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Fuck. Somewhere along the line, I'd gotten used to him being there. His ubiquitous presence was like a safety blanket I didn't know I wanted or needed.
You're starting to remember him the way it used to be.
No, I was not. He was just a constant now, so I was used to him being there.
The lies I told myself, really. Along with the immediate relief I felt when he took my elbow and didn't let go until we were on our next train. I told myself that relief was just in not being alone in a strange part of the city, but in reality, I knew it was about feeling his solid presence. I did feel safe when he was near. I also felt like throwing things, but that was neither here nor there.
When we arrived at the station for Angel, I pulled out the address from my pocket, and he glanced at it over my shoulder. "What's that?"
"It's where we're going."
"I don't like this. I should call it in."
"And say what? That I dared to go off script? That I went someplace other than campus, the library, the shops, Jamila's, and home?"
He pressed his lips together. The bottom one was fuller than the top, and I had the irrational urge to reach up and nip it with my teeth.
"Taxis are over there,” I said. “I'm going to grab one."
He hesitated for a moment but then followed closely behind. "You won't tell me where we're going?"
"We're going to visit a social worker. She works at Bristles Home for Girls. It might be where my sister was sent after she aged out of the children's home."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"My sister. This was a home she might have been in for a while."
The cab I’d hailed was a Prius, and Westin looked squished in the back seat. His legs were too long, knees were almost to his chest. His gaze flickered to the driver, who was clearly listening intently. "I wish you'd told me. We could have done some more research before we headed out."
"Yeah, but we haven't exactly been talking since… Well, you know."
His lips were still pressed firmly together, but his gaze flickered to me and held a light of mischief. "Oh, by all means, if you want to talk, let's talk."
I then looked at the driver, whose gaze stayed astutely on the road. "Nope, I don't feel like talking about anything."
"Excellent. Neither do I."
When the cabbie dropped us off at Bristles home, the outside of the building made my heart sink. While it looked decently maintained, it was a rough gray stone building. It looked dreary.
The neighborhood wasn't terrific. Across the street was an off-license, and there were some shops along the way. Up ahead were a block of flats that looked like they belonged to the Council. Instead of the usual buzz and energy of a high street, it had more of a dreary, downtrodden vibe. The whole place felt like where hope went to die.
I pressed the bell of Bristles Home for Girls, and we were led into the front vestibule and directed to wait by an elderly Black lady who wore her hair in a short afro peppered with gray. Within minutes, I was seated in front of the director, Christine Jones. Westin opted to stand by the door.
Christine lifted a brow at him and turned her attention to me. "Would your mate like a seat?"
I glowered at him. "I'm so sorry, my mate has no manners. He'll continue to stand. He's ornery like that."
She nodded slowly, and I could tell she was trying to ascertain if I was in any kind of danger.
"I assure you, we're not a thing. You don't have to worry about me."
She blinked rapidly and then set her gaze back to Westin, who just gave her a nod. His gaze was impassive. I couldn't read him, couldn't figure out what was in his head. But she didn't look like she liked it.
"So, Miss Jones, I appreciate you talking to me. I've been looking for my sister, Lenora Crane. She might have been sent here when she aged out of the younger girls’ home."
"Yes, Lenora. Ah, poor lost soul."
"What do you mean by that?"
