Page 299 of These Tears

I don’t know what my visit changed, but I’m certain that I’ve bought some time.

We had been warned that, if Elias was charged, his first appearance could be listed almost immediately. The pressure is already building and I’m not entirely sure it won’t take us all down once it breaks.

As the building spits us back into the world, I get the feeling back into my legs. They still shake while Brute steers close enough for his shoulder to knock my thigh with every step.

My phone vibrates. One message from Conall waits on the screen, along with an address.

Police charged Elias at 10:12. First appearance listed for eleven at the magistrates’ court. Do NOT be late.

This explains the urgency beneath Cromwell’s composure. By noon, Elias could be moving out of police custody and into the remand system – somewhere harder for us to reach and easier for Cromwell to touch.

I hurry on, wishing I could skip straight to the part where Elias and I are back home in Norway.

That slows my gait until I halt with the dog glancing up at me.

Home.

Where he is.

With a sigh, I look around to anchor myself to the present.

London moves around me as if nothing has happened. As if Cromwell isn’t watching from the sky and deciding which bodies become paperwork.

I keep walking. One foot. Another.

He knew about Dougal back then. He knows about me. He knows exactly where Elias is. There’s no one around him whom he can influence, though. For the moment, at least.

Arthur may not have known what his company had become, but those he allowed under his roof had. Cromwell had control over everything, working from the shadows.

Everything in me twists as I turn sharply at the corner, fingers buried in Brute’s harness until the stitching bites my palm.

I went in to draw blood.

I think I may have also shown the bastard where to cut me.

This might have been the last stupid decision I ever got to make.

The café is too warm when I step inside, too alive with the clang of cups and cutlery, and people who have no idea I may have just shaken hands over Elias’ grave. Possibly my own, too.

Sindre is only just sitting down beside Inga as I reach the table. She sits at the back with her brothers at her flanks, pale eyes narrowing the second she zeros in on me.

‘Took a long time to wash your hair,’ she observes. The silence that follows might suggest she never believed it in the first place.

I lower myself into the chair opposite her, Brute pressing under the table against my knees, all but melting when Sindre scratches behind his ear. But the lie is already curling over the table. ‘I needed a minute to myself.’

My eyes find Sindre’s, and the dark brown in his somehow looks more vivid in this light. He hides the reassuring smirk and pats the dog several more times, cooing in Norwegian, then says: ‘I think we’re due a walk, you and I.’

When the conversation kicks off about Conall’s recent instructions, I pull my phone from my pocket, holding it under the table – away from curious eyes. I type up a long text about Elias’ state and what has happened up until now. Then I attach the file burning through my cloud storage and hit send.

Conall would have an aneurysm right now.

My gaze snaps to a doughnut with cherry filling bleeding out. I follow the crimson stain spreading across the plate and count backwards from ten.

The next time I look at the screen, I see three dots moving in small waves while the other side is typing.

And then I get a smiling-face emoji in return.

My finger taps quickly to delete the messages just as Olle reaches over and touches my shoulder.