He remembered wanting to protect her. He still wanted to protect her. When she’d nearly fallen from the walls of Tantallon Castle, his world had collapsed in on itself for an infinitesimal, endless moment in time. But she’d clung to him. He’d felt her trust through the grip of their fingers. They’d shared something both terrifying and extraordinary. Something no one else could ever be a part of.

Callanach knew he hadn’t given up the slate in case he never had anything else. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but the sense of not wanting to lose her before he could be sure he really had her was logical now. In trying to keep her close, he’d lost her forever. There was no point fighting it.

In the morning he’d book a ticket to France. He’d enjoyed Paris. Perhaps it was time to be brave and revisit Lyon, to walk the streets that had suddenly seemed like enemy territory while he was awaiting trial. Going home for a while had been Lance’s idea and at first Callanach had protested that there was nothing left there for him. But that wasn’t true. There were ghosts to be laid to rest. There were old friends to look up, to forgive for abandoning him. It was time to see what had happened through their eyes.

Astrid Borde’s evidence against him had been both compelling and damning. She had all the injuries of a classic violent rape. Her neighbours had been witness to a row between the two of them, with Callanach swearing at her and her sobbing in the background. He’d been set up to perfection by a woman who’d done everything in her power to attract him, then anything to make him pay when he’d rejected her. Obsessive behaviour like that didn’t just appear from nowhere.

Perhaps he’d been too used to women falling at his feet when he worked at Interpol, taken it for granted. He’d never been without a beautiful woman at his side for holidays or parties, and often they’d called him cold-hearted and disrespectful when he’d moved on to someone else. Everyone assumed it was his looks that made him careless in long-term relationships, but it was something far simpler than that. Callanach had just never met anyone who could hold his interest for more than a few weeks, months at best.

Going back to France would put some distance between Ava and him, and hopefully add some perspective. They’d gone from not even acknowledging they had feelings for one another to the bust-up of the century, bypassing the entire relationship phase. Some time to consider how to move forwards was definitely required.

He finally managed to concentrate on the book, unaware that the hunt for Jenson and Western’s killer was another step closer to resolution.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

15 March