He flipped open one of the new files that had been dumped on his desk, curling his lip at the contents.  Reports of two black men seen hanging around the entrance to a youth centre.  The person who had called it in suspected them of dealing drugs, and there were grainy photos provided.  Weaver didn’t need to look at the pictures to know who the individuals were: two ex-gang members who called themselves Merlin and Lancelot.  They ran basketball and martial arts programs for underprivileged kids, trying with some success to keep them away from the gang lifestyle that plagued some of the neighbourhoods.  Growling under his breath, he wrote how many fucking times, these are the good guys! across the front of the file, and tossed it into the tray of cases to be processed.

“Weaver?”

A voice made him look up, and Detective Fa raised a slim black eyebrow at him.

“Visitor for you,” she said.

“Who is it?” he asked absently, opening the next file.

“Thought it might be one of your informants,” she said.  “Nervous and pretending not to be.  Name of French.  Said it’s urgent and she’ll only speak to you, or I would have dealt with it.  I put her in room 4.”

“Thanks,” he said, a sinking feeling in his belly.  French.  Well.  Could be coincidence, but I doubt it.

Fa had hurried off, and so he pushed back his chair, taking up a notebook and pen out of habit and making his way to interview room 4.  How long had it been since he had seen Lacey French?  Four months?  He had assumed she had left town long ago; she had always said that she didn’t like to stay in one place too long.

She looked up as he entered the room, and he tried not to let any emotion show in his face.  He was used to that, after all.  She was as beautiful as ever, but there was something else there.  An air of sadness, of hopelessness, darkening her blue eyes.  She was bundled up against the winter night in a woollen pea coat, a scarf wound around her throat.  Her skirt was still ridiculously short, but she appeared to have swapped her bare legs and high heels for thick tights and chunky boots, at least.  She looked a little thinner around the face, and he tried to squash the urge to take her home and feed her something that didn’t come from a dumpster.  That was how this entire farce had started, after all.

He pulled out a chair, sitting down opposite her, and dropping his pad and pen on the table.  Lacey was fidgeting, plucking at the skin of one hand with her finger and thumb, teeth tugging at her lower lip.  She wouldn’t quite look at him, as though she were ashamed.  Not like her at all.  It was intriguing.

“Lacey,” he said calmly.  “I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since I snuck out your window at two in the morning?” she interjected.  “Yeah. Sorry about that.  Not exactly the stay-and-cuddle type.”

“Well, neither am I,” he said coolly.  “So perhaps we can move on to the present.  Why are you here?”

She finally met his eyes, her gaze frightened, hunted, but then looked down at her hands again.  Her nails were bitten, dark red polish chipped and flaking.

“This was a mistake,” she muttered.  “I should go.”

She sat back, eyeing the door, and he shook his head.

“You came here for a reason,” he said.  “Do you have some information for me?  If so, perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere.”

Lacey looked up at him, her eyes flashing.

“Information?” she snapped.  “What, you thought I came here to rat on someone?  Is that all I’m good for?”

“Well, I’m hardly likely to think you came here to pick up where we fucking left off, am I?” he snapped.  “If you’re not here for payment, what the hell is it?”

“I’m pregnant!” she blurted.  “Seventeen weeks.  I just - I thought you should know.”

He gaped at her, his heart beginning to thump painfully hard, shock stealing his breath, his voice.  Lacey gave him an agonised look, then pushed out of the chair, quick as a scared cat, and lunged for the door, wrenching it open and disappearing before he could move.