ONE

THE TRUTH

Isabelle Marshall winced as she slammed her car door shut, and the sound echoed across the desolate parking lot. Hitching her breath, she hurried across the tarmac toward the police-owned warehouse. Her pulse raced as she scanned the area, expecting to see angry officers running toward her at any moment, but the parking lot remained empty.

She stared at the large building ahead of her, studying the drab, red-brick building for a moment and searching for signs of people or alarms, but the barred windows were all dark. It appeared to be empty too.

As she drew closer to the warehouse, even the rusty old alarm box on the wall above her seemed lifeless with flaking yellow paint cracking off it and frost sparkling like diamonds on the spider web that hung beneath it.

Regardless of the outward impression that the building was empty, she rubbed her arms, trying to ignore her own paranoia, but it crept into her thoughts anyway.

Please don’t let me get caught. I’m too young for jail.

Trying to calm her nerves, she clenched her hands into fists.

Calm down. You haven’t done anything wrong yet.

The fact that she was about to do something wrong was playing havoc with her nerves. She hadn’t broken a rule in her entire life. A part of her was excited by the prospect, but another part of her was scared shitless.

She shivered as a blast of icy wind blew across the parking lot. She pulled her black wool coat around her and fastened the buttons with numb fingers, trying to ignore how cold she was.

This better work or Christmas break is going to suck.

She pulled the key card out of her coat pocket and gripped the white plastic rectangle in her hand, trying to convince herself to use it to open the door.

Come on. It’s not like I’m breaking into Parliament. No one will even know.

She jumped at a clattering noise behind her before spinning around and scanning the parking lot with her heart thumping loudly in her chest. She sighed when she saw a tin can roll across the gravel in the wind.

Inhaling a shaky breath, she turned back to face the door of the remote warehouse, swallowing when she focused on the words: Restricted Access, which were emblazoned across it in white paint.

Another blast of wintry wind blew strands of her blonde hair in front of her eyes. She ignored it as she slid the card through the electronic lock, holding her breath as the red light on the door flickered.

The light turned green, and the door clicked open.

Pushing it open, she hurried inside.

I hope I don’t get arrested for this.

It was pure insanity, but when her friend Lisa had revealed that her father was a security guard at the police archives, the idea of using real case files for their journalism project at university had seemed like a great idea, especially since it was the end of their first semester in freshman year for them both, and they hadn’t used their time on the project very wisely so far.

Too many jelly shots and not enough library time. If we want to have a blast over Christmas break, there’s no time for library research.

Isabelle tried to rationalize it to herself. They were only old cold cases. It wasn’t as if anyone would suffer the effects of it if they used them as research for an essay. The only reason she was breaking in was because they didn’t have enough time to get permission. The proper channels would take weeks, and neither she nor Lisa had that long. Their coursework was due on Friday.

She closed the door behind her before turning to face lines of shelving units ahead of her. The shelves were filled with evidence boxes and bags. She shivered. Somehow, actually breaking into the police evidence room, even an archived one in an old warehouse, seemed so much more criminal now that she was here doing it.

She tried to shake off the feeling that she was being watched.

Just do it. Stop wasting time!

She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and checked it again. Lisa had stolen her father’s ID card and noted the file numbers they would need for Isabelle to get in, copy the files and get out. They’d decided that minor crimes would be the best cold cases for their journalism project, so Lisa had chosen five of them to copy.

That girl’s a bad influence on me.

She allowed herself a small smile. Lisa did seem to get her into the stupidest situations, but it always led to something fun. After growing up with her grandmother, Isabelle felt as if she deserved a little excitement in her life. That’s why she’d chosen to study journalism. She wanted to experience a bit of danger, to do something exciting and important.

She studied the file numbers. They were all close together, starting with fifty-four-E to fifty-four-I. She hurried down the aisle, glancing at the numbers that were sign-posted on it. It began at number one, so she sped past the first set of case numbers.

She heard the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears as she rushed down the long, dusty room toward the end of it, scanning numbered markers as she passed them.

Forty-nine, fifty…

Sweat beaded her brow as she reached fifty-four.

She stared at the fifty-fourth shelving unit. It contained a multitude of evidence boxes, which varied in size.

While running her fingers down the boxes, she checked the numbers, sweeping a line of dust away in the process. She held her breath when she came to fifty-four-E.

We’re sure I won’t go to jail for this, right?

She swallowed, trying to dislodge a nervous bubble in the back of her throat. She wasn’t sure at all.

She shook her head as she lifted down the box, pushed the lid off it and peered inside. After a brief glance, she ignored the evidence bags and found four folders containing police reports. She quickly took them out and stacked them on the floor beside her. She glanced around the room, trying to locate the photocopier that Lisa had told her was here.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she noticed the copier at the bottom of the aisle.

Great, I’ll just get all the files, do some copying and then get out of here.

Turning back to the shelves, she scanned them for fifty-four-F. The brown boxes were labeled with case numbers, but also with names: Johnson, Withers, Holbeck, Marshall…

She frowned at the last name. It was her name. Her frown deepened. It wasn’t on her list, but seeing her name on an evidence box intrigued her.

It’s a pretty common name.

Distracted from her mission, she pulled out the box and placed it on the concrete floor. Then she knelt in front of it and pulled off the lid. Inside were evidence bags and files, just like in the other boxes. She examined the evidence bags with wide eyes before plucking out the top one. It contained a blood-soaked blouse.

Her breath caught in her throat when she picked up a brown manila file and saw the words on the front of it displayed in thick black ink: Victim: Marianne Marshall.

For a moment, time stood still, and she forgot how to breathe. Even though she was reading the words, she couldn’t seem to understand them. She knew that name. It had been her mother’s name.

Her pulse raced as adrenaline flooded through her. In an instant, her fears of being caught evaporated as they were replaced with shock and anger.

Mum died in a car accident. Why the hell is she listed in the cold case files?

She stared at the files as they shook in her hands. Her mother had died a long time ago, and Isabelle had never been told the full details about how she had died.

Maybe it’s just a report about the accident that was filed in the wrong archive.

Isabelle had been nine when her grandmother had told her that her mother had died in a car crash. It had been the most painful moment of her life. Since her mother had been a single parent, and Isabelle had never met her father, she’d lived with her grandmother after that.

With only a few memories of her mother from her childhood, which were sadly fading with every year that passed, the files felt like more than just information to her. They were a real connection. Real proof that she’d had a mother once. They were a reminder that the woman she could barely remember anymore had existed once.

She stared into the box with an ache in her chest. Ten years later, and this was all that remained of her mother. But it was real. It was tangible and something she could hold onto.

Her eyes were drawn to the bloody blouse again. A part of her wanted to feel it. Would it still smell like her mother?

Blinking back tears, she shook her head at her own insanity. She plucked the police report out of the box. She was here to research cold cases, and this was a cold case, right? She knew this was the case she wanted to investigate.

Did Lisa know this was here?

She shook her head. Lisa didn’t even know her mother’s name. They’d only met at the start of this semester.

She ran her fingers over the name on the front of the file before flipping it open.

Mum.

Her throat ached as she read the words through clouded eyes, trying to concentrate but unable to stop her mind revisiting the past. She had locked away the painful memories of her mother so that she could keep going after she was gone. But now, she desperately wanted to experience those memories again.

She scanned the words. Then she blinked and read them again.

This must be a mistake.

It wasn’t a report about a car crash. It was a report about a mob hit.

Frowning, she flipped to the first page, wondering if the files had been mixed up. The person in this file had been shot. Blinking back the tears and swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of her throat, she forced herself to focus as she read the identification page. It listed her mother’s name, her date of birth, her date of death… It listed the cause of death, which caused Isabelle’s hands to tremble in anger. Her mother had been shot, execution style.

What does this mean? Did everyone lie to me?

She scanned the report. The detective in charge had investigated Joseph Meyer as a suspect, but they hadn’t been able to pin any evidence on him for the murder. The lead detective had suspected that it had been a hit done by a cleaner, a hitman.

Her knuckles whitened as she tightened them, crumpling up the file in her fist. Her mother had been murdered. Rather than finding her killer, the police had stored her file away in these dusty old archives for ten years.

Did they even try to catch the killer? Did they do anything at all?

Clenching her jaw in anger, she smoothed out the file on the tiled floor, removing the creases that her fist had created. There were pages of reports about witnesses questioned without a result. Fingerprints had been taken, but they had yielded no hit in the central registry. There had been an examination of the scene, which failed to provide a single useful clue.

She knew all too well from her studies that when it came to the mob, half of the officials in Manchester were on their payroll. Was it dirty cops or just bad luck? They had a strong suspect, and he got out of it with a shady alibi and an even shadier lawyer. That wasn’t justice.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus her thoughts, forcing them open when she remembered she was inside a police evidence room, breaking and entering. She should have got out of here ages ago.

She narrowed her eyes as cold anger calmed her rattled nerves. Scowling at the box, she made a decision. Her plans had just changed.

She picked up the first files that she had intended to use and put them back in their evidence box. With shaking hands, she quickly packed her mother’s files back into the second box.

Her mind was racing as a range of emotions flooded through her; sorrow, shock, but most prominent, anger. They’d lied to her. Everyone she’d believed in had lied to her. Her grandmother had died a year ago, and she’d taken this secret to her grave.

What else did they lie to me about?

She narrowed her eyes, hot rage building up inside her so rapidly that she barely recognized herself anymore.

My whole life is a lie, and the only truth I’ve found is in this box.

She glanced down at the file in her hand. The word, hitman caught her eye.

She shoved the file into the box and dropped the lid on it before picking it up. Her pulse was steady as she walked down the aisle, carrying the box. She knew she was stealing, but she didn’t care. This box was hers, and she was taking it with her.

She hurried toward the door, her heart thumping in her chest. If breaking in hadn’t been against the law, stealing evidence sure as hell was.

She froze when she heard voices echo down the hall behind her. With her heart pounding, she tightly gripped the box. It felt as if it was hers, and she didn’t want to give it back. She raced to the end of the aisle, praying that she’d avoid the security guards who had begun their patrol of the archives.

She burst through the open door and raced across the parking lot toward her car, panting when she glanced back over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. She breathed a sigh when she realized she was alone in the desolate parking lot.

She unlocked her red Ford Fiesta with the remote keys and popped open the boot.

So this is what it feels like to be a criminal.

 She’d always played by the rules. Her whole life had been about rules. Now it turned out that justice had nothing to do with the rules, she was angry enough to break them all.

Screw university, the law and everything else in this world. There was only one thing she wanted for Christmas this year, revenge.

When she threw the box into the trunk of her car, the lid popped off to reveal the open file. Her eyes settled on the word hitman again. A grim smile turned up the corners of her lips. Every year, she put aside a little bit of money to enjoy the Christmas holidays in style. She knew exactly what she was spending her Christmas money on this year, someone to hunt down her mother’s killer, someone who would help her find the truth about who she really was.