Taking A Stand: New Beginnings
Painting over the past is harder than it looks. For criminologist Dar Montgomery,
taking a stand and a fresh coat of paint are her first steps toward a new beginning.
Hereford – Safehouse
Logan Ward leaned against the granite counter, watching the first grey light seep into the kitchen. As he sipped his coffee, his reflection, sunglasses and all, stared back from the new 36″ monitor mounted on the wall. At a touch, Dar could now pull up feeds from the dozen cameras outside, the ones covering every blind spot. The house wasn’t just a refuge anymore; it was a command centre. Downstairs, the new comms room hummed with encrypted channels and satellite uplinks that could reach anywhere on the globe. It was a place where they could be both safe and operational—where they could let their guard down without actually letting it down.
When Dar shuffled in through the dining room, hair messy, in search of coffee, he cleared his throat. “Morning, sis.”
She reached past Logan to pour coffee into her cup, then refilled his mug without asking. “I was thinking we might need some house rules—so it doesn’t turn into a frat house.” Without a response from Logan, she pushed on. “One: basement stays locked unless you or Malik are down there. If Malik wants to stay down there, he takes one of the rooms with a window—safety and all that.” A soft porcelain clink as she tapped the pot against his cup, then set it back on the warmer. “And two: my office stays locked unless I’m in it.”
Hoping the caffeine would give her courage, Dar took a sip of coffee. With the decision made, relief bloomed in her chest; she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping an inch. “And…can you paint Zoe’s room? Cover the mural? We could donate the furniture and get something better suited to…Rhys, I guess. Or…whoever.”
Logan’s body tensed, but he maintained his composure, staring at the coffee in his mug without flinching. Something in his gut twisted. He didn’t look towards the stairs. Instead, he rested a hand atop his mug, drumming once against the ceramic. He nodded. “Yeah. I can paint it. I’ll get it done today, before Rhys gets back—man’s got enough ghosts without unicorns and glow-in-the-dark stars overhead.” The request felt like a fault line shifting beneath them.
He launched into details. “Malik can have the east room—window’s good and it faces the woods for a clear sightline. We’ll pick up some furniture for that room too. I keep the suite. Your door stays locked. Office stays yours. No one steps in without your say.” He bumped her shoulder gently as he leaned in, voice dropping. “And Dar—you don’t have to give up Zoe’s room. You sure?”
Dar’s throat tightened—not from pain, but from its sudden absence. Tears stung behind her eyes. She blinked, then blinked again, as if to reset the conversation. With a decisive clack, her mug hit the counter. She gripped a dish towel and folded it under her palms. “Right.” Her voice came out coarse, but it steadied. She studied him past the sunglasses and the scar, seeing the kid who used to pick open her school locker and slip in chocolate bars and handwritten bad jokes. “Right. Good.” Fighting the urge to embrace him, Dar moved close enough to feel his chest against her shoulder.
The comfortable weight was familiar. Logan always stood still when she needed to lean in, letting her settle her forehead against his shoulder. His jaw tightened, the only sign he’d noticed, but he kept his eyes forward and his hand wrapped around the mug. One breath. Two. Then she pulled away, and he exhaled through his nose.
“Thank you,” she said, barely audible as she withdrew, rubbing her eyelids as if to clear something.
Logan said nothing—no ‘you’re welcome.’ He just watched as she poured milk, as though every move she made was re-calibrating the world.
“There’s plenty of paint supplies and primer in the garage. For the sunroom trim, I bought too many brushes and didn’t use half of them. I’ll pick up some paint this morning unless you want help picking the constellation off the ceiling?” She glanced toward the hallway, then back at Logan. “You want help moving the furniture or are you conscripting Sean into manual labour?”
“Sean’s gotta pay for all that whisky somehow. We’ll move the furniture.” He set his mug down and cracked his neck. “I’ll primer the mural first—Sean can kill the stars. After that, we paint. Pick something neutral. Something Rhys can sleep under without dreaming. You want to be there when I start? Or vanish to the range—hit something until it stops looking like a face?” He leaned back against the counter, arms folded; the scar on his temple caught the kitchen light. His tone stayed flat, but the offer was there. No judgment either way.
“I’ll pick up the paint and come back.” Dar swirled her coffee, watching the milk spiral. “I’ve got work in the office. Or the range—depends how loud the silence gets afterward.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped, letting the burn anchor her. “And Lo? Can you also get rid of the swing set, yeah?” She paused briefly, trying to gauge his reaction. “Please?”
Half amused, half resolute, Logan grunted. He gazed out at the yard, where the rusted swing set crouched like old scars across the grass. Dar never let him get rid of it before. Something’s shifted. “Consider it gone. I’ll hacksaw it after the room’s done. No mercy for nostalgia.” He pushed off the counter and rolled a shoulder, letting his jaw soften. “Dar—if the silence gets too loud, text me. I’ll leave the painting and come find you.”
With that, he strode toward the garage, boots creaking, already planning: roller, pole, primer, gloves—and in the back of his mind, move furniture, hacksaw the swing set.
Pulling out his phone, he fired off two quick texts: one to Sean Get your arse down here and one to Pam She’s ready. We’re painting Zoe’s room today.
By mid-morning, the rain had returned, drumming a soft rhythm against the window. The smell of primer seeped under her office door, a chemical reminder of the morning’s decision. Dar stared at her laptop, at a report on comparative homicide patterns she’d been chipping away at for days. She’d managed to write three sentences, each feeling disconnected from the last, before the first sound of chaos erupted from the kitchen.
First came the scrape of a chair against tile, followed by Logan’s voice, sharp and irritable. “Sean, if you use my mug again, I’ll cut your bloody hands off.”
Pam’s spatula paused mid-swipe through a bowl of lemon curd. Her head snapped up as Sean practically threw the offending mug—a black one with a gold striped handle—back onto the counter. “Christ on a cracker, Ward. It’s a mug, not the Crown bloody Jewels.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, moving to intercept Sean as he reached back into the cupboard. “Here, love.” She grabbed a mug with kittens on it and pushed it into his hand. “This one. Much less likely to get you dismembered.”
“Pretty sure they were all in the communal cupboard,” Sean muttered, eyeing the black cup now on the counter. “No name tag… seemed fair game.” He took the kitten mug with a theatrical bow. “Ta, love. Wouldn’t want to bleed on the tile.” A half-formed smirk accompanied his glance at Logan. “Though I reckon a few red handprints might add character. Abstract expressionism, yeah?”
Pam slid a fresh tray of miniature fruit tarts toward the two painters, the scent of vanilla and warm pastry filling the kitchen. “Abstract expressionism? Darling, the only art you’ll be creating is a chalk outline if you don’t watch that smart mouth.” She flicked a dish towel at him. “That black one is his ‘special’ mug,” Pam whispered. “Been with him since…” She caught Logan’s eye, remembering a recent morning and shared coffee from that same mug. “…since forever. Touch it and you’ll be creating a chalk outline.”
“Chalk outline? Bit dramatic, love. I was thinking more… crime-scene chic. Very Berlin underground.” Sean ducked under the towel, paint freckling his forearm like dried blood.
Returning to her workstation, Pam piped cream rosettes onto the tarts. “How’s Zoe’s room coming along? Paint fumes aren’t making anyone see unicorns, are they? Because I’ve got a lovely almond sponge that’ll soak up any accidental hallucinations. Fair warning, though—it might also induce spontaneous hugging.”
Logan’s voice cut through the banter—flat, surgical. His gaze landed on Sean. “Keep your blood off the walls, Picasso. I only laid down primer. You hemorrhage, you do it in the bathtub like a civilized ghost.” He paused, then jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Room looks good. You didn’t half-ass it. That’s… noted.”
“Bathtub? Christ, Ward, you make dripping blood sound like an etiquette seminar.” Sean wiped his hands down his sweatpants, leaving primer-coloured smears. “And cheers for the note. High praise from a man who probably grades paint jobs like sniper reports.”
Inhaling the scent like oxygen, Sean took a tart. “Room’s coming up mint. One more coat and Zoe’s walls will look like sunrise on the fifteenth at St Andrews.” He licked lemon from the corner of his mouth, voice softening. “Dar picked the shade. Said it needed to feel like… tomorrow.”
Pam’s expression softened at his description of the paint colour, fingers stilling on the piping bag. “Tomorrow…” she repeated quietly, then shook herself. “Well, she’d know. That woman’s survived enough yesterdays to qualify as a bloody expert on tomorrows.”
Pam set down the piping bag, wiping her hands again as she moved closer to where Logan was standing. “Dar’s been holed up in that office for hours. Might need a crowbar to pry her away from that laptop, but…” She shrugged, the gesture carrying years of understanding about Dar’s coping mechanisms. “Sometimes a woman needs her best friend to stage an intervention. One that involves cake.”
His sleeveless tank top stretched across Logan’s shoulders, revealing the strain as he leaned back against the counter. The rain had picked up—he could hear it drumming against the gutters like small-arms fire. His eyes cut toward the hallway, then back to Pam.
“She’s writing. Or trying to. Either way, she’s somewhere inside her own head and she hasn’t come up for air in about two hours. You walk in there with a plate of cookies, she’ll look at you like you’re a problem she doesn’t have time to solve.”
The walls weren’t thin, exactly, but her stepbrother and his entourage could make a cathedral sound cramped. Veyr had disconnected the call just twenty minutes earlier, and now Dar was struggling to focus on the data in front of her.
During the call, Stroud had been watching her like she might crack, as Kozlov’s photo stared from the screen.
“Start with him,” he’d said. “He’s mobile. Armed. Sloppy.”
Dar had shaken her head. “He’s visible on purpose. If you remove him first the money reroutes. Cleaner. Faster. You’ll feel effective and change nothing.”
The memory of their silence, of Veyr watching, impassive, was still sharp. Now, the same sensation arose: striving for others to perceive a pattern they refused to acknowledge.
She rolled her new office chair back from the desk and appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. Twigs, close at her heels, twitched her tail in agreement. “Shall I set up a referee whistle for the three of you? Do you have any idea what the decibel output in this corridor is? I’ve been trying to read the same line for the last four minutes.”
Logan didn’t turn when Dar’s voice cut through the room—just tipped his head a fraction, like a dog catching a scent. He tapped his thumb once against the counter, a silent beat. “Not my fault the rookie can’t recognize ownership when it’s clearly implied.”
Sean leaned against the counter, grinning like a schoolboy. “Relax, Dar. It’s just a mug. Besides, I’m still alive after Pam’s scones—doesn’t that count for bravery points?”
With arms crossed beneath her flour-dusted apron, Pam leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow arched. “Bloody hell, is this really how I chose to spend my time off?” she sauntered forward, heels clicking. “Sean, love, I’ve got a sponge cake that deserves more attention than your dramatics.”
She snapped a dishtowel toward Logan’s shoulder—missing by inches. “And you—sunglasses indoors? Auditioning for a Matrix sequel?”
Her voice softened a notch as she turned to Dar. “Darling, I’ve got fresh coffee and those almond croissants you like. Figured you might need something stronger than paint fumes and testosterone poisoning.”
She hooked her arm through Dar’s, already pulling her toward the kitchen. “Come on, love. Let’s let these boys measure their… paintbrushes. I’ve got a proper girls’ afternoon tea planned – but with that Bordeaux you’ve been saving.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Dar’s mouth as she glanced back at her half-finished report, then at the three of them sparring like teenagers. “Fine,” she relented, throwing her hands up. “But the next one of you who interrupts my work buys me dinner. Expensive dinner. Not kebabs, Ward.”
Logan watched Pam shepherd Dar into the kitchen with predator patience, calculating angles. “We’ll see what Calder’s expense account says.” His voice dropped to a growl as he turned back to Sean. “Ownership’s implied, kid. Same way a minefield is. You just stepped in it.”
With Logan’s words cutting the air like a blade through fondant, Pam paused, her fingers tightening on Dar’s arm. Her emerald eyes narrowed as she looked at him from behind her flour-dusted eyelashes.
“After everything she’s been through, Logan Ward, if you make her pay for her own dinner, I’ll personally make sure your next coffee tastes like my failed charcoal-and-lavender sourdough experiment.” Christ, he’s wound tighter than a springform pan today. He’s rattled too, and it’s not just Sean being Sean.
Propelling Dar toward the table, Pam reached for the coffee press with practiced efficiency, then barked orders at Logan and Sean like a seasoned drill sergeant. “Go! Break’s over!”
Logan saluted and dragged Sean out of the kitchen. Once out of earshot, he exhaled slowly and deliberately through his nose, then turned to his recruit. His sunglasses reflected the smirk on the kid’s face like a target reticle.
“Brave’s not the word I’d use for someone who eats Pam’s cooking and bitches about it right in front of her. You’re either daft or suicidal.” He pulled a paint stirrer from his back pocket, spinning it once between his fingers like a baton.
“You grab a brush. You’re cutting in the trim. Try not to fall off the ladder—Zoe’s room doesn’t need another ghost.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs.
“And Sean? That black mug with the gold handle’s got history. Touch it, I’ll cut off more than your hands.”
Logan headed toward the back hallway and exhaled, releasing the tension from his shoulders. The house felt smaller today, like the walls were leaning in to listen. It’s just the weather, the job, the ghosts, he told himself.
He pulled out his phone and thumbed a quick message to Rhys—Cottage is secure. Dar’s okay. We’re painting Zoe’s room. No casualties yet. Rain’s got everyone twitchy. Call when you can.
Smooth as silk, Pam hooked her foot around a chair and pulled it out. “Right love, you sit. I’ve got a quiche just about ready to come out, and I snuck a bit of Gruyère in the crust—the way you like it.”
As the oven timer dinged, she moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d navigated tight kitchen spaces for decades, sliding the quiche onto the cooling rack with a practiced twist.
The scent of butter and caramelized onions filled the space between them. Pam set the plates down, her voice dropping to that hushed whisper they’d shared since they were fifteen. “It’s good, isn’t it? Us, here.” She didn’t look at Dar as she said it, already cutting into the quiche. “Makes you think. Remember how Barry used to bitch about us talking to each other? Said we were conspiring against him. Christ, if he could see us now—you running ops, and me with my own empire.”
Dar shook her head and reached for her fork. This was her life now—chaos, noise, and bickering voices bleeding through the walls. She took a bite of quiche; the rich flavour was a small, quiet anchor in the chaos.
It was still home. But it was a home with teeth.