Page 294 of These Tears

We scatter as planned after my statement, everyone playing their part.

And now, the final move is left on the board.

I’m almost tempted to go straight home and fold my sister into my arms, but some joys deserve to be saved for last, when there’s nothing left to dull them.

Frida’s ring weighs in my pocket. I can’t wear it while Elias is locked away. And it feels wrong to put it on my finger myself.

Chasing my courage along the pavement, I glance up at the offensively blue sky – almost the colour of Elias’ eyes.

I forgot how well the grand façade of Cromwell & Haines, Solicitors could make dirty money look respectable. Dark glass keeps out the glare; black marble swallows every footprint before anyone can leave evidence of having passed through.

Chrome handles and chairs catch the light as Brute and I cross the lobby. My hands shake as he takes in the stiff-backed employees, the grim faces and the security posted near the lifts. His ears are low and he keeps very close to me.

Fear has a smell, I’ve learnt. Even here, beneath the lemon-scented polish and imported coffee.

One of the security guards steps into my path, eyes dropping to Brute. ‘You can’t bring the dog in here, love.’

I look down at the harness strapped across the dog’s chest, the words SUPPORT DOG sitting in crisp white letters – courtesy of Sindre.

I smile as sweetly as my temper allows. ‘Mr Cromwell is expecting me,’ I say, tapping the white lettering on Brute’s harness. ‘And the dog comes with me unless you’d like the newspapers to write about poor witness handling.’

The guard’s brow furrows at the harness. His disapproving blue eyes move from the dog to me, then back to the dog, weighing the size of Brute’s teeth against the likelihood of paperwork.

‘Name?’ he asks at last. I give it. He touches two fingers to the earpiece tucked into his ear and murmurs something I can’t grasp.

After several beats, Brute lowers his bum beside my heel with theatrical patience while I consider whether corporate security is allowed to shoot people on sight.

Finally, the guard steps aside, gesturing for a female colleague to pat me down. I hold my breath, hoping they won’t go near the dog, especially after he stops breathing and fixes his eyes on her the moment she approaches.

‘Top floor. Mr Cromwell will see you now,’ the blue-eyed guard says.

The lift doors swallow us.

My pulse fills the empty space.

I breathe in, breathe out, and fail to convince my lungs that we are not actively marching into hell.

The doors throw my reflection back at me as the memories break through: Elias chasing me in the woods, snow tearing at my legs, chains straining over his body, tears still wet when I touched his face.

I close my fingers around Frida’s ring in my pocket and exhale. ‘Excellent idea, Leah. Top-tier survival instinct.’

But this morning carries a purpose, and I have to stop thinking about this slow descent into madness.

My thoughts reel backwards to when Elias was still a dangerous stranger and wanting him had not yet complicated every rule of life. And psychiatry.

The lift doors slide open.

The floor tilts beneath me when I step into the open office. Glass runs from wall to wall. Every black chair, lamp and bookcase is positioned with grave seriousness, and the thick charcoal rug kills our footsteps before they can reach the man at the far end.

Beyond the stretch of polished floor long enough to make the last rites seem sensible, a man sits behind a desk. His silhouette is cut against the darkened windows, bald head catching what little light the glass allows inside.

I walk towards him quietly, Brute’s paws padding over the soft rug.

Cromwell doesn’t rise. He watches me approach as if he has plenty of time to decide which piece of me to pull apart first.

‘Ms Nottingham.’ He folds his hands on the desk. ‘Fancy meeting you again. What can I do for you?’

The dog and I stop a few feet from his desk because walking too close to devils like him feels too close to volunteering for taxidermy.