The clock on Mel's bedside table read 3:45 am. Another sleepless night, another battle lost to the demons of her past. The image of Jane's lifeless body, the needle marks on her arm a cruel testament to the accidental overdose, played on repeat behind her eyelids. The autopsy report, a cold, clinical document filled with sterile jargon, couldn't capture the vibrant spirit of the woman she remembered—the way her laughter filled a room, the warmth of her hugs.
Mel's heart ached with a mix of grief and guilt. Why couldn't I have understood? she thought, the memory of her teenage anger a sharp, bitter taste in her mouth. The accusations, the bitter words, the unspoken longing for a mother's love—they all echoed back to her now, amplified by the harsh reality of Jane's struggles. Remorse washed over her, a heavy tide. She wished she could rewind time, erase the hurtful words, offer the comfort and understanding her mother had so desperately needed.
The manner of Jane's death also resurrected the painful memories of her adoptive father's suicide. Caleb, the man who had loved her unconditionally, had also succumbed to a similar darkness. A deep sense of loss settled over Mel, a connection to both Jane and Caleb through their shared struggle against the relentless pull of despair.
Unable to bear the weight of it all, Mel made a rash decision. She shed her clothes and stepped into the shower, the icy water a brutal shock to her system, a desperate attempt to scour away the emotional filth clinging to her. After a few minutes, she emerged, shivering but slightly more grounded. She threw on a hoodie, grabbed her keys, and slipped out into the pre-dawn darkness. It was 5 am. The streets of London were deserted, the city still held in the grip of sleep. But Mel's mind was wide awake, a relentless storm raging within. She slid into her car, the engine roaring to life, and headed south, towards the coast.
Mel arrived in Brighton as the first rays of dawn painting the sky with streaks of rose and apricot. She parked near the beach, the salty air sharp and bracing, a bittersweet tang that tugged at childhood memories. She walked along the shore, the pebbles crunching under her boots, a constant counterpoint to the distant roar of the waves. The vastness of the ocean stretched before her, a mirror to the depth of her sorrow, its endless expanse reflecting the unanswered questions that churned within her. She found a secluded spot, away from the few early morning dog walkers, and settled onto the cool, damp pebbles, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The rhythmic crashing of the waves offered a strange comfort, a steady, ancient beat against the chaos in her mind.
The March air bit at the skin, but for Joseph "Joe" Boyd, the icy sting was a welcome sensation. He sliced through the waves of the Brighton seafront, each stroke a defiant push against the currents of his past. The early morning swim was more than just exercise; it was a ritual, a baptism of sorts, washing away the residue of restless nights and the ghosts that still lingered. He was lean, his body honed by hard work and the unforgiving realities of his recent life. Scars, both visible and hidden, marked his skin, silent testaments to battles fought and barely won.
As he emerged from the sea, the biting wind whipping at his wet hair, Joe spotted a lone figure sitting on the shingle. Drying himself with a rough towel, he glanced back. There was something about her silhouette, a familiar curve of the shoulders, the way she held her head, that tugged at a long-dormant memory. A memory he'd tried to bury beneath layers of regret and self-destruction.
Meanwhile, Mel, lost in her own thoughts, felt a subtle shift in the air, a prickle of awareness. She turned, her gaze sweeping across the expanse of pebbles. And then she saw him. Standing at the edge of the water, a figure both familiar and changed. Time seemed to stutter, the sounds of the waves receding as their eyes locked. In that instant, the years of separation dissolved, replaced by a raw, unspoken recognition.
Joe started towards her, his bare feet sinking into the shingle. With each step, the hazy figure sharpened, resolving into the face he'd carried in his heart for so long. A smile, tentative at first, then radiant, spread across his face. "Mel?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper, roughened by the sea air and something deeper.
Mel exhaled a shaky laugh, her eyes widening. "You're alive," she breathed, the words barely audible above the crashing waves, a mixture of disbelief, relief, and a thousand unspoken questions trembling in her voice.
"You thought I was dead?" Joe asked, his smile fading as he saw the lingering pain in Mel's eyes. A wave of guilt washed over him. "I'm sorry, Mel," he said, his voice filled with genuine remorse. "I never meant for you to think…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of his regret for the years of silence.
The shock quickly gave way to a familiar fire. "What did you think we were going to think, Joe? You got into a fight with another user and then disappear. Vanish into thin air. So why didn't you come back?" Mel demanded, her voice rising above the waves. "Why didn't you call? Write? You never meant for us to think that? What did you think we were going to think with your radio silence?"
Her gaze swept over him, taking in the changes. He was clean, that much was clear. Healthy. But he was also…different. The thin, almost fragile boy she remembered was gone, replaced by a man with broad shoulders and a defined chest, the contours of muscle visible even beneath the close-fitting black wetsuit he wore. His blonde hair, once a tousled mess, was now cropped short, dark with seawater, and a matching blonde beard shadowed the lower half of his face. The transformation was striking, almost unsettling. Yet, as her eyes lingered, she saw the familiar lines around his eyes, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought. And then there were the scars—the faint tracks on his arms just visible at the edge of his wetsuit sleeves, the thin, white lines on his wrists—a painful reminder of the past he'd fought so hard to escape. Not the bloodshot, unfocused Joe of their teenage years.
"Mel… I'm so sorry," Joe began, his voice thick with remorse.
But Mel wasn't having it. "You're sorry?" she spat. "You got yourself clean! And still thought it wasn't worth telling us you were alive?" She didn't let him answer. "No! You'd rather have Boyd still chasing after you, worrying and fretting about you."
"Mel…" Joe tried, reaching out a hand towards her, then quickly pulling it back.
"That was your thing, wasn't it, Joe?" she continued, her voice rising. "Punishing him…and us…for not being there for you. You know he's chased every lead, every whisper, every dead end. He's had to identify countless dead men, Joe, each time praying it wasn't you. Can you even imagine the toll that took? The constant fear, the crushing weight of wondering if his son was dead or alive? He's so angry now, Joe. So, so angry."
"It's…complicated, Mel." Joe's voice was low, hesitant. "After I got clean…I thought about coming back. So many times. But something…it just kept stopping me. I couldn't face any of you. I thought…you were better off." He paused, a brief flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossing his face as he looked out at the sea. "I even…I came down here that summer. Briefly. But…" He trailed off, not elaborating.
"What summer?" Mel asked, her fingers tightening around her mug, the ceramic warm against her trembling hands. Her eyes fixed on a point just past Joe's shoulder, a sudden chill cutting through her despite the warmth of the coffee. A flood of memories washed over her: summers spent laughing on the beach, sharing ice creams that dripped down their fingers, the thrill of the arcade games, the salty air whipping through their hair on the pier. But how could she tell him? How could she tell him that those memories were now poisoned, tinged with a profound sadness, a gaping hole where her father used to be? How could she explain that Brighton didn't feel the same anymore, that the joy had been replaced by a constant ache? How could she tell him how he had left them? She couldn't. Not yet. "We…I outgrew Brighton," she said, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth. "Haven't been here since I was nineteen." She fiddled with her earring, twisting it nervously between her fingers.
"Look, my place isn't far from the beach. Please, if you wouldn't mind coming back with me, I can tell you all about it."
Mel's anger warred with a desperate need for answers. She nodded curtly, her expression still hard, her jaw clenched tight. The warmth she had felt earlier, the connection they had rekindled, was now replaced by a knot of anxiety in her stomach. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but she forced herself to remain silent, to wait for him to explain.
They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore, the distant cry of seagulls, and the crunch of their own footsteps on the pavement. The walk to Joe's house stretched before them, a physical and emotional distance to be traversed. Both of them kept stealing glances at each other when the other wasn't looking, a silent dance of apprehension and curiosity. Mel observed the changes in him, the lines etched around his eyes, the way he carried himself with a newfound confidence, but also a hint of weariness that spoke volumes about his struggles. Joe, in turn, studied Mel, searching her face for any sign of judgment, any hint of the anger he knew he deserved.
The silence stretched, becoming heavy with unspoken words, a tangible representation of the years of separation and the secrets that lay between them. Mel found herself walking a little faster, the brisk pace a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. Joe matched her stride, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the vibrant energy of the beachfront began to fade, replaced by quieter residential streets. Mel, unable to bear the silence any longer, finally broke it, her voice hesitant, almost a whisper.
"So," she began, her gaze fixed on the pavement in front of her. "How did you…how did you wind up in Brighton?" She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and a lingering sense of bewilderment. It was a neutral question, a safe starting point, but it also hinted at the larger questions that loomed between them: Why did you leave? Why did you stay away?
Joe hesitated, his gaze drifting towards the neat rows of houses they were passing. "It was…random, mostly," he said, his voice low, his words carefully chosen. "After I left…after I left London, I just…drifted for a while. Hitchhiked, mostly." He paused, his steps slowing slightly as a memory surfaced, a flicker of warmth amidst the darkness of his past. "Ended up here after I decided to get clean," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I chose Brighton because…well, it's one of the few places where I have good memories. Felt…homely, I guess, without actually being home." He looked at her then, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Remember those trips we used to take here as kids? With our parents, before…before everything went wrong?"
He didn't wait for her to respond, quickly adding, "Plus, no one in Brighton knew who I was. Or who my father was. It was…a fresh start."
Mel, sensing the shift in his mood, the underlying current of pain, decided to focus on the positive. "You said you came here after you decided to get clean," she said. "How long has that been, Joe?" She hoped the question wouldn't seem too intrusive, but she needed to understand, to piece together the timeline of his life after he disappeared.
Joe's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He looked down at his hands, as if counting the years on his fingers. "Coming up on six years," he said finally, his voice filled with a quiet pride, a hint of disbelief at his own accomplishment. "Six years in June."
"That's…that's amazing, Joe," Mel said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "Truly amazing." She knew how difficult it was to break free from addiction, to stay clean. Six years was a monumental achievement.
He shrugged, a self-deprecating gesture that couldn't quite hide the pride in his eyes. "It's been…a journey," he admitted. "Lots of ups and downs. But…I'm in a good place now. A much better place." He paused, then added, "And I didn't do it all by myself. I had help."
He looked at Mel, his gaze earnest, wanting her to understand the pivotal role others had played in his recovery. "There's this guy, Darren," he began, a warm smile spreading across his face. "He's…well, he's the one who gave me a chance when I first got here. I was still pretty rough around the edges, to say the least." He chuckled softly, shaking his head at the memory of his former self.
"He runs a bistro, a social enterprise, actually," he continued. "Helps people who are trying to get back on their feet, people who've struggled with addiction, homelessness, that sort of thing." He paused, searching for the right words to describe Darren's impact on his life. "He saw something in me, I guess. Something I didn't even see in myself. Gave me a job, a place to stay, and…and a reason to keep going."
"He sounds like an incredible person," Mel said, her voice filled with genuine interest.
"He is," Joe agreed, his eyes shining with respect. "He's been through a lot himself. That's what inspired him to start the bistro, actually. He wanted to create something positive, something that would help others." He paused, then added, "He's kind of like…a father figure to me, I guess. Taught me everything I know about…well, about living a normal life. Staying clean, working hard, being responsible."
He looked at Mel, his gaze searching hers. "He's the reason I'm still here, Mel. The reason I didn't…give up."
Mel's heart ached for him. She could see the profound impact Darren had had on Joe's life, the way he had helped him find his footing when he was at his lowest. It was a testament to the power of human connection, the importance of having someone believe in you, even when you didn't believe in yourself.
Mel's heart ached for him. She could see the profound impact Darren had had on Joe's life, the way he had helped him find his footing when he was at his lowest. It was a testament to the power of human connection, the importance of having someone believe in you, even when you didn't believe in yourself.
The unspoken question hung in the air, a silent echo of the years of separation. Finally, Mel couldn't hold back any longer. "But Joe," she said softly, her voice filled with a mixture of confusion and a lingering hurt, "if you had all this…why didn't you come back? To London, I mean. To…to your dad?" She paused, her gaze searching his. "Are you…are you still mad at him? Is that it?"
Joe flinched, as if the question had physically struck him. He looked away, his gaze drifting towards the neat rows of houses across the street. "No, Mel," he said. "I'm not mad at anyone. Not anymore." He turned back to her, his eyes filled with a weary sadness that belied his earlier lightness. "Part of taking the steps is about taking accountability. I can't keep blaming dad for my own actions. My choices."
He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. "Have I thought about coming back? Yeah, of course," he admitted. "Many times. Especially…especially in the beginning. When things were really tough." He paused, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were now clasped tightly in front of him. "But something…something always stopped me."
He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with a deep-seated pain, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed anyone to see. "A part of me…a big part of me…thinks you're all better off without me," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "That I'd just…mess things up again. Bring you all down." He shook his head, a self-deprecating gesture that couldn't quite mask the deep-seated fear that lay beneath. "I caused them enough pain, Mel. I can't…I can't risk doing that again."
His words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the invisible wounds that still lingered from his past. He was free from his addiction, yes, but he was still trapped by his own insecurities, his fear of hurting the people he cared about.
They continued walking in silence for a few more minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, they approached a small, terraced house on a quiet street. "Here we are," Joe said, his voice subdued, as he stopped in front of it. "It's…well, it's a bit of a work in progress," he said, a self-deprecating edge to his voice. "Still getting things sorted.
Mel glanced at the house. It was modest, but charming, with freshly painted window frames and a small, well-tended patch of garden. "It looks…nice," she said, genuinely surprised.
Joe's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected that reaction. "Really? Well…you should come in, then. See for yourself." He unlocked the door and held it open for her.
Mel walked in, her gaze taking in the details. It was nothing like she'd imagined. She'd pictured a place where functionality was the priority—a few essential pieces of furniture, nothing matching, perhaps a pile of unfolded laundry in the corner. A typical man's place. Instead, she found a home, albeit a humble one. Sunlight streamed through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The walls were painted a warm, inviting beige, and exposed brickwork accented the walls in a subtle yet striking way. Though there were still boxes stacked in a corner and a few bare patches on the walls, it was clear that someone cared for the place. A worn armchair sat by the window, a stack of books piled beside it, and a small kitchen table held a vase of fresh flowers.
Joe dropped his duffle bag by the door. "Coffee?" he asked, glancing at Mel. "Or tea? Hot chocolate?"
"Coffee would be great," Mel replied, still taking in the surroundings.
"Right, I'll just…be a sec," Joe said, gesturing towards a doorway leading off the living room. He picked up his bag and disappeared through the doorway, presumably to change.
Mel wandered further into the room, drawn to a shelf filled with photographs. They were a mix of landscapes—stunning shots of the Sussex coastline, dramatic skies over the Downs—and snapshots of people. Some were candid shots of people laughing around a table, others more formal portraits. Faces she didn't recognise smiled back at her: a man with distinctive burn scars snaking up his forearm, a woman with flour dusting her cheek, and others she couldn't place. These were Joe's people now, his new life. There wasn't a single picture of their shared past, no reminders of the teenagers they once were.
Joe returned, now wearing a simple navy hoodie and jeans, a steaming mug in each hand. He offered one to Mel. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she said, taking the mug. Her gaze drifted back to the photographs. "Who are these people?"
"Some of the guys from the bistro," Joe replied, following her gaze. "I still help out there sometimes."
"Who took the photos?" Mel asked, turning back to him.
"I did," Joe said, a hint of pride in his voice.
Mel's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Even the landscapes?"
Joe nodded. "Yeah. I…I took up photography a while back. Started hiking, too. It helps…to be out in nature. Clears my head."
"I know what you mean," Mel said, her smile widening. "Your landscapes, though…they're breathtaking," she said, turning back to the photos, then quickly back to him, her smile genuine but tinged with a hint of something he couldn't quite decipher.
Joe chuckled. "Thanks. I've got a few favourites. There's one of the Seven Sisters cliffs at sunrise that I'm particularly proud of." As Joe spoke, Mel found herself drawn to a particular photograph—a stunning shot of the coastline at sunset, the sky ablaze with fiery hues of orange and red. There was a lone figure standing on the beach, silhouetted against the vibrant colours. It was a powerful image, full of both beauty and a sense of profound solitude.
"This one is amazing," she said, her voice soft with awe. "Where was it taken?"
A faint blush crept up Joe's neck. "Near Birling Gap," Joe replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "It's one of my favourite spots." He looked down at his own mug, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips. He hesitated for a moment, the smile fading slightly, then looked back up at her. "So," he said, his voice now more serious. "What brings you to Brighton so early?"
Now it was Mel's turn to hesitate. She took a sip of her tea, the warmth doing little to ease the sudden tension in her chest. She didn't want to tell him about the thoughts of her birth mother that had been plaguing her, the unsettling feeling that had driven her to the coast. The real reason felt too vulnerable, too raw. "I just…wanted to see the sunrise," she said.
Joe studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. He didn't fully believe her, but he didn't push. Not yet. The shared silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions and lingering doubts.
"So, you're not here to write your fifth or sixth studio album?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood, a teasing glint returning to his eye.
Mel gave him a perplexed look.
"Almighty Ferals!" Joe exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm. "You guys were gonna go to Seattle—or was it California—and show the Yanks how it's really done." He grinned, clearly enjoying this shared memory.
Mel shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips, a mix of fondness and a touch of embarrassment colouring her features. "Oh god, don't remind me," she said, with a light chuckle. "We were so sure we were going to be the next big thing." A fleeting shadow crossed her face as she remembered their teenage dreams, the youthful certainty that anything was possible. "It was California, by the way," she added, a playful smirk returning to her lips.
Mel's smile faded slightly. She took a breath, meeting his gaze. The playful banter had suddenly steered them towards more difficult territory. "I…didn't go down the music route, Joe. Didn't even finish my last year of uni." She looked down at her coffee, her fingers tracing the rim of the mug, her earlier light-heartedness gone.
"Oh no," Joe said, his light-hearted tone immediately replaced with concern. He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes filled with empathy. "What happened?"
Mel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the words catching in her throat. "Er…my dad…he, erm…passed away. And…that changed things for me." It was an understatement, a simplification of a complex and painful period in her life, but it was all she could manage to say at that moment.
"Oh my god…" he said softly, his voice filled with genuine sorrow. "Mel, I'm so sorry." He reached out, as if to touch her hand, then hesitated, withdrawing his hand slightly. He didn't know what to say, what comfort to offer. He knew, perhaps better than most, that words often fell short in the face of such profound loss.
Mel offered a weak, half-hearted smile, a brave attempt to mask the pain that still lingered beneath the surface. "It's fine…really." But the tremor in her voice betrayed her true feelings. It wasn't "fine," not really. But it was a part of her past, a burden she'd learned to carry.
Joe remained silent for a moment, respecting her space, allowing her the time to gather her thoughts. He simply held her gaze, offering a silent presence, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of her emotions.
"It was…sudden," Mel continued, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud made them more real, more painful. "He… he took his own life." She looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer, the shame and confusion of that time washing over her again. "I just… I couldn't…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the chaos of emotions that had followed, the guilt, the anger, the overwhelming sense of loss. The vibrant dreams of music and California had evaporated in an instant, replaced by a harsh and unforgiving reality.
"You don't have to explain," Joe said softly. He knew what it was like to have your world turned upside down, to be forced to confront the darkest parts of yourself and the people you loved.
"I just couldn't face it," Mel whispered, more to herself than to him. "The band, uni, any of it. It all felt so… pointless. So, I stayed home. Took care of Mum, and my younger brother and sister." She looked up at him then, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. "Someone had to." The weight of responsibility she had shouldered, the sacrifices she had made, were evident in those few words.
"And then, later on, I joined the police. Not quite the judge I'd imagined, not quite saving the world through the power of music, but…" She shrugged, a hint of self-deprecating humour in her voice, a way to deflect from the rawness of her emotions, and perhaps, hide how much the job truly meant to her. "It's a start."
Joe's heart ached for her. He saw in her eyes the echoes of his own struggles, the same desperate search for purpose in the aftermath of pain. He wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but he hesitated, unsure if he had the right. He was still a ghost from her past, a reminder of a time she might rather forget. A time of unfulfilled dreams and shattered hopes.
Instead, he simply nodded, his gaze unwavering. "It's more than a start, Mel," he said. "It's…it's everything. It's choosing to make a difference, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard." He paused, then added, a hint of admiration in his voice, "Not many people have the courage to do that."
His words hung in the air, a balm to her wounded spirit. It was a validation she hadn't realised she needed; an acknowledgment of the strength it had taken to rebuild her life after such a devastating loss. She looked at Joe, really looked at him, at the lines of hardship etched around his eyes, the quiet strength in his posture, the empathy in his gaze. He had faced his own demons, fought his own battles, and emerged stronger for it. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the courage it took to choose a difficult path.
A new wave of conflict washed over her. When should she tell him? When should she broach the subject of Boyd being her boss? The longer she waited, the heavier the secret felt, the more it threatened to taint the fragile connection they were rebuilding. But the fear remained, a knot in her stomach. What if it was too much? What if this fragile connection, so newly rekindled, couldn't withstand the weight of the truth?
She found herself searching his face, looking for a sign, a clue, an indication of whether he was ready to hear it. But his expression was open, unguarded, filled with a warmth and understanding that only seemed to deepen her apprehension. How could she shatter this newfound peace with the complicated, messy reality of her life, of Boyd's role in it?
The silence stretched between them, filled not just with unspoken words, but with unspoken anxieties. Mel's gaze drifted from his face to the photographs on the shelf, to the image of the lone figure on the beach at sunset. Like that figure, she felt isolated, caught between the past and the present, unsure of which way to turn.
Then, Joe spoke, his voice breaking the silence, unknowingly shifting the direction of the conversation, giving Mel a temporary reprieve from her internal dilemma. "So," he said, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "What rank are you now? Still a constable?"
Mel blinked, pulled from her thoughts by the unexpected question. A small, wry smile touched her lips. "Not for a while," she said. "I made Detective Sergeant last December."
Joe's eyebrows rose in surprise, a clear expression of impressed admiration on his face. "Detective Sergeant?" he repeated. "Wow, Mel, that's… that's amazing. You've really climbed the ranks."
"It's been a lot of hard work," Mel admitted, a hint of pride in her voice. "But I enjoy it. Most of the time," she added, the recent case and the associated stress momentarily clouding her mind, before she pushed it away, determined to focus on the present.
"I can imagine," Joe said, his gaze thoughtful. "So, what kind of cases do you handle as a Detective Sergeant?" He leaned forward slightly, genuinely interested. "Anything exciting?"
"I work in the Cold Case Unit," Mel replied, her voice regaining its earlier enthusiasm. "We solve unsolved murders." She paused, a small smile playing on her lips. "Some stretching back decades."
Joe's eyebrows rose. "No way," he said, his interest piqued. "That sounds…fascinating. And intense."
"It is," Mel agreed. "I never thought it would be for me, but…it is. We have a great team. I'm there most days, but it doesn't even feel like work, you know?" She paused, her smile fading slightly as a shadow crossed her face. The familiar internal conflict resurfaced. I can't tell him about Boyd. Not yet. He seems…okay now, but what if I'm wrong? What if mentioning Boyd's my boss sends him spiralling? What if he thinks I'm here because of him? A knot of fear tightened in her stomach. What if he thinks Boyd is here? The thought of jeopardising Joe's newfound stability, of triggering a relapse, was unbearable.
Joe, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle shift in her demeanour. "But?" he prompted gently, his voice laced with concern.
Mel hesitated, her mind racing. She needed to say something, to explain the shadow that had crossed her face, but she couldn't reveal the truth. Not yet. "It's just..." she began, then stopped, searching for the right words. "It can be heavy, you know? Dealing with these old cases, seeing the pain that's still there, after all these years." She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. "Sometimes it…it gets to you."
"I bet," Joe said softly, his voice filled with empathy. He understood the weight of carrying other people's pain, the toll it could take. "Must be tough, not being able to… to bring closure to every case."
"It is," Mel admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But when we do…when we finally solve one…it makes it all worthwhile." Usually, she thought to herself. This is usually true. She should be happy. They found Jason and Cindy, and they arrested the Faulkners. Justice, of a sort, had been served. Roper may be dead, but his list of families that he separated remain the reason why she feels she doesn't have closure. The recent victory felt hollow, tainted by the knowledge of other families still in the dark, still searching for answers that might never come.
She looked up at Joe, a faint, forced smile on her lips. "We recently closed a case – identified a murder-suicide was just murder," she said, her voice lacking it's earlier enthusiasm. All this time everyone thought the father killed his family when they'd all been murdered. Clearing his name…" She paused, trying to inject some positivity into her voice. "That was a good day."
"I can imagine," Joe said, smiling back. He leaned back slightly, giving her space. "Well, Detective Sergeant Mel Silver, you've certainly chosen a challenging path. But it sounds like you're exactly where you're supposed to be." His words, meant to be encouraging, only amplified the dissonance within her. Was she where she was supposed to be? Or was she chasing a ghost, a sense of justice that could never truly be attained?
Mel managed a weak smile in return, but her heart wasn't in it. The weight of Roper's actions, the sheer scale of the damage he had caused, pressed down on her, a constant, suffocating presence. How many other families were out there, living in a state of perpetual uncertainty, their lives forever altered by one man's cruelty?
"A good day for me these days is when we finish pouring a foundation, and it's perfectly level. Or when we get a wall up, and it's plumb straight." He chuckled softly, a hint of self-deprecating humor in his voice. "Not quite solving murders, but…it's satisfying, in its own way."
Mel smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Sounds…grounding," she said, thinking about the solid, tangible nature of his work. Then a thought struck her, a question that had been lingering in the back of her mind. "But…foundations? I thought you were working at the bistro," she said, her brow furrowing slightly, a hint of confusion in her voice.
Joe hesitated, a shadow crossing his face. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a difficult confession. "Well…like I said, Darren got me on the straight and narrow. Didn't take any of my bullshit." He gave a wry smile, a fleeting glimpse of the rebellious teenager he once was. "I stuck close to him, focused on the bistro. But I had to stay busy, keep my mind off…" He trailed off, glancing away, a flicker of pain in his eyes. The memory of those early days, the constant struggle to resist the pull of his addiction, was still raw.
Mel gave him an understanding nod, recognising the unspoken struggle in his words. She knew, perhaps better than most, how the past could continue to haunt you, even when you were trying to move forward.
"Darren and the guys encouraged me to go back to school," Joe continued, forcing himself to focus on the present. But that was never going to work, not with the name I'm using. The thought tightened his chest, a familiar anxiety constricting his breath. He'd been living a lie, even with the people who were trying to help him. Even with Mel. "I wasn't exactly keen on being in a classroom full of kids. And I liked working with my hands. Did odd jobs for people in my recovery group, impressed the right people, and landed an apprenticeship with a local builder. Worked my way up from there." He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but a hint of pride crept into his voice. He'd come a long way from the lost and troubled teenager he used to be.
"So you do both?" Mel asked, trying to piece together the details of his life. "The bistro and construction?"
"Yeah," Joe confirmed. "The bistro is more…well, it's more than just a job. It's like…a community, I guess. A way to give back. But the construction work…that's what pays the bills. And," he added, with a grin, "it keeps me in shape."
"And keeps you out of trouble, I imagine," Mel said, a teasing lilt to her voice, but also a hint of genuine curiosity. She was starting to understand the structure he had built into his life, the routines that kept him grounded, the support system he had found.
Joe nodded, his smile turning a little more serious. "Yeah," he said softly. "It does. Keeps me focused. Keeps me…sane." The lightheartedness faded for a moment, replaced by a glimpse of the constant effort it took to maintain his sobriety, the daily battle he fought to stay on the right path.
He walked over to the shelf of photographs, carefully selecting a group shot. He turned back to Mel, holding it out to her. "These are…well, these are my people now." He began to introduce each person in the photo, sharing a brief anecdote about each of them, his voice filled with warmth and a hint of pride. He explained how they were all part of the recovery community he'd found through the bistro and other support groups, people who understood his struggles, who had been given a second or third chance by Darren and others like him. "It's why I still help out at the bistro," he explained. "It's not for the money. It's…it's because of what Darren taught me, and because of them." He gestured towards the photo. He wanted Mel to see that he'd changed, that he was surrounded by good people, that he was part of something positive, something bigger than himself.
"Sounds like a great guy," Mel said, studying the photograph, a genuine warmth in her voice. She could see the camaraderie in their faces, the genuine connection between them. A part of her envied the support system Joe had found, the sense of belonging that radiated from the image.
"He is," Joe agreed, a flicker of pride in his eyes. He wanted Mel to understand that he'd found a mentor, a father figure, someone who had helped him become the man he was today. He desperately wanted her approval.
"I'm mentoring someone in recovery now," Joe continued, shifting the focus away from himself, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "His name's Caspar. He's a junior doctor. Let the stress of hospital life get to him, turned to drugs to cope." He paused, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. "He's…he's so much more intelligent than me. We don't really have much in common, but something just clicks. We just…we work well together."
For a while, they just sat there, easily falling back into the rhythm of their old friendship, the years of separation seeming to melt away. Mel told Joe about her time as a PC, the challenges, and the small victories. Joe listened intently; his expression filled with concern. He then shared more about his life in construction, his hobbies such as hiking, swimming in open water, and photography. How the routine he now has, has helped him stay living a clean life.
Joe's phone buzzed with a text message. He glanced at it, his expression shifting slightly. "It's Darren," he explained. "He's asked if I can come in earlier. Nestor's called in sick, so they're short-staffed." He sighed, looking at Mel.
Mel's stomach clenched. What if he disappears again? The echoes of his past resurfaced, a haunting reminder of the fragility of their rekindled connection. She forced a small smile, trying to hide her unease. "It's okay, Joe," she said, a little too quickly. "I should probably head back to London anyway."
Joe hesitated, his gaze lingering on Mel's face. He didn't want her to leave just yet. "Hey, why don't you come with me?" he suggested, his eyes hopeful. "Darren's an amazing cook. I'll get him to whip up something special for you."
Mel hesitated, surprised by his offer. She was already mentally preparing for the drive back to London, the solitude of her empty house looming over her. But the prospect of spending more time with Joe, of delving deeper into his world, was too tempting to resist. A genuine smile replaced her earlier hesitation. "Okay," she said. "I'd like that."
Joe took a deep breath, a nervous energy radiating from him. He shifted his weight, avoiding her eyes for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair, and then met her gaze, his expression serious. "Mel…there's something I have to tell you." He paused, his gaze dropping to his hands before meeting hers again. He took another breath. "When I was on the streets…I went by various names. I didn't want people knowing who I was, didn't want to leave breadcrumbs for my dad to find me. When I met Darren…I gave him a fake name. I wasn't even sure if I was going to stick around long-term." He looked ashamed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then…the longer I stayed, I kept promising myself I'd tell Darren my real name. Only…it never happened."
"So, what have you been calling yourself?" Mel asked, her voice soft, a mixture of curiosity and understanding in her eyes.
Joe grimaced, the lines around his eyes deepening. He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "Luke Walker," he replied, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.
The morning light filtered through the dusty curtains, casting a soft glow across the living room. Mel lay curled on Joe's sofa, a soft blanket tucked around her. She stirred, blinking sleepily, the events of the previous day slowly coming back into focus. The laughter at the bistro, the easy camaraderie with Joe's friends…and then, the quiet moment back at his house, when he'd confessed to using a fake name. Luke Walker. The name felt like a phantom limb, a reminder of the years he'd spent hiding from his past. She remembered Joe's insistence that she couldn't drive back to London so late, his genuine concern for her safety. He'd even offered her his bed, a gesture that had made her cheeks flush. She'd politely declined, insisting on the sofa. It felt…safer. Less complicated.
She shifted slightly, and her gaze fell on Joe. He was standing by the small kitchen table, two mugs of tea steaming in front of him. He was dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt, his hair slightly tousled, and he looked…different in the morning light. More vulnerable, somehow.
He turned as if sensing her gaze, a small, tentative smile touching his lips. "Morning," he said softly, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," Mel replied, pushing herself up into a sitting position. She stretched, her muscles stiff from sleeping on the sofa.
Joe brought one of the mugs over to her, offering it with a gentle smile. "Tea."
Mel took the mug, her fingers brushing his. A small spark of warmth passed between them, quickly followed by a wave of awkwardness. She took a sip of the tea, the familiar taste comforting.
"It was a fun night, you have some great people around you. I can see that they care deeply about you and you them. It was just a little strange having to call you Luke."
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken questions. Mel glanced around the room, taking in the details she hadn't fully registered the night before. The worn armchair, the stack of books, the photographs on the shelf. This was Joe's world now, a world she knew almost nothing about. A world built on a lie.
She looked back at him, her expression serious. "Why Luke Walker?" she asked, her voice soft but direct. "Why that name?"
Joe's breath hitched. He'd known this moment was coming. He looked at Mel, her expression serious but gentle. He knew he couldn't avoid the truth any longer.
He looked away for a moment, then back at her, his expression pained. "It was just a name," he said quietly. "Something I picked out of thin air. I didn't want anyone to know who I really was. I didn't want my dad to find me…or anyone to find me." He paused, his voice softening. "Walker was my mum's maiden name." A faint, almost wistful smile touched his lips. "And Luke…I just made up." The smile faded quickly. "It just…felt like a way to be someone else. Someone safe. Someone…separate from all of that."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the gentle ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. They sipped their tea, taking each other in, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. This time, it was Mel who shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. A knot of anxiety tightened in her chest. How was she going to tell him? How would he react? She glanced at Joe, his gaze fixed on his hands, his expression still tinged with sadness.
The silence stretched, becoming heavier, more charged with each passing second. Mel knew she couldn't avoid the inevitable any longer. It was time to tell him the truth, or at least, part of it.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "Joe…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She paused, then tried again, her voice slightly stronger. "There's something I haven't been totally honest about."
Joe looked up; his brow furrowed with concern. He set his mug down on the table, the ceramic clicking softly against the wood. "Yeah…" he said, his voice gentle but questioning. "What's that?"
Mel hesitated again, her gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to his. "It's about work…the…Cold Case Unit."
Joe's brow furrowed deeper. "Did something happen? Are you in trouble?" He leaned forward slightly, his concern evident.
"No, nothing like that," Mel reassured him quickly, but her voice still trembled slightly. "You wouldn't know this, but our first year was a trial. Depending on our success rate, we might not have lasted more than a year. But we did." She paused, a small, almost melancholic smile touching her lips. "And…I'm really glad it did. I was glad after only a couple of months. Even after…" She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. "…even after getting abducted by a psycho killer."
Joe's blood ran cold. "You got what?" he said, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Please tell me you're kidding."
Mel shook her head slowly, her eyes meeting his, filled with a mix of pain and a lingering trace of fear. "James Marshall," she said quietly. "It was a ransom…gone wrong. But I'm okay. I made it out…alive." She managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. "…and smelly."
Joe stared at her, his mind reeling. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. The image of Mel, trapped and in danger, flashed through his mind, sending a wave of nausea through him. He swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. "Mel…I…I had no idea."
We thought we were there to save the girl only to realise we'd walked into a trap. She shook herself out of her fever. "In the beginning, due to it being a trial, we had excess resources…staff. We have…a much smaller team now. A great team. It's almost like having a second family, a work family."
Joe's worry intensified. He could sense that Mel was still building up to something, something connected to this traumatic experience. Where is this going? he thought, a knot tightening in his stomach. He was terrified that Mel had gotten herself tangled up with something dangerous, something that was still affecting her.
Mel took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly. "My boss…" She paused, her grip tightening on her mug. "He's a bit of a maverick. Has…major anger issues. Takes on so many cases that he doesn't—shouldn't—take on because…" She hesitated again, her eyes meeting Joe's. "…because he makes them personal. He wants to give these families closure. Something he doesn't have."
She looked down at her mug for a brief moment, then met Joe's gaze directly. "Joe…my boss is Boyd."
"Your boss? How did that happen?" Joe asked, his brow furrowing.
Mel watched him, bracing herself for an outburst, for anger, for accusations. But instead, she saw only confusion, a flicker of pain, and something else she couldn't quite decipher.
"I applied, Joe," Mel admitted, her voice regaining its firmness. "I wanted to be the best, learn from the best. But everywhere I went, people were opening doors for me. Making excuses, giving me a pass…because of my dad." Her jaw tightened, a flicker of resentment in her eyes. "I told Boyd I didn't want that. I wanted him to treat me like he would any other officer."
"He does that, does he? Treat you like a regular officer?" Joe asked.
"Yes, he does," Mel replied.
"He's…hot-headed, a maverick. Does what he wants, makes the cases personal…but erm…his hearts in the right place. And he lets us make mistakes. He's got our backs. He supported me in my promotion to sergeant. He's…he's the best boss I've ever had."
Joe listened intently, his expression thoughtful, his gaze searching hers. It was as if he was trying to reconcile the image of the father he knew with the "boss" Mel was describing. The idea of his father being a good, supportive boss, a mentor to Mel, was a stark contrast to the rigid, often angry man he remembered.
"He sounds…different," Joe said finally.
"He is," Mel agreed. "And he isn't." She paused, her gaze unwavering, determined to make him see the truth. "He still misses you, Joe. Every day." She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening, becoming more earnest. "I know you said you thought we'd be better off without you, but we're not. Boyd's not doing good at all without knowing what's happened to you."
Joe flinched, his eyes closing for a moment as her words struck a raw nerve. He had tried to convince himself that his absence was a kindness, a way to protect them from his own flaws, his own mistakes. But hearing Mel say it, seeing the pain in her eyes, the truth he had tried to ignore for so long became undeniable.
"He…he talks about me?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
Mel nodded, her throat tightening with emotion. "All the time," she said. "He keeps your picture on his desk. He…he blames himself, Joe. For everything."
Joe looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty mug. The image of his father, burdened by guilt, haunted by his absence, was a heavy weight on his chest. He had imagined many scenarios of what his return might be like, but he had never considered this.
"I…I didn't know," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. He looked up at Mel, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret, sorrow, and a flicker of something that might have been the beginning of understanding. "I thought…I thought he'd be…relieved, maybe. That I was gone."
"No," Mel said firmly, shaking her head. "He was devastated. He just…he doesn't know how to show it. Not very well, anyway." She paused, then added, her voice softer now, "He needs you, Joe. And…and I think you need him, too."
The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of unspoken emotions, the years of separation, the pain of loss, and the fragile hope of reconciliation. The carefully constructed walls Joe had built around himself were beginning to crumble, revealing the vulnerable, hurting young man he still was beneath the surface.