Page 293 of These Tears

‘Oh, I apologise,’ I rush, glancing over at him. ‘Inga believes arseholery is contagious, so she doesn’t shake hands with those who suffer from it.’

A hilarious scoff escapes Olle when he zeros in on Brute, who has now taken another step forward. He reaches down and pats him lightly in a useless attempt to settle him down.

‘Is that how this is going to go?’ Ron asks, audaciously.

But then his hand retreats slowly, his attention shifting to the dog with considerably less confidence than he had arrived with.

‘Is that dog… safe?’ he asks.

Brute answers by lowering his head another inch.

‘Perfectly,’ I say. ‘He understands boundaries.’

Inga tilts her head. ‘A rare quality.’

I look down at the dog, who looks far too committed to the bit, though I am very much aware he is – for all intents and purposes – a guard dog whose talents lie in sounding alarms and following trails – not eating adulterous doctors.

But Ron doesn’t need to know that.

So I give the bastard the sweetest expression I can manage. ‘He’s a trained Norwegian elkhound.’ Brown eyes find mine. The suppressed rage and frustrations I’ve been piling up for much of the last few years break through the barriers. ‘Want to see him play fetch?’

His smile loosens a few degrees, stance easing backwards when he realises at least one of us might bite.

His palms lift in a thin attempt to soothe the situation. ‘I see you have acquired quite an entourage.’

‘I acquired standards,’ I say. ‘You should go back to one of your fiancées.’

His smile tightens. ‘It was nice seeing you. I like this new backbone of yours.’

‘It’s not new. You simply benefited from me forgetting I had one.’

His eyes flick to Brute again. I turn my back on him before he can manufacture a reply.

As my entourage and I walk onwards, out of the corner of my eye, I watch him cross the road, shoulders slightly hunched, his reflection breaking apart on the hot tarmac.

I brace for the influx of all things an old wound might summon.

But still… nothing happens. No desperate inventory is made of everything I lacked. I simply watch his small shadow disappear behind a building and feel as if someone had pulled me straight out of the sewers.

Brute’s stomach gives a low, tragic grumble and the world gains the colours of practicality again. Dog food. Caffeine. Statement.

Elias.

I drag a hand through my scalp, then turn back towards the road and let the traffic pull me out of Ron’s pathetic aftershock.

Tomorrow, all hell either breaks loose or finally realises it has picked the wrong man to swallow.

My man.

But first… there are a few things that need doing.

Like aiding the law to be entirely lawful.

50

At seven the next morning, Conall’s message burns across my screen.

The CPS has authorised charges against Elias. First appearance expected before noon. Do nothing until I call.