Page 300 of These Tears

‘What are you having?’ he asks.

The warmth spreads briefly where his large hand touched me. But the cold, ugly truth still sits between my ribs. Cromwell is watching. Elias is running out of time. And I have just made myself impossible to miss.

51

‘Has anyone ever told you you’re more persistent than an alley cat?’ Conall grinds the words between his teeth as he approaches from across the vast courtyard with a reprimand burning in his eyes.

Clouds have swallowed the sky above the magistrates’ court, where the last remaining heir to the Crane line is to make his first appearance. It has drawn every reporter in London out of whatever den they work from. The clamour does nothing to soothe my nerves.

‘Persistence is a noble quality,’ Inga supplies as she lifts her chin stubbornly – reminding me that some traits crop up on every branch of the family tree.

‘In certain doses,’ Conall corrects. ‘Properly supervised.’ He looks at me. ‘Preferably nowhere near active criminal proceedings, armed men or prisons.’ His glare sharpens. ‘The world may admire a stubborn survivor, Leandra, but even stubborn survivors need to know when to sit down before they bleed on the furniture. Take it from an Irishman.’

I cross my arms. ‘Is that what you did when you realised how deep this goes? Stood down?’

He squares his shoulders as his mouth pulls taut.

‘Exactly. The Irish have made an art form out of being told to stand down and taking that as an invitation to continue out of spite and principle until shit gets done.’

His brows lift.

‘Alley cat,’ he reiterates, turning towards the courthouse. ‘Fucking hell… You’d better be sure about this, Leandra.’

Am I sure about this wild plan I keep improvising at every turn?

Uh-huh. Super sure. Now all I need to do is convince myself of that. ‘Let’s get him.’

Conall received a fraction of my conversation with Cromwell – after he stopped heaving and decided against hauling me to the nearest church and dunking my head into holy water.

As we make our way towards the entrance through shifting shoulders and black garments, my gaze catches on a familiar face.

MacLeish stands near the lower steps, notebook tucked against his chest, his attention snapping to me. The smile he gives is small, smug and far too pleased, as if he has already written the headline and is only waiting for tragedy to supply the punctuation.

My insides lurch as he lifts the notebook, clicks his pen, and begins to write.

‘Where’s Sindre?’ Henrik asks when we start up the stone stairs.

Busy. He is very busy.

I don’t say it aloud. Mostly because my nerves won’t allow it.

‘I think he tagged along just because he wanted a free holiday,’ Inga grumbles ahead. ‘He’d better not be feeding the dog crap food.’

‘Olle will make sure of that, you know how he is around animals,’ Henrik adds.

Inside, I take my place in the public gallery with Inga, palms damp and my pulse beating unevenly in my breastbone. My eyes climb up to where a dormant video-link screen hangs with large black speakers in each corner.

Everything about the space is built for procedure. For order. For deciding what happens to human lives.

I remind myself what Conall had made painfully clear: this is Elias’ first appearance, not a trial. The murder charge will be sent to the Crown Court before any major decisions happen.

Knowing that changes nothing as I stare at the empty clock overhead.

My giant can survive the wilderness and fight wolves, but can he fight the ones here?

Like the one watching me from the other end of the gallery now.

Cromwell sits back, perfectly at ease. Expects me to smile. Expects me to cower.