Rosy slid into the driver's seat, shaking the cold off her coat. Keane got in on the passenger side, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed in the quiet street. For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the faint hiss of the heater kicking in. Rosy could still perceive the bar's warm smell of beer that seemed to have clung to their clothes.
"You think Vince is holding anything back?" Keane asked, tapping his fingers anxiously on his thighs.
Rosy started the car but didn't put it in gear yet. "No. He seemed straight with us. I just think he's still shaken from the news. Grant wasn't just another customer to him."
Keane nodded slowly. "Yeah. But this woman…" He stared out the windscreen, watching little flakes of snow gather in the corners of the glass. "Sounds like something out of a horror film. Walks in, picks her target, buys him a drink, leaves with him. Then he turns up dead."
"It's targeted." Rosy tightened her grip on the steering wheel."No question about that."
She put the car into gear, pulling away from the kerb. Luton Bay's streets rolled by — rows of terraced houses low and high, whose rooftops were covered with snow. Inside, the occupants likely huddled by the hearth, shoulders drawn in against the cold.
"Grant's been on the job what, fifteen years?" Keane said. "No major enemies, no black marks on his record. Who goes after a guy like that?"
Rosy's mind flicked through what she knew of Grant : a good cop, dependable, quiet since the divorce. Liked his whiskey, never caused trouble—his philandering tendencies aside.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But if she picked him, she had a reason. We just don't know what it is."
They reached a red light and Rosy tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, her thoughts racing.
"We need to pull his last case files," she said. "See if there's anything that might have put him on someone's bad side recently. Old arrests, witnesses, complaints."
Keane nodded, absent. In his mind, bravado and dread were in a tight wrestling duel, the scoreboard deadlocked at fifty-fifty.
"I'll request it first thing tomorrow. But Rosy—" he turned toward her, his face serious. "If this was a setup, if someone is targeting police, we've got to tread carefully. One dead cop is bad enough. We don't want another."
Rosy felt the truth of his words piercing her chest. The town couldn't afford a war between someone with a grudge and the police force.
She exhaled. "We will tread carefully. But we can't ignore the possibility that this might just be the beginning."
"You always expect the worst?" Keane gave her a sidelong glance.
Rosy allowed a smile. "I prepare for it. There's a difference."
"You and your negative optimism." Keane said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Rosy raised an eyebrow but didn't utter a word. Keane would always be Keane. He would never change.
"What's your gut telling you?" she heard him ask.
She stared out through the windscreen as she parked at the entrance leading to Keane's Apartment–a two-storeyed block of flats.
"My gut's telling me we're dealing with someone clever," she said finally. "Someone patient enough to pick the right night, the right place, and the right person. And that means she's not done."
The weight of that hung between them like wet drapes.
Keane blew out a slow breath. "You want to come in? Grab a cup of tea before you head home?"
"Leave my car. Now." Rosy shook her head.
" I was only being a gentleman." Keane said, throwing his hands in the air in mock surrender.
"See you tomorrow," Rosy said, watching Keane unlock the car and drift off into the cold, his hands seeking warmth in his pockets as he sauntered toward the block of flats.
*
The car park emptied slowly. She waited, crouched behind the dark bulk of a delivery van,a pale plume of breath rising before her. The bar's neon had gone dark twenty minutes ago, leaving the street in a hushed, eerie glow. She'd seen them leave — the woman cop and her partner. Watched them climb into the blue Ford, watched their faces as they spoke inside. She couldn't hear them, but she didn't need to. She could read it in their expressions: curiosity. Suspicion.
Rosy Lawson.
She repeated the name in her mind like she was tasting it, rolling it around until it felt sharp enough to cut. This was the first time she'd seen her up close, close enough to catch the shape of her face, the way she carried herself, the steel in her posture.
She hated her already.
Let them investigate. Yes. Let them dig through Grant's past, through his cases, through his whole damn life if they wanted. She turned and walked away, her boots crunching softly on the icy pavement. It was time to plan.
Who would be her next target?