Page 38 of These Tears

Unfortunately for him, I am at a point where my nerves are no longer wires but torn threads. And I’m not entirely sure I won’t use the poker.

‘Leah, this is Mr Conall Byrne. Conall, my sister Leandra Nottingham. She owns this house.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Nottingham,’ he says, a polished Irish lilt threading through the clipped elegance of his voice, each syllable shaped like something crafted and inspected under a jeweller’s loupe.

I narrow my eyes at my sister, her brown hair diligently gathered in a braid, and—

Is that mascara?

‘He’s a lawyer,’ she adds. ‘Marina’s friend.’

My gaze drifts from the dark crescents beneath her eyes to the papers spread between them.

It takes me a moment – three, in fact.

Divorce. Right.

I lift the business end of the poker an inch. That has Anna slapping a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh, and her eyes squeeze shut in mortification.

‘Whose lawyer?’ I ask quietly, keeping the sharpness of my voice – ready to evict him at the point of the chosen weapon if the name of that client begins with an H and ends in orrendous bastard.

‘I—’ he stammers, eyes glancing from the iron in my hand to my sister, then back to me. ‘Mrs Kensington’s, of course.’

‘Former Mrs Kensington,’ I correct.

He clears his throat at that. But the poker remains hanging where it is.

A beat. Two.

In my head, a gear finally clicks into place.

‘Do you take on murder cases?’ I ask.

Anna groans, collapsing back into the chair as if I’d taken five years off her. ‘Put that thing down, Leah.’

He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt – too smooth for someone stepping into this particular chaos – and loosens them slightly. ‘I’ve been known to, yes.’

‘Are you still known to?’

‘Leah…’ Anna rises, walks over, and plucks the poker from my hand like I’m a child with a kitchen knife. She slots it neatly back beside the fireplace, pretending to rearrange it while using the standstill to pinch me mercilessly in the hip.

I swallow the yelp, sliding away from the witch.

Conall watches the whole exchange with a damned kind of composure.

‘That depends on the case,’ he says evenly.

I grin.

I try not to.

But I fail.

This Irishman has just become my favourite person.

I walk over to shake his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Byrne.’

He leans as far back from me as possible, his feet still planted firmly in place.