Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) by Rosie Claverton Page B

dense clouds that were forming around them.
    He had the sense of being watched, as if the towering yet unseen mountains were looking down and judging him. He shivered from the chill, or maybe just the creeping feeling over his spine, like someone was walking over his grave. The silent forests and majestic lakes rang with the magic of King Arthur’s court, age-old monuments to a former glorious time when knights fought dragons and women rose from the frigid waters to present the one true king with his almighty sword.
    The stone edifices absorbed all sound, so that all he could hear was Frieda’s breathing and his, out of step and harsh in the night air. If he could see more than a few feet in front of him, he was sure the view would be breathtaking. As it was, he was confined to predicting the curves of the road ahead and not falling through the flimsy-looking barriers preventing them from a drop into God knows what.
    A sudden chill swept over him, a strong breeze blowing from the right. Jason glanced over, but he could see nothing but inky blackness shrouded in swirls of mist. He fought to keep the bike’s line, cornering into the wind. Frieda’s hands shifted on his waist, and he felt her fingers flex through the leather as she leaned with him.
    The lorry came out of nowhere.
    The horn blast warned him a few seconds before impact. Jason swerved the bike to the left and braked hard, but the bike fishtailed and he felt the rear wheel lift as if a weight had been thrown off.
Frieda.
    The bike toppled, skidding across the lorry’s path and taking him with it. The asphalt tore up his leathers, the agony in his trapped leg fighting to be heard over the death knell in his head.
    Inches from the front wheels of the lorry, Jason closed his eyes.
    And jerked them open, as the heavy lorry whistled past his head and the bike slammed against solid rock.
    Jason flew through the air, an ungainly ostrich in flight, and plunged into the lake.
    Amy couldn’t sleep.
    The coffee had done nothing for her, and the red wine chaser made her heart beat unpleasantly fast, her face flushed and too hot. Where was Jason? Bangor had plenty of mobile phone signal but his GPS locators all remained off-grid. Her mind supplied the 1001 ways that he could die in the Middle of Nowhere, Wales, but she tried to fight away those thoughts.
    He was fine. He had to be fine.
    Unable to monitor Jason’s wellbeing, she sought out a distraction. When flash games and Sporcle quizzes failed to hold her attention, she indulged in her favourite loathed pastime – checking in with her parents.
    The bank account opened up for her easily enough. It was her father’s third new account in six months, which deepened her suspicion that he was involved in something unsavoury. Tax avoidance or money laundering for the obscenely wealthy. Something else she could hate him for, while he remained blissfully unaware.
    From their recent transactions, they were in Monaco. Expensive restaurants and wine by the case and private casinos. Amy wondered if Lizzie was going to join them, play happy families without her. She had forgiven her sister for reaching out to their parents, but something about the image still stung.
    Lizzie remembered living with their parents better than Amy did. Lizzie had lived with them in their beautiful Whitchurch house, while Amy clung to her grandmother’s skirts and stayed in the little Cardiff terrace, away from the light and the outside. Of course, when they’d abandoned their children to see the world, Lizzie had been forced to share Amy’s attic and the burden of Gran’s fading mind.
    It was the theft that set them free. Amy had watched their travels for months, yearning for some connection to them when the postcards and calls dried up. Taking the next step had been difficult only because it crossed a moral line – the child who stole from her parents.
    Her phone buzzed. She pounced on it but was disappointed to see Owain’s name staring back at