trail of London rugby clubs drinking sessions with the lads. You exist but you don’t.”

Marcus’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t want to be found by the wrong people. The work I did before, it created enemies. Some of them talk. Some of them have long memories. So I keep my footprint small. That’s better for your safety, not worse.”

“Or it’s better for you to hide.”

“I hide so I can do my job. If I’m known, I’m a target. If I’m a target, you’re a target.” He said it without self-importance, like a weather report. Evelyn wanted to push, to find the crack, but she saw nothing behind his eyes but patience. It was maddening.

Her phone buzzed against the table. Fiona. Evelyn picked it up, thumb swiping to answer, but Fiona’s voice came through before she could speak.

“Evelyn. Where are you? Don’t answer, just listen.” Evelyn’s blood went cold at the tone. Fiona was always slick, always controlled. She sounded like she’d been running. “They sent a letter. To the theatre. Addressed to you, but it got to my desk instead—standard fan mail screening, thank God. It’s not a fan letter, Evie. It’s a note. A threat. It says—says he knows you’re not at home, that he watched you run, and that he’s got something of yours. A photograph. From tonight.”

Evelyn’s hand tightened on the phone. Marcus had gone still across from her, reading her face, already on high alert.

“I’m coming to get you,” Fiona continued. “Stay with Cole. He’s the best we’ve got. I don’t care if you hate him, if he’s a robot, if he makes you want to scream—he’s ex-SAS and he’s the only one who’s ever stopped a snake before it bit. There’s no one else. You need to trust him, even if that’s the last thing you want to do.”

Evelyn closed her eyes. The hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the knot of tension in Marcus’s shoulders—it all pressed in on her. When she opened her eyes, Marcus was watching her with an intensity she hadn’t seen until now.

“Letter,” she said. “Threat. Photograph of tonight.”

Marcus didn’t reach for her. He didn’t offer comfort. He just nodded and said, “Give me the address.”

“Why?”

“Because if he’s been to your theatre, he’s followed your trail. And the one thing a man like that has is a pattern. Even if he thinks he doesn’t.” Marcus stood, slid a note under his cup, and gestured to the door. “We walk fast. We don’t stop for anything. And you don’t answer any more calls until I’ve said it’s clear.”

Evelyn rose, legs unsteady despite herself. She felt the ghost of the panic attack closing in again, the familiar tightness in her chest, but she forced it down. She was not going to break in a café. Not in front of him.

“You don’t trust me,” Marcus said as they reached the door. The bell chimed. Outside, rain had begun to fall harder, blurring the shop windows, making the streetlights bloom like halos.

Evelyn looked up at him, rain already speckling her shoulders. “No.”

“Good.” He turned, scanning the street. “Trust is a liability. Stay close.”

She tucked the phone into her coat pocket, fingers brushing the lump of the stranger’s card, and followed him into the downpour. Behind her, the café’s window seemed to darken, and she could not shake the feeling that somewhere out in the grey, a camera lens had just caught her leaving.