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moment and Pete tried unsuccessfully not to feel naked. The drugs had muted Jack's vitality but they did nothing for his gaze, which burned hotter than she'd ever remembered, fired with rock-bottom desperation.
    "I
might
tell you," he considered. "But I've got a couple of conditions if I should decide to divulge my specific arcane knowledge."
    "Name them," said Pete instantly. She'd clear whatever-it-was with Chief Inspector Newell later—right now Diana and Patrick's timetable was winding inexorably down.
    "Condition one: I get a shower, clean clothes, a place to stay—and not some dodgy hostel you shove witnesses into either, a
real
place," Jack said. "Whether or not I decide to tell you anything, you take me there right now."
    He'd never tell her anything useful, of course. Pete wasn't stupid and she could see from the way Jack talked and held himself that he was hating her for something, that her need for what he had was getting him off.
    But she
wasn't
stupid, so she said, "Done."
    "Condition two," said Jack. "If I tell you something, Pete, no matter how bloody outlandish it sounds to your cotton-packed copper ears—you listen. And you believe me."
    How she'd wanted to do that, every second they'd spent together. Couldn't, because admitting the truth of the matter with Jack would have driven anyone reasonable mad. Believing him would be admitting that everything in the world wasn't in plain sight, and it ran contrary to Pete's whole life, the new one she'd built after Jack.
    "Pete," Jack snapped. His expression was hard-edged, the mask in place, waiting to see if she'd give in to his demands.
    "Yes, Jack," she said with a sigh. "I'll believe you."

----
Chapter Nine

    Jack glared suspiciously at the door of Pete's flat. "This doesn't look like any bloody hotel I've ever seen."
    "It's not," said Pete, peeling the package notices and the card from the estate agent off the door and sliding her key home. "It's my flat."
    One dark eyebrow crawled upward on Jack's forehead. "And this is part of our arrangement how, exactly?"
    Pete flicked on lights and put up her bag and coat, motioning Jack inside. "It's a very nice flat. You can have a shower and put on some of Terry's old clothes."
    "Who in bloody fuck-all is Terry?"
    "My ex-fiance," said Pete shortly, "Bath's down the hall. I'll put the kettle on."
    She left Jack standing and went into the kitchen, careful to keep her back turned so he wouldn't catch on she was watching him. After a moment and a spate of muttering, she heard Jack go down the hall. A door closed and water ran in the basin, rattling the old pipes like a disgruntled poltergeist.
    Pete moved swiftly. She threw the bolts on the front door and locked the padlock she and Terry had never used because the area wasn't that bad, shoving the key deep into the catch-all drawer in the kitchen. All the windows were painted shut and covered with safety lattice, so he wouldn't be getting out that way. No back stairs.
    Pete crossed herself reflexively, a move she hadn't performed in the eight years since Connor's death, but which seemed highly appropriate now.
    She would not allow herself to think about what Jack would say once he emerged from the loo. He'd be bloody angry, but she figured that in his diminished state she could probably take him on. Plus, there were always the handcuffs.
    "I'm starved," Jack announced. "Call for takeaway."
    Pete jumped and silently berated herself. He was silent as a shade, just as he'd always been, appearing practically out of ether.
    Jack's mouth curled into a slow grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you."
    "Not frightened," said Pete. "You never frightened me, Jack."
    "Come now, Pete," he teased. "I was the scariest thing your little head ever laid eyes on."
    Pete handed him a menu for the curry stand at the corner. "For a time," she said. "A very short time, until I realized what was standing just behind you, in shadow."
    The grin vanished and Jack's grim set returned. "And you