Chapter 51 Eddie's Choice (Eddie POV)
The flat reeks of cigarette smoke and desperation. I'm on my fourth pack today, the ashtray overflowing onto the coffee table. Outside, London's gray and drizzling, matching my mood perfectly.
My phone sits on the arm of the couch, silent now but menacing. Three calls this morning. Unknown numbers. People asking questions I couldn't answer without incriminating myself.
"Looking for information about a financial transaction in September. Offshore account to US recipient. You facilitated it?"
"Need to verify some document alterations. Birth certificates, medical records. Your handiwork?"
"American woman. Doris Vale. You know her?"
I'd hung up on all three. But they'll call back. They always do.
The bathroom door opens. Sandra my girlfriend, emerges wrapped in a towel, her wet hair darkening her shoulders.
"Eddie? You okay? You've been out here chain-smoking for hours."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She sits beside me, and I resist the urge to pull away. "What's going on? You've been jumpy for weeks."
"Work stress. Client issues."
"What kind of issues?"
"The confidential kind." I light another cigarette, hands trembling slightly. "Just need to ride it out."
She studies me with those perceptive green eyes. We've been together two years. She knows when I'm lying.
"Eddie, if you're in trouble..."
"I'm not."
"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt?"
Because I am. Because the walls are closing in, and I'm running out of options.
"Just drop it, Sandra. Please."
She flinches at my tone. Stands, tightening the towel. "Fine. But whatever this is, you can't fix it by shutting me out."
She disappears into the bedroom. I hear the door close, softer than a slam but pointed nonetheless.
I take a long drag, ash falling onto my jeans. Four people dead. Doris's contract killer working methodically through a detective's family. And my fingerprints all over the evidence—the altered records, the money transfers, the shell companies.
When the authorities connect the dots—and they will—I'm looking at conspiracy to commit murder. Multiple counts. Life in prison.
Unless I flip first.
The thought's been percolating for days now, gaining urgency with each news report from America. Another family member dead. Police baffled. FBI involved.
I could offer information. Trade what I know for immunity. Give them Doris, save myself.
But that means destroying her. Handing her over to the same detective she's fallen for.
My phone buzzes. Another unknown number.
I let it ring through to voicemail. Two minutes later, a notification appears. I play it on speaker.
"Mr. Edwards, this is Agent Patricia Wilson with the FBI. We need to discuss your recent international financial transactions. Please return this call at your earliest convenience."
FBI. Not local police, not private investigators. The FBI is calling me directly.
I delete the voicemail, my hand shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.
It's over. They're onto me. Whether I flip or not, they're coming.
But if I go to them first, cooperate fully, maybe I can negotiate. Maybe I can walk away from this.
Sandra emerges from the bedroom dressed, purse over her shoulder. "I'm going to my sister's for a few days. Give you space to figure out whatever you won't tell me about."
"Sandra..."
"Call me when you're ready to be honest." She walks to the door, pauses. "I love you. But I can't watch you destroy yourself."
The door closes behind her with a decisive finality.
I sit there alone, surrounded by smoke and empty beer bottles and the detritus of three weeks spiraling.
Then I'm moving. Grabbing my laptop, opening an incognito browser. Search: criminal defense attorney London
Pages of results. I scan them, looking for the right combination of reputation and discretion. Find a firm in Mayfair—high-end, expensive, known for white-collar crime defense.
I call. A receptionist answers.
"Thornton & Associates. How may I help you?"
"I need to speak with an attorney. Urgently. It's regarding potential cooperation with US authorities."
A pause. "One moment please."
Classical music plays for thirty seconds. Then a new voice, older, cultured.
"This is Geoffrey Thornton. My assistant says you need urgent counsel?"
"Yes. I... I have information about crimes committed in the United States. Murders. I wasn't directly involved, but I... facilitated certain things."
"I see. And you're concerned about liability?"
"I'm concerned about going to prison for the rest of my life."
"Understandable." Papers rustle in the background. "Before we continue, I need to establish attorney-client privilege. Everything you tell me is confidential. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, what exactly did you facilitate?"
I tell him. Not everything, not Doris's name or specific details—but enough. The record alterations. The offshore accounts. The American woman hiring someone for revenge.
Thornton listens without interrupting. When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You've made quite the mess, Mr. Edwards."
"I know."
"But you're right to be proactive. If the FBI is already calling, they have evidence. The question is whether they have enough to prosecute without your cooperation."
"What are my options?"
"Option one: say nothing. Hope they can't prove your involvement. High risk if they have documentation."
"They probably do."
"Option two: offer information in exchange for immunity. Become a cooperating witness. You'd need to provide substantial assistance—names, documents, testimony."
"Would that guarantee immunity?"
"Nothing's guaranteed. But if your information leads to arrests and convictions, prosecutors are often amenable to deals."
I stub out my cigarette, immediately lighting another. "If I cooperate, what happens?"
"You'd work with your attorney to approach the FBI or relevant US authorities. Present your willingness to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. They'd assess the value of your information, negotiate terms."
"And if they say no?"
"Then you're at their mercy. But offering cooperation shows good faith. Juries and judges appreciate that."
My mind churns through scenarios, each one worse than the last. Doris arrested. Donald learning everything. The media circus. My face on the news as the fixer who helped orchestrate a murder spree.
But the alternative is worse. Prison. Years behind bars, watching Sandra move on, my life wasted.
"I need to think about it," I say.
"Don't think too long. The FBI doesn't wait. Every day you delay is another day they build their case without you."
"I know."
"Call me when you've decided. And Mr. Edwards? If you're going to cooperate, do it properly. Full disclosure, complete honesty. Half-measures will only make things worse."
"Understood."
The call ends. I sit there, staring at my phone.
Full disclosure means giving them Doris. Explaining everything she hired me to do. Handing over documents, communications, evidence.
It means ending her life to save mine.
I think about her in that parking lot, desperate and scared, begging me not to flip. The woman who hired a killer because grief and rage consumed her judgment.
I feel bad for her. I do.
But not bad enough to go to prison.
I open my laptop again. Search: flights London to Seattle
Multiple options appear. I book the first available—tomorrow afternoon, arrives early evening US time.
Then I pull out a burner phone I bought last week. Text Doris's number: I'm sorry. I have to save myself.
My finger hovers over send. This is it. The point of no return.
I hit send.
Then I block her number, delete the message thread, power off the burner.
It's done. I've made my choice.
Tomorrow I fly to the States. Contact the FBI. Offer everything I know in exchange for immunity.
And Doris—the woman I helped disappear, whose records I scrubbed, whose revenge plot I enabled—will face the consequences of what we both did.
I light another cigarette, hands steadier now that the decision's made.
Sandra's right. I can't fix this by shutting people out.
But I can fix it by giving them up.