The morning of the interview arrived with a hush that felt unnatural, as though the city itself were holding its breath.
Simon rose early, restless, and found Tom already awake, coffee in hand, staring out at the waking city. Neither mentioned the night before. But as they left, Tom's hand rested briefly on Simon's shoulder — a quiet promise of presence.
The waiting room below was taut with nerves.
Sarah Miller sat ramrod‑straight, her yellow blazer immaculate, her eyes alert and restless. Andrew Morris leaned back in his chair, feigning ease, his fingers tapping against his portfolio in a steady rhythm of tension. They barely acknowledged one another.
Simon watched from behind the glass.
"You're sure?" Simon asked quietly.
"I am," Tom replied. "Two of Sarah's references don't exist. The third denies knowing her. She's hiding something." He hesitated. "Andrew is connected too — to the lawyer who's been asking about you. About your mother. About money."
Simon swallowed. "If I reject them, they'll retaliate."
"Maybe," Tom said gently. "But you're not alone now."
The interviews were polished performances.
Sarah's answers were precise, rehearsed. When Simon pressed her on a gap in her résumé, her composure faltered — just long enough to betray desperation. Andrew leaned into familiarity, invoking shared history, shared survival. But his answers slipped, circling questions without landing.
When it ended, Simon didn't hesitate.
"No offers."
Relief crossed Tom's face — brief, grateful.
Then Simon's phone buzzed.
You made the right choice. For now. Old debts always come due.
Cold settled in his chest.
"Change everything," Tom said, taking the phone. "Passwords, access codes. I'll see who's circling."
That night, while Simon slept badly, Tom worked.
Calls were placed — Dublin, Manchester, quiet channels best left unrecorded. Patterns emerged: forged documents, altered records, aliases layered over time.
At the centre of it all was a name Simon did not yet know:
Phoebe Gallagher.
Tom moved carefully. He found her without announcing everything he knew. He listened.
Phoebe had fled Kampala years earlier — pregnant, terrified, entangled with men who had promised safety and delivered captivity. In London, hidden in borrowed rooms, she gave birth in secrecy. Fear drove the rest.
A bus stop. A baby. A choice made from love and terror in equal measure.
Freedom came later — jagged and incomplete. A marriage built on gentleness. A second son. Then loss again.
When Phoebe fell ill, Tom ensured she received care — discreetly, respectfully. No truths forced. No lives dismantled.
Only preparation.
Sarah and Andrew did not retreat quietly.
Anonymous emails. Rumours seeded into Simon's professional world. A photographer loitering too long outside the building.
But Tom's network absorbed the impact. Shields raised. Doors closed before threats could land.
Still, the cost mounted.
One evening, as Simon stood on his balcony watching the sky bruise toward night, a courier arrived.
Inside the package was a single photograph.
A boy at a rain‑soaked bus stop.
On the back, written in an unsteady hand:
I am still here. Please let me see you.
— P
Simon sank to his knees, breath stolen.
When Tom returned later, Simon was waiting — photograph in hand.
"She wants to see you," Tom said quietly. "She's not well. But she's strong."
Simon nodded, tears unhidden. "Come with me?"
"Always."
As the plane lifted into the dark, Simon felt the past shift inside him — not gone, not healed, but no longer immovable.
Not every story ended in harm.
Not every choice had been wrong.
And somewhere ahead, truth waited — ready to be faced.