She was in his car before she'd made the decision consciously.
That was the problem with Callum Reid — he had always been able to do that. Create motion in her before her mind had finished the argument.
They didn't speak for the first ten minutes. The city slid by outside the windows in the grey morning light and Elara sat in the passenger seat of his car — his very expensive, very clean car, nothing like the battered thing he'd driven when they'd first met — and told herself that this was professional. That she was here because she had information he needed. That the six inches of air between them was sufficient.
"You were pregnant," he said.
She went completely still.
"When I reviewed the medical files last night — after I left you." His voice was even. Controlled. "I had access to the hospital records as part of the server pull. There was a notation. A consultation." He paused. "Three months after the accident. Six weeks after the divorce was finalized."
The city kept moving outside.
"That's not in the scope of what we're dealing with today," she said.
"Elara."
"It's not relevant to what we're doing right now."
"It's relevant to me."
She looked straight ahead. "I know it is. And I'll talk about it. Just not right now." A pause. "Please."
He didn't push. He merged onto the motorway.
She breathed.
"How did you find Garrett?" Callum asked, after a moment.
"He found me," she said, relieved to be back on solid ground. "He'd been sitting on this for over a year. He was waiting for the right moment."
"Or the right person."
"Same thing in the end."
Callum glanced at her sideways. Something in his expression — brief, painful, quickly managed. "You built a whole company," he said. "In two years. Alone."
"With Mara. And eventually Nathan."
A fractional pause. "Nathan Shea."
"My business partner. Yes."
The pause stretched. She was not going to fill it.
"Right," Callum said.
They drove.
— ✶ —
Garrett met them outside Terminal 5 with the expression of a man who had done seventeen difficult things before breakfast and was prepared to do seventeen more.
"She's checked in," he said. "Security in twelve minutes. I've contacted someone on the airport staff who can request additional screening but it buys us eight minutes maximum." He looked at Callum. "Whatever you're going to say to her, make it count."
"I don't need eight minutes," Callum said.
They found her in the departures queue, just before security — Victoria Ashford in a camel coat with two cabin bags and her phone pressed to her ear, looking like exactly what she was: a woman making an elegant retreat from a situation she'd decided was no longer winnable.
She saw Callum at thirty feet.
To her credit, she didn't run.
She ended her call. She lifted her chin. She looked at him the way she looked at everything — from a height she'd constructed for herself.
"Callum," she said. "This is embarrassing for you."
"I heard the recording," he said. "The one where you authorized the car."
Not a flicker. Not a flinch. Only a very slight recalibration behind her eyes.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.
"I know." He stepped closer. Around them, the departures hall moved — people with rolling bags and tired children and all the ordinary noise of the world going about its business. "You're very good at not knowing things, Victoria. It's impressive, honestly."
"Step aside, Callum. My flight—"
"The audio file is already with my lawyers," he said. "And the financial records. And a statement from Marcus Webb, which he gave approximately forty minutes ago in exchange for a slightly more lenient conversation with the police." He paused. "You have nowhere to go."
For the first time, Victoria Ashford looked uncertain.
Just for a moment.
Then her eyes moved — past Callum's shoulder — and landed on Elara, standing ten feet back.
Something moved across Victoria's face that was uglier than anything she'd shown Callum.
"You," she said quietly.
"Me," Elara said.