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“My name’s Saxon Chevalier.”
“I know who you are,” he says. “I’m not completely useless at my job.”
“Tell me the name of the law firm.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m not fucking kidding,” I yell, pulling harder on the tie.
“All right, all right, Jesus. It’s Hooper & Sons.”
I release his tie, and he adjusts it, looking at me warily. I bend and look him in the eye. “If I see you again, I’ll take a fucking golf club to you.”
His lips curve up. “Fair enough.” He raises the window. Then he starts the car, and heads off toward the city center.
I cross the road and go back into the garage. Catie’s standing inside, but she’s obviously been watching the scene.
“I told you to stay in the car,” I scold.
“Who is he?”
“He’s a private investigator, hired by a law firm.”
“A law firm?”
“Don’t worry about it. You won’t be seeing him again.” I open the back door and usher her inside, then lock the door behind me.
She walks into the living room and stands there, her arms wrapped around herself, trembling. “What do they want?”
“I don’t know. It’s a firm from Christchurch.”
That surprises her. “Oh.”
“I told him to tell them to come through me if they want to talk to you. He gave me their name. I’ll get it sorted. He won’t bother you again. Okay?”
She swallows and nods.
“Whatever it is,” I tell her more gently, “I’ll sort it. You’re not alone now. You don’t have to do anything on your own anymore. Do you understand?”
She meets my eyes, and her lips curve up, just a fraction, as she nods again.
“Right,” I say, “I’m going to run you a bath and get you warmed up. After that I’ll make you something to eat. I’m going to make it my life’s work to fatten you up.”
“Like that prize heifer again.”
I give a short laugh. “Make yourself comfortable.” I walk into the bathroom, fit the plug, start the bath running, and pour in some of the relaxing foam that I use occasionally after a workout. Then I go out to the kitchen and ferret around in the cupboards until I find the candles Kennedy bought me one Christmas that I’ve never used, and a box of matches. I take them through to the bathroom, light them, and put them around the bath.
Next, I go through to my bedroom. I take out a clean black tee and the smallest pair of track pants I own, and bring them through to the living room to find Catie kneeling on the floor in front of my record collection.
“Kip and Damon are packing up your stuff,” I tell her, “so here’s a tee and track pants that might fit until they get here.”
She stares at me. “What? They’re cleaning out my flat?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to go back there. Shit. I’m sorry. I suppose that was a bit presumptuous. Are you mad at me?”
Her expression softens. “No. You’re right, I don’t want to go back there. I’m sorry they had to do it.”
“Kip suggested it. He wanted to help.”
