Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

going to sell the work I’ve done to date. I’ve got a couple of interested parties.’

I’ve done? I’ve done? Did I hear that right?

It was the look he shot me that killed it all for me. He didn’t see me as a partner. I was a silly schoolboy to him.

Wrong, Marc. So very wrong.

I needed a little more time for my plans to come to fruition, so I played along. The plans I’d so carefully crafted – to gather the cash from Pen and Pete, Robbins and Chelsea – to enable us to finance the next stage of the project. The next stage that had involved him. Until that moment when I decided Marc would join the ranks of these scumbags and make a contribution too. I would take this thing to market, alone.

Silly man.

‘I’ve got some good news,’ I lied, as confidently as I could for someone who had just been smacked in the face with the club of betrayal. ‘I’ve lined up two backers. One’s a dead cert. The other I’m working on for a fairer percentage split.’

‘What?’ he asked, with that perplexed look he’s worn since losing his job. It’s now got rather tiresome.

‘Yep. Leave it to me. I’m all over it,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for them to get back to me with a date for us to meet. Stop stressing. I’m going to get this thing to market if it kills me.’

But alone, Marc. Not with you.

I take another bite of my sandwich as my laptop notifies me of an incoming email. I glance over to take a look. Gasping loudly, I choke on a lump of chicken.

It’s from Marc.

I snatch the serviette from my lap and spit my food into its creases, coughing and spluttering. What does he want now? Calmly, I open the email.

One solitary line delivers his message.

‘Your time is up. I’m going home.’

I smirk. He can do what he likes. I’ll be sipping a sling in a Singapore bar before that happens. I bin the email. I wish I were there to see him explain himself to his family, though. When they’ve viewed what I plan to send them before I board the plane in the morning. I chug the last of the champagne, feeling quite fuzzy. Time for bed, I think.

The bar area and foyer have grown increasingly busy, and several people join me in the lift. I pay them little attention, as I can feel myself swaying. I focus on my trainers, chuckling at the sensation the alcohol has given me.

When I reach the room, I fumble with my key card. It doesn’t work. What’s wrong with it? Bloody thing. I laugh out loud when I realise that I’m not slotting it in the right way, unsure why I find this quite so funny. I turn the card around and let myself in. The maids must have been: someone has turned down the bed covers, and a single chocolate sits in the middle of the pillow. The ambient lighting casts a shadow across the room. I fling myself on the bed and unwrap the chocolate.

This is the life!

A few minutes pass, although it could have been longer, when a knock at the door startles me. Who could that be? The maids again? I stagger to the door, swing it open and gasp. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

‘I warned you you’d pay.’

I try to close the door in their face, but they push against it.

‘You’re drunk. Makes this all the easier.’

I laugh out loud. ‘You don’t have it in you.’

A firm hand in the chest pushes me into the room. I stumble backwards, my arms flailing as I try to regain my balance. I fall against the wall, confused. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘You. You’re my fucking problem, Luke Walker.’

I don’t notice the knife until it is brandished in my face, threatening to carve out my future. I try to kick out, but miss, and my knee buckles. I start to panic. ‘What are…?’ I can’t get any more words out. Fear clenches my senses with freezing cold hands. The room spins. Get a grip, Luke. A harsh prickling sensation, like an electric shock, shoots through me. What was that? Champagne burns my throat. It’s so hot – so bloody hot in here. Throbbing pain paralyses me. It’s wild, excruciating: a feeling of being thumped and kicked in the stomach. My insides are going to explode. I’m falling. I can’t stop myself.

Blood, so much blood.

Thirty-Eight

Snatching a napkin from the metal holder on the sideboard, I enclose the fragments of the Post-it note and slip the evidence in my pocket. I piece together the shreds of orange:

M5 R10 C10 P10 P20 = 55

My fingers drum the table as I stare at the series of numbers and letters, but I’m stumped. What do these mean? I gaze around the room. It’s a mess, like this family’s life. Above the sideboard, a collage of framed photos dominates the wall, portraying the story of a perfect family holiday in Florida. I’ve admired these before, several times when we’ve visited, and I’ve always been in awe of the perfection of this family.

Even though I should know by now that no family is perfect.

One of the five of them posing in front of the Magic Kingdom hangs in the centre. Marc’s arms are wrapped around Sasha and the kids, their faces expressing such elation. We’ve got a similar photo at home, taken last year when Jim and I took Joe and Isabella to Disneyland Paris. I had it printed onto a giant canvas, and it takes pride of place in our dining area. What makes the picture so special is that I’m looking at the camera, so are the kids, but Jim is looking down at the three of us with such adoration, it still fills me with warmth every time I catch that look in his eye. In front of the Magic Kingdom, Marc is looking at Sasha with an equal amount