The Loudest One in the Room

by TheAeacusProject

Six months after the conclusion of 'The Ultimate Currency,' Emily is consumed with wedding plans as Naomi brings a major investigation to bear on SSI. But those seeking to keep the truth hidden are not waiting idly for its conclusion. Emily and Katie must decide just how far they're willing to go to preserve everything they cherish—and just who they're willing to trust in doing so

10. Chapter 10

"If you pinch your nose any harder, you're going to break a bone or cartilage or something, and that's not very electable."

Naomi released her fingers and looked up doggedly at Vic Patterson as he entered the room and moved towards a chair on the opposite side of her desk. She attempted a wry smile, but judging by his soft chuckle in response, it must've come across further down the spectrum towards world-weary. Naomi closed her eyes and shook free some cobwebs.

"Not worrying about the whole electing thing right now, Vic. More focused on the whole keeping my shit together; seems as good a baseline as any to start from...from which to start. Fuck it, who cares? Point is, it's gotta come before the vote-getting bits."

Patterson sat and swung his left ankle up to rest on his right knee, resting his hands on it. "It does, at that. Just don't let the hyenas hear you're struggling."

"Never plan on it." Naomi paused and began fiddling with the cuff of her jacket, unsure of whether she should unload the dour thoughts weighing on her mind. "Did I make the right decision, Vic? To push things til Monday?"

He frowned and leaned back in the chair, "My professional opinion, or that of someone who cares about you and Emily?"

"If I say yes, is that alright?"

Patterson nodded and began speaking as Naomi looked up at him, hesitant in her query. "Of course it is. Can't really consider one without the other, honestly. These hearings are only happening because of the work Emily did in May when everyone else had moved on and dismissed that there was anything big happening beyond just a random act of violence and a staggering amount of money being paid out to...someone. She broke wide open a case that the SFO has been trying to piece together for years and I can't begin to thank you enough for picking it up and running with it. I know this sort of thing isn't your forte, but I couldn't have asked for a better partner with whom to dismantle one of the vilest webs of murder, money, and corruption in a shady underworld teeming with far too many similar networks.

"That's all a long way of saying, Naomi, that I really want these hearings to continue; frankly I believe they have to, not just for your career or mine, but to continue fighting against the fraud and corruption we both hate." Patterson swallowed and his frown deepened. Naomi crossed her arms and waited for him to continue. "I think you and I both acknowledged that there would be some rough patches along the way; ground-breaking acts always disrupt the existing balance of things. And more importantly, I think that both you and I were ready to deal with those consequences because the ultimate outcome was worth it—assuming, of course, that the consequences would be directed at you and I because we were leading this push in Parliament and the government. I don't think either of us really expected our loved ones to be drawn into this as deeply as they have been in the last week or so."

"Emily knew exactly what we were getting into; I knew what I was getting her into!" protested Naomi hotly, hands grasping her opposite biceps rigidly.

"No you didn't," Vic replied sternly. "You couldn't possibly have predicted attempts to injure or kill your girlfriend. You can't sit there and tell me you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this Sophia Moore girl would be introduced into this. No, Naomi, this has unraveled far further than either of us expected it to, and so, that's why I think you made the decision you had to, which was to delay until you can set your feet and take a solid swing back at whomever has been raining body blows down on you like some defending world champion boxer realising in the last round it's all-or-nothing and he's about to lose. And I think you know exactly who I'm talking about."

Naomi's brow furrowed. "So, what're you saying? We're just supposed to give up? We're the contender and 'Hey, cheers mate, you fought brilliantly but now you're supposed to go down in the twelfth?'"

Patterson shook his head vehemently, placed both feet on the floor, and leaned forward towards the desk with a glint in his green eyes. "I'm saying you punch back."

"How?" The question was out, volleyed across the desk tinged with an edge she didn't feel before Naomi even realised she had spoken.

"If the concern is this Baze guy, then you bypass him and knockout the one pulling the strings. You go after Osbourn Ross."

Naomi inhaled sharply. This wasn't the first time Patterson told her that the only way they accomplished their goals with these hearings and this investigation was to bring Ross into the picture, but she still didn't know how they possibly could. He had left the country even prior to Tony's arrest in May—or that's the last time anyone saw Ross in Britain. Naomi and Vic spent hours over the summer trying to pinpoint his location and contact him, but no one at Strategic Security Initiatives could give them a forwarding address or even a phone number at which to reach the elusive executive. Rumours of beachfront villas in Spain and Vltava River-overlooking penthouses in Prague made their way back to London, but neither Naomi nor Vic put much stock into any of them. After the last of their personal visits to SSI's London offices resulting in cold shoulders and impolite answers to their questions, Patterson made it precisely two blocks before expelling a litany of curses and accidentally shattering a rear windscreen of a parked car. Following a self-reporting, he paid the damages and contributed a few dozen community service hours in a show of good faith, but she knew he didn't feel particularly remorseful.

Not to be outdone, however, Ross finally reappeared at an exclusive Swiss ski lodge near the end of August, feigning ignorance of any investigation or wrongdoing—only furthering Naomi's hatred of the man. Nevertheless, her deeper frustration was with the system in general and the inability to summon Ross back for the hearings while he was abroad. The only way he would appear in front of the committee would be if he returned to the UK of his own accord, something for which Naomi was not willing to hold her breath.

Campbell stood and turned away from Patterson, looking out the window at the early morning traffic crawling along beneath her. Metropolitan London spread to the horizon in all directions, interrupted as it was on her right by the river; already packs of tourists were forming their usual queues for tours and sightseeing opportunities, convinced the most desperate crisis of the day would be whether they could make each and every event in their Internet-planned and researched itineraries. Naomi tapped her fingers on the sill and lifted her eyes to stare towards the south.

"And how do you propose we do that, Vic, when he's still a thousand miles away from us? Because last I checked, which was recently, I still can't summon him back."

"We go to him."

"Beg pardon? Did you say—"

"We. Go. Get. Him," said Patterson emphatically as Naomi slowly turned around to fix an incredulous look on her office guest.

"Just like that? We go get him? Fuck, Vic, I thought you had a legitimate concern to talk about this morning, like the shooting yesterday? But you want to go halfway across the continent on a wild goose chase to deliver some weird form of vigilante justice! Over-reacting a bit, wouldn't you say?"

"Hear me out, MP."

"No, I don't want to 'hear you out!' I want to figure out what the hell we're going to do about someone trying to kill Emily and Katie. That's my primary concern."

"This is what we do! I'm trying to tell you that we—"

A hesitant knock on the door interrupted Patterson before the conversation deteriorated into an all-out shouting match. Naomi look up and blinked in surprise at the man standing awkwardly in the door to her office; a quick glance down and to the left at the blinking red light on her phone soothed her secondary outrage at someone being buzzed in without her knowledge. She had just ignored the message in her focus on their conversation. Naomi looked back up at the guest and attempted to look congenial; she wasn't sure she succeeded by the persistent expression of apprehension on Lewis Adams face, but he entered and shook Patterson's hand at Naomi's invitation all the same.

The financial investigator placed his briefcase on the carpet and perched on the very edge of the chair next to Patterson, looking from the SFO investigator to the MP and back, keenly aware he was interrupting something dangerous. Nervously, he plucked his glasses off his nose and cleaned them off; they slipped slightly as he replaced them on his face but didn't seem to notice.

"I'm sorry I'm late; delays on the Tube this morning."

Naomi turned icy blue eyes on the newcomer. "Excuse me? I didn't ask you to be here."

"I did," Patterson added hastily, deflecting the coming storm. "Mr. Adams has been doing some outstanding work this week and he called me last night. I knew we were meeting this morning, so I told him to come by and share as well."

"Could've warned me," grumbled Naomi as she sat back down on her side of the desk and began fiddling with a pen. Despite the man's eagerness in pursuing any and all financial leads he could find regarding the SSI case, Naomi still harbored some resentment towards him for what she considered inappropriate appraising of her girlfriend while they shared an office in the immediate aftermath of the SSI hostage crisis, despite Emily's insistence that he wasn't nearly as leery as Naomi pictured in her mind. "So, Mr. Adams, what brings you to this side of town?"

"Ah, just, uh, some new figures that I came across late last week and that I've been analyzing regarding some money flow patterns and investment distribution recurrences in the most recent Ocelot funds we have records for. Obviously current records are, um, entirely unhelpful as our...our friends at SSI don't want to stoke the flames any hotter underneath their feet so we're really going off of months-old data, but they show something peculiar."

"Peculiar," repeated Naomi blankly. "How?"

"Well, they, uh," Adams readjusted his glasses and pulled a file out of his case. He fumbled for some papers and then handed them over the Rolodex, container full of pens, and a smattering of pictures on the front edge of Naomi's desk. She took the papers and laid them out next to one another on her blotter.

"What am I looking at here?"

"Like he said, patterns," provided Patterson. "Lewis and I were looking at these...Tuesday night? I think it was Tuesday. Regardless, the last couple of years have seen an inordinate amount of this Ocelot money been siphoned off through a couple of fronts in the Balkans, specifically two companies that have considerable legitimate dealings in Montenegro."

Naomi frowned. "Admittedly I'm not quite as up-to-speed on the region as some of my colleagues, but things are relatively harmless there now, yeah? Didn't they just get accepted into NATO or something after years of applying? Why keep sending slush money to a dried well instead of broker legitimate arms deals with the government since we're 'allies' now?"

"That's what Lewis started asking." Patterson waved at Naomi. "Tell MP what you've found this week."

Lewis broke into a grin. "I think I found him. Osbourn Ross."

Naomi blinked twice and leaned forward, index finger pressing into the sheets on her desk. "These pieces of paper tell me where Ross is?"

Lewis's smile faltered ever so slightly. "Well, it's highly possible. In the nine or so months before Tony Stonem decided to press the issue and Detective Fitch unearthed all of this, SSI was funneling tens of thousands of pounds through these two Montenegrin companies, one of which is a nearly defunct mining corporation and the other is a transportation conglomerate, although that might be inflating their stature a bit. They do a bit of light rail transport, uh, trucking, and some overseas shipping, but neither has any connection to the other apart from Ocelot."

"If they're getting a steady stream of funding, why is the mining company 'nearly defunct' as you so eloquently put it?"
"Because they're not bloody mining anything!" Lewis withdrew another folder and began flicking through pieces of paper as he spoke, "I pulled their legitimate records and basically all the company does is pay the lease on their office space in Mojkovac—I probably just butchered that, sorry—and employ three people. The nominal 'chief executive,' a local business leader who also runs a moderately successful construction business, and two assistants." He found the sheet he was looking for, highlighted prodigiously, and passed it over. Naomi added it to the growing collection on her desk.

"So what does that have to do with Ross?"

"Remember how we pulled his official travel itinerary and his personal credit card records?" Patterson asked with the hint of a smile. At Naomi's answering nod, he continued, "Lewis cross-referenced them with the timing of the funds going to these Montenegrin companies. Osbourn Ross made five trips to Montenegro, three visits to Podgorica, the capital, and two to Bar, on the coast. Exactly five days after each trip, funds would be delivered to these two companies. So here's what we think...Lewis?"

Adams nodded eagerly. "We think Ross was using Ocelot funds to build himself a hideaway in the mountains where he could go to get away from everything if, excuse me, shit hit the fan. This would certainly suffice. He could arrange to have all the materials imported per his directions, shipped via the transportation company to Mojk—do I have to say it again?"

"No, that's alright," said Naomi with a chuckle, reaching to take another handful of loose papers from Adams. "Keep going, please."

"So he has all the materials and such shipped and then dropped with some holding company or a storage place or some-odd. Then, using the other funds to the mining company, which I believe were actually going to the construction business, he had a place constructed quietly. There were some, ah, linguistic difficulties with the person I spoke with from Montenegro's tax collection service, but I was able to get a hold of the mining company's 'CEO' earnings and they've exploded in the last two years, by their standards. And if that wasn't enough..." He withdrew the final sheet of paper from his folder and lay it center on Naomi's blotter. It was a passenger manifest from a train company. A single name was circled in bright red felt-tip. "Vic was able to track this down last night. Look who's booked a luxury sleeper for the Friday afternoon run from Bar to Belgrade?"

"That's good work, Lewis," said Naomi quietly as she perused lines of figures and they began to blur together. She finally looked up at Patterson and his insistence from earlier clicked into place. "You want to go to Montenegro and confront him. That's why you're okay with putting the hearings on hold."

Patterson nodded. "That's exactly what I want us to do."

Naomi worried her bottom lip and tapped the pen on Lewis's papers covering her desk. This was absurd. How could Vic truly believe that he could just waltz into a foreign country and talk Ross into coming back, even if he really was going to be taking the train they claimed—wait, did he say?

Naomi looked up suspiciously, "Did you just say 'us?'"

"I did."

"Oh no, no no no."

"Naomi, just, for a minute listen."

She shook her head violently, "Vic, I won't listen and I won't hear you out! You want me to leave the country days after my fiancée was shot at? What if Baze comes back? What if they're not so lucky this time? What if someone isn't there to intervene? What if..." Naomi stood and turned back to the window, trying to regain control of her breathing that was lost somewhere between her mind putting the pieces together and actually enunciating the fears that kept her pacing back and forth across her bedroom the night previous.

She heard, as though puffs of cotton were jammed into her ears, Lewis say he was taking his leave and retreat out of the office, leaving Vic seated on the far side of the desk waiting for Bristol's most popular MP to turn around and address him. His patience was interrupted, however, by the insistent beeping of her office phone, which pierced the tense silence without warning. Patterson let it ring three times while Naomi continued to ignore it in favor of the London morning before he hoisted the handset himself.

"Minister Campbell's office, this is Vic Patterson of the Serious Fraud Office speaking. Ms. Campbell is unavailable at the moment; may I take a message please?"

"You're damn lucky it's someone that knows the two of you, Mr. Patterson, otherwise that sounds more than a little scandalous. Devlin Franks, from Reuters."

Patterson covered the mouthpiece and said aloud, "Some reporter named Franks."

Naomi whirled and motioned for the phone. "Devlin? I'm right here. Sorry—constituent emergency and I was trying to work out travel arrangements to get back to Bristol today...no comment on the constituent's sibling situation."

She rolled her eyes at how smoothly he'd taken the blatant lie and turned it around on her. He hadn't picked up his new job for nothing; after getting his big break covering the SSI events the previous spring, Naomi never hesitated to use the investigative reporter for her own benefit...or if she needed to gauge rumours or the general mood on a subject around London's power circles. Franks wasn't just a top-notch investigative journalist—whose misplaced and Tony Stonem-fueled aggressiveness had initially placed him in Naomi's 'Most Hated People in Britain' category, it was true—but he had a knack for being in the right place at the right time to overhear things and make connections Naomi didn't have time to riddle out, or deemed insignificant in their import. More than once, she'd been wrong and swapped favors with Franks to accomplish her goals this session.

"Minister Campbell?"

"Uh, sorry, Franks. You were saying?"

"I was wondering if your return to Bristol means that the hearings are postponed longer than just today's session?"

"This doesn't come from me, Franks."

"Never does, MP." She gritted her teeth at the abbreviated title she hated with such fervor, knowing he, like the other members of her inner circle, did it just to elicit a response from her.

"Right. But that's correct. I intend to resume first thing Monday after reassuring my constituency that I remain steadfastly dedicated to ensuring their security and peace-of-mind while at the same time continuing to seek justice and resolution for the victims of the spring's horrific attack on innocent Bristolians working for a company run by criminals and...oh, you're just going to paraphrase this anyway. Just don't make it too vindictive."

"Cheers, Minister. Oh, and I got a text from Emily this morning by the way. I'm on my way to meet her, actually."

Naomi frowned and looked up at Patterson with a lost look marring her features. As she blindly fumbled for her mobile to check her messages. "What's the occasion?"

"She wants to talk to Matthew Moore; didn't she tell you?"

Just as he finished asking her, Naomi opened a text from Emily sent not fifteen minutes earlier intimating precisely that. Why didn't she call me? Too late, Naomi noticed the small missed call icon in the top left of her screen and closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted by the morning. What was happening to them that they couldn't talk to one another about decisions like this? That Emily felt justified in racing off to put out fires and resolve their problems without even considering that maybe, she'd want a go at Moore as well? He hadn't just inconvenienced and shaken one of them; he'd shaken their entire relationship this week. One mention; that's all it took to begin an uncomfortably quick erosion of the trust and confidence in one another Naomi believed was unshakable after being together so long. The longer Naomi considered it, though, why fixate on Moore? He was a pawn. He wouldn't have done this if he wasn't put up to it by someone. Someone more dangerous. Just as the feeling of exasperation arrived, it was replaced by something far more dangerous: retaliation. Well, Ems, I can make impulsive decisions too.

"She did, I guess I just forgot. Sorry, Franks. But, yeah I'll be back soon. Good luck."

"Thanks, Minister. And get some rest on the train ride back; you sound absolutely knackered."

The line clicked off and Naomi jammed the handset back into the cradle. Shrugging on her coat and quickly depositing Adams's financial records into her own accordion file, she quickly wrapped a scarf around her neck and arched an eyebrow at Patterson. "So, Montenegro tomorrow?"

---

We should have talked this through. I should have told her I wanted to do this. Why do you always have to be so brave?

Emily shoved open her car door and promptly slammed it shut, staring across the hood at the small house on the opposite side of the street. A sharp westerly wind whistled between the houses behind her, rustling her windbreaker and inducing a shiver that Emily told herself was the result of the wind and only the wind, not where she was standing or what she was about to sitting uneasily with her. She opened the rear driver's side door and removed her bag, looping it over her right shoulder. Crossing her arms against the cold, the detective slowly made her way down the street towards a 'T' intersection where Devlin Franks was parking his Peugeot in front of a row of slate grey-painted cookie-cutter houses. Brushing wild strands of wind-swept hair out of her eyes, Emily checked both ways for traffic and crossed the street to wait for Franks along a low brick wall edging the perimeter of a finely manicured lawn. A worn Union Jack hoisted on a small flag pole in the corner of the yard snapped smartly in the wind; Emily repressed another shudder at how things seemed not to have changed at all in ten years.

"This is the place, then?" Franks asked as he approached, nodding at the flag, wrought-iron gate, and brick-and-stone house. "You've been here before?"

"No," Emily lied, hoping it sounded convincing, though she herself was not entirely won over by her efforts. She tapped the badge velcroed to her jacket. "Job perks, as it were."

Franks nodded with a smile. "Should've known. Between the two of you, is there anything about Bristol you don't know?"

Emily shrugged noncommittally. Far too many things we do know, Franks. Far too many. "Shall we, then?"

Emily turned and cautiously made her way up the walk. She was still a meter or so from the door when it was pulled open from the inside and Matthew Moore stepped into the light. He hesitated just inside the threshold and looked impassively at the former red-head and the sandy-haired reported.

"I figured you'd show up at some point. Who's your friend?"

Franks extended a hand, "Devlin Franks. I write for Reuters."

Moore frowned, caught off guard by Emily's choice of mediating party. He turned back to Emily. "Oh. Here to interrogate me, Detective?"

"Hardly. May we come in, or are we having this talk on your step?"

Moore paused, seeming to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of each course of action before stepping away from the door and allowing them to enter. Without waiting to second-guess herself, Emily surged forward ahead of Franks and followed Moore into the sitting room. The furniture was newer and rearranged around the room, but one thing had remained precisely where Emily remembered it: a picture of Sophia in her uniform, resting just left off-center of the mantle, a larger portrait of her father affixed high on the wall above it. Moore moved and sat in a dark green wingback in one corner near an end-table upon which rested a tumbler neat with scotch; Franks and Fitch awkwardly sat on the sofa running underneath the window on that side of the room, the reporter between the two former college acquaintances.

Silence hung in the air for several moments as no one felt obligated to speak. Emily stared at her shoes, adrift in long-forgotten memories of her first visit to this house, of her brief encounters with the boy—man, now, she corrected herself—whose anger and abnegation over the circumstances surrounding his sister's suicide were still palpable in his presence. The intervening years had done little, it seemed, to stem the tide of indignation at what Sophia had done to him—what Naomi and Emily's relationship did to his older sister.

"Mr. Moore, what I'd like to do is—"

"Why're you here, Emily?" interrupted Moore quietly. The undercurrent of hatred and discomfort was as tangible as the preceding silence.

Emily looked up from her shoes and looked around the room, anywhere but Matt's face or the picture of Sophia. Her mouth gaped open and closed several times before finding her answer, and even then it lacked conviction. "Why now?"

Emily felt his eyes on her as he answered, voice cold and detached. "Because my sister became a fucking statistic while the ones that killed her went on to success and fame and happy lives."

She recoiled as if he slapped her hard and closed her eyes. "That's not true."

"Stop lying. Or maybe you're still scared. Scared that other know the truth. Scared that you didn't cover it up well enough."

"Shut up."

He continued talking right over her, "Scared that Naomi will do it again! Scared that you'll forget and won't remember the one thing from college you know you should think about every day. Because you killed her; you're the ones responsible; you're—"

"Shut up!" Emily stood, turning on Matt. "You're wrong, so wrong it's sad. Your sister killed herself; neither Naomi nor I put her up to it. Do you really think we're that cruel? Or that either of us would try and cover anything up? Naomi hasn't shied away from answering questions about our actions when we were younger, not once. We all made mistakes; we were young, who doesn't? But we weren't murderers, Matt. Sophia made decisions on her own that none of us—not even you—were privy to, and that's something we all have to live with, so I helped you get your answers then. We helped each other. How dare you think that I could just forget about her? Or that I don't care? And now, ten years later, you want what? Revenge? Go on, tell me what you want."

"Sit down, Emily," Franks said quietly in an attempt to defuse what was quickly becoming an out-of-control situation. She'd told him via text earlier that morning that she intended to confront Matthew Moore over why he was coming forward now, but something in the back of his mind said this wasn't exactly the kind of conversation she envisioned before approaching his door.

Hesitantly, eyes never leaving Moore even as he took a long drink without rising to her challenge, Emily sat back down next to Franks.

"Mr. Moore, I've withheld my thoughts on these events, much to my editor's dismay, but I was hoping to do a piece on the subject drawing from both of you equally. It's my job to report facts, not angry accusations and hearsay. Believe me or no, but I've actually haven't spoken with Detective Fitch or Minister Campbell about their relationship with you or your sister at all. So if you two can maintain a semblance of civility, perhaps we can all turn this into a productive meeting?" He looked from one to the other, receiving a nod from Emily.

Moore sat stoically for a moment before replying, "Why isn't Naomi here? She's one you really need to talk with. She fucked Sophia and then killed her."

"Naomi didn't kill anyone!" shouted Emily, her acquiescence to Frank's request lost in the scathing tone and content of Moore's reply. From the smirk on his face as he returned to his scotch, Emily knew he'd intended for her to respond in precisely that fashion. Closing her eyes and counting to three, Emily exhaled and attempted to regain some composure. She could hear Franks talking to Moore in an effort to assuage him, but Emily heard only rage buzzing in her ears.

As her anger faded, she turned and looked at Moore. There was no way she would let Moore stain her girlfriend's reputation or drag them through the mud of their own past errors. He wanted to make this ugly; Emily preferred a different tact. "You're right, Matt. When Sophia first died and I was searching for answers, I was scared of what I might find. Rightfully so, it turned out. No one wants to discover the love of their life has lied to them and cheated and attempted to hide it all from them. No one; not you, not me, nobody. But you pushed me to keep searching, to not give up, which is why I met you on the roof of that club so many years ago. To settle things, once and for all. Things between Naomi and I were shit for a long time after that, a long time...but then they got better. We never forgot about her, you can believe that, only it wasn't in the way you're thinking."

Emily swallowed and noticed Franks slyly palming a recorder on the sofa between them, out of Moore's line of sight. She regained eye contact with Moore and refused to release it. "Every time one of us messed up or did something wrong and our first instinct was to deflect and deny it, we came clean. We told one another the truth; Naomi told Britain the truth. She's built a career off the painful, deadly lesson your sister taught us, and she's tried to use that career to help the Sophias and the young Emilys and the young Naomis of our hometown and the country as a whole so that no one has to experience what she did—so nobody ever has to wonder why their sister didn't tell them what was wrong. Look, I'm not trying to make this into a campaign pitch for my girlfriend; that would be disgusting.

"But the point, Matt, is that we never forgot. We stood up on that rooftop and unlocked Sophia's secret and then you let it go. We've wrestled with it daily for years. You and I got the answers we were looking for, though we didn't much like them at the time, and then you took the box from me and you dropped it. Why?"

As Emily spoke, she watch Moore's frozen façade start to crack. The signs of weakness started with a tightening grip on his chair, but as she ended with a question to which she was already sure of the answer, she thought she could see a rogue tear forming in his eye. He finished the rest of his glass and winced as it burned, but the bruised look he gave Emily upon looking up from placing the tumbler back down told her his answer before he spoke.

"I didn't want to know any more. Do you know how much it hurts to find out that the person you love not only kept massive secrets from you, but then didn't say good-bye before they left? Before they were gone forever and you couldn't help them any more? Maybe I could've helped her, done something. But standing up there, with the only two people who might've understood my sister better than I did, at the end at least? I'd had enough of it. I didn't want to think about it anymore; I wanted to move on. So I let her go. I let Sophia go."

Emily wasn't sure that Franks caught the last sentence on his recorder, racked as it was by restrained sobs and chokes, but Emily heard every word. She heard them as clearly as if he'd yelled them into her ear. Apparently Franks heard as well, though he waited until Moore regained control of his breathing before asking the crucial question.

"So if you'd let your sister go, why bring her up again ten years later? Why dredge up all those feelings?"

Moore's entire body shook as he breathed in. He tapped the tumbler against the table aimlessly. "Because I was offered the opportunity to embarrass and punish the people I still held responsible on some level." He looked up at Emily. "I hated the two of you for a long time after. I'd let Sophia go, but that doesn't mean I just forgot about her, you know? Her absence was always present; on her birthday, on holidays, every time I saw a campaign ad for your girlfriend. But eventually being angry was just a waste of time. Mum and Dad had a falling out over the whole thing and her health got worse while I was at Sandhurst, but I couldn't leave and jeopardize the career my dad always wanted us to follow. She passed just over a year ago and when my service was up, I moved back in to help her at the end, and I didn't see a reason to leave.

"A guy approached me a few months ago, after all that shit happened with your sister and her company and that Stonem guy? He offered to pay me if I would come forward with anything about you or Naomi; I don't know how he found me since we hardly even mentioned her name any more. That picture's the only reminder I've kept up in the house at all..."

"Did the guy have a name, Matt?" Emily leaned forward and reached across Franks to pat him on the knee. "We can help."

Moore laughed roughly through a final sob. "Yeah, that's what he said too. Guy's name was Baze. But when he said it he had a gun, which was nearly as threatening as a reporter. Nearly."

"Arse," replied Franks with a small smile. "So he paid you to come forward with everything that happened between Naomi and Sophia?"

"Yeah, and to embellish enough that the suicide part came into question. If people started thinking Campbell was hiding things about her distant past and covering them up, how could the public trust her enough to run a thorough investigation of whatever that company is. Problem was the fucker only paid me half of what he promised. Said the other half would come once these hearings were disbanded or they were over and found nothing conclusive since he seemed sure that Minister Campbell and Emily here wouldn't be able to follow through with them."

Emily arched an eyebrow at Franks. "Looks like he's hedging his bits just a bit."

"I think that's putting it lightly."

"Sorry?" asked Moore, confused.

"Did you hear about the shooting in Castle Park yesterday?" Emily asked softly.

"A bit, yeah. It was you?!"

Emily nodded in assent. "My sister and I. Baze and his boss really don't want us to finish the hearings."

Moore set his lips in a line. "Look, Emily, I don't think I owe you any favors."

"Never said you did, Matt. I just wanted to get some closure—Franks here just a wanker who wants a good story."

Franks blustered as Moore laughed at him. "I could've gathered that on my own. Thing is, this goes way beyond them wanting to torture you and Naomi with skeletons we've all buried and put behind us. It's shit, but I really had no intention of hurting either of you until money was brought up. Now he's trying to kill you, apparently. Maybe we can help each other again, one last time. So what do you need me to do?"

"With your permission, I'm going to do a piece in tomorrow's papers on this whole thing; on SSI trying to tamper with the hearings by paying you off and I want to quote you on everything you've just said. Emily, too. I'll be kind to Sophia's memory; I don't see a reason to be untoward at all there."

"I...I'd be alright with that, I think."

"They'll come after you, Matt," Emily said, equal parts worried and relieved that his vindictive crusade was coming to an abrupt end.

"I'm not completely defenseless. And if I have to, I can always use a fake name. Isn't that right, Nancy?"

"Excuse me?" Franks looked from one Roundview alum to the other, perplexed.

"Detective Fitch's first case (of a sort) was my sister's death. She came by to pay her respects posing as the fictitious friend 'Nancy.'"

"Ah. Thanks." Franks gave Emily a cross look, then turned back to Moore. "Should we show ourselves out, then?"

The three of them stood and Emily followed Franks towards the front hall.

"Emily," Moore called out as his two guests reached the door. She turned slowly as Franks opened the door. Without a word, she walked over and rubbed Moore's shoulder, her brown eyes filled with regret and a sadness he hadn't felt in years.

"I'm sorry, Matt. Truly."

Turning, Emily Fitch walked out of the Moore house, for the second and last time in her life, without a backwards glance. Franks caught up to her at the small gate in the brick wall around the yard and tutted.

"Never been here before, huh?"

Emily sighed and resigned herself to a last look at the home of Sophia Moore, finally deciding that wasn't entirely accurate. She didn't live there anymore, lost to time and the resigned sorrow that always accompanies the acceptance of the harshest truths of younger days. To that end, the Emily who'd brought flowers and stood just over there working up the courage to call on Mrs. Moore didn't really exist anymore, either. So much had changed; other things hadn't.

"No. That was someone else, I guess," replied Emily, voice tinged with a weariness she knew she shouldn't feel at eleven in the morning. She wished a nonplussed Devlin Franks good-bye and crossed the street to her auto, slipping behind the wheel and punching off the radio before an upbeat pop song could intrude on her mood. She should feel relieved and excited and thankful that their meeting with Matthew Moore culminated in the ideal outcome. Wins were hard to come by at this juncture, or so it seemed. Detective Fitch felt none of these things as she put the car in drive and rolled forward to the intersection.

Emily was proud, at least, that she was able to navigate the car around the corner and out of sight from the house. Then the pent-up emotion of the morning caught up with her and she rested her head against the steering wheel as hot tears scaled down her cheeks and the engine hummed unceasingly.