Can she see how furious I am, or is she pissed at me? My rage heightens. You’re right, Chelsea. This isn’t fucking worth it!

I light a cigar and see the SUV approaching with Giorgie behind the wheel. He never lets me down, this kid.

With a swarm of cameras surrounding me, I fling the rear door open. They ask so many questions, I can’t even distinguish a single one. As the car pulls away, I watch my honeybee hold the cameras back. She stands on the steps in front of the station, stopping to give them a statement, like a pro.

I slam my fist into the back of the passenger seat.

Why did you let them get the better of you? Pacer, you’re fucking weak asshole.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Clear skies. The skies have been lovely and clear today. I’ve only just noticed it now, and the day is almost over. I’ve been staring out of my office window for longer than I should be. There’s been nothing in my head other than the sound of rambling radio frequencies that you hear in between changing radio stations on an old car stereo.

I’ve got to get down to police archives already. My day has been like a spinning washing cycle, twisting one direction, then back the other—my head and heart are the biggest casualties. Why did I have to let my heart get involved? What was already a really difficult situation, I’ve only just gone and made worse by falling in love with my client.

What?

Did I just think that? Really?

But how can Pacer be confessing his love for me one minute, and treat me like a piece of dirt the next? Because he’s a prick. They’re always in there; you just have to scratch the surface. I really should’ve known better.

I pick up all my documents across the desk, and slide them into my oversized handbag. My phone is face down on the desk, the same position it’s been in all day. Sitting alone and silent since lunchtime. I don’t want to turn it back on until I’m ready to deal with what’s waiting for me when I do. Pacer’s the only one I care about talking to at this point, and he hasn’t left a message with Sienna, so he’s obviously not that troubled enough to really contact me. If I check my phone now and Pacer hasn’t left a message there either, I know I’ll be disappointed, or some other stupid feeling like that. I’m better off leaving it alone, for now. That kind of self-sabotage can wait a little longer.

Shit! It’s almost six! I’ve forgotten to get to Lou’s before he closes. That’s twice in one day that I’ve forgotten about the normal things in my life, all because of Pacer. It’s a fucking washing machine day!

I dare to pick up my phone. Staring at the blackened screen, I consider all the other ways I can search for Lou’s phone number. Holding my breath, I turn it on to find Lou’s number from this morning. It’s the easiest way. Call me lazy … and possibly a self-harmer.

132 text messages

57 missed calls

Today is officially a record. Blowing out a long puff of air, I take hold of the office phone and dial in the number for Lou’s. It takes a long time before Lou picks up. I hope I haven’t missed him before he’s closed for the night.

“Lou’s …” He sounds out of breath.

“Lou. Hi. Sorry. It’s Chelsea. I’ve been held up at work. I can give you my credit card details over the phone, so you can run the breakfast rolls through the till?”

“Chelsea, Chelsea. Relax.” He laughs. “Is this what you’re worried about right now? It’s twelve dollars and I’m about to close. Fix me up tomorrow. Go and get some rest. You don’t sound yourself, love.”

I’m not myself right now. “Thanks Lou. See you in the morning.”

By the sound of Lou’s words, the evening news must be having a field day, capturing Pacer and I having our first weird moment since basically swapping oxygen for twenty-four hours straight. I think the sharing oxygen thing has made my head turn to moosh. I feel like a fool for ever doubting that this wasn’t going to be easy. This was never going to be easy. Everything was so nice when we were at Pacer’s minimalistic love nest. Now I understand why he has that place.

For all the same reasons I’ve hidden at Dolorous on the weekends. Being locked away from the world, but around a house full of staff has made being around people normal, until now. Now they suck.

Grabbing my bag and coat, I hold my breath as I open my office door. To my surprise, the office is quiet, but then it is almost six at night. It’s only ever senior barristers who stay back this late, if they have a trial on. There are three senior barristers and I’m the only junior, so my odds are good.

The quiet office gives me a moment to realise that I have used up a whole day of work because I’ve been focused on Pacer. He is paying me good money to manage his case, but I still have other clients to manage. I make a mental note to get Brad onto the other cases for me. If I didn’t have him as my lead assisting council, I would be lost. Once he’s got all the information collected that I need, I can make the assessment on how best to represent each case.

Must. Contact. Brad.

***

The elevator and main foyer are much the same as the office—scarce. I’ve seen glimpses of people in doorways, but that’s been it. I’m sure they were all just cleaners. All I know is they took no notice of me and I took no notice of them. Just the way I’d hoped.

By the time I reach the tall sliding glass doors of the building’s main foyer, it’s already dark outside. It fascinates me to see how quickly the city changes at night. The city goes from peak hour bustle of every corporate worker leaving for the day to eerie ghost town, all within an hour.

A paparazzo who used to work for my Mum sits on a ledge of a built-up garden at the front annex of the building. The moment he sees me coming through the doors, he leaps up and starts snapping a flurry of pictures.

“Maurice, my family will have you out of a job if they find out you’re doing this.”

Frowning, I question what this city is coming to if it finds my relationship with Pacer so riveting.

“My Mum even likes you,” I add.

Maurice stops firing off pictures for a moment and shrugs. “Sorry, Chelsea, your photographs are worth a lot of money to someone at the moment. We’re getting top dollar for an exclusive shot. The others all gave up and thought you’d gone home, but I knew you’d still be up there.”

I smile, “Fuck you, Maurice. Find someone else to annoy. Didn’t Mariah Carey or someone arrive into town for you to piss off?”

“Come on, Chels … you know how this works.”

Don’t Chels me. His voice becomes distant as I walk away.

He’s right. I know exactly how this works. Hopefully he has the shot he can trade that allows the papers to make up some bullshit story to sell tomorrow. Taking more notice of what’s around me, I jump into the first cab with its vacancy light on.

“Corner of Kent and Bathurst Streets, thanks.” I try to avoid eye contact in the hope that the Indian driver doesn’t recognise me.

If he drops me on the corner, I can walk to the building and make sure no other photographers are following me. The last thing I need is someone finding out where I’m going. I couldn’t do that to Travis.

Within minutes we’re where I want to be. Handing over a note, I get out of the car.

“Keep the change.” I wave my hand out in front of me to stop the driver from taking a good look.

Doing a scan of the street, I walk as quickly as I can towards the archive headquarters. Buzzing the intercom at a door beside a massive roller door, I keep a watch around me to see if I notice the sparkle from a lens anywhere in the street.