Page 291 of These Tears

And as my sister’s boyfriend launches into explanations of why it’s not flawed, just complicated, I hold Sindre’s eyes.

His expression remains carefully blank, but then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

The answer to a question I never really asked.

He lowers his attention to the floor and reclines in the chair again, every trace of the smile disappearing.

And hope ignites in my chest.

But the secret remains between us while Conall makes calls and the legal plan takes shape. I’ll give my statement, he’ll handle the prison records and witnesses and keep trying to find whatever Cromwell has tried to bury.

He also orders us not to phone, message or breathe in the wrong way that might lead Cromwell’s people to where we are.

I don’t hear the rest. Because all I can see is Elias beneath fluorescent lights again. Behind another locked door. Waiting for strangers to decide his fate.

The officer taking my statement cannot see me for another forty minutes, which is how we end up in the coffee shop opposite the station. Olle tries to order enough coffee and pastries to sustain a small village – or two giants and a fury – while the said fury murders the display with her eyes.

‘Leah?’

My name hits the back of my head in a voice I haven’t heard in a while.

The hospital entrance catches in the café glass across from me, and recognition lands a second too late. Of all the police stations in London, apparently, we’ve ended up within walking distance of the one place I could happily never see again.

I turn so fast the coffee shop spins around me and I nearly lose my balance.

Dark-blond hair cut close at the sides. Clean-shaven jaw. Brown eyes I once mistook for warmth.

Ron stands a few feet away with one hand around a takeaway cup, wearing navy scrubs and a hospital identification clipped to his chest.

For a second, I can only stare as though I can’t place him.

At first glance, he is exactly as I remember him: polished, expensive and convinced that charm equals honesty. Then I notice the small things: his hair is thinner, his face narrower, his frame leaner beneath the white coat.

The mischievous twinkle is still there in his eyes. The smug little smile, too – the one that says he expects the world to forgive him for soiling it.

‘God, Leah,’ he says warmly, as if greeting an old friend and not the woman whom he had hollowed out. ‘Look at you!’

My hand slides into my pocket before I can stop it, fingers closing around Frida’s ring until its edge steadies me.

I breathe once. Then again. And this time, my knees do not even think about giving.

‘Ronald,’ I acknowledge him without a smile.

His smile holds for a second too long, waiting for me to look away. When I don’t, a crease appears between his brows.

Once, that tiny sign of displeasure would have sent me searching for what I had done wrong.

I turn before he can dress it up with another charming sentence and push through the line of people waiting patiently, completely ignoring Olle calling my name behind me.

Outside, the warm air hits my face hard enough to sober me. Brute rises, placing himself against my leg, broad chest blocking the world.

I scratch the rough fur between his ears, using the solid warmth of him to pull myself back into my body.

His head lifts, stare suddenly fixing over my shoulder, pupils dilating.

I stiffen.

The bell above the coffee-shop door gives a bright shriek, and Ron steps out after me.