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Ben: Yes
I collect the files and pull on a T-shirt.
I take my bike, not wanting to waste time in traffic on a Friday night in the city.
Pulling into the gates of my childhood home never gets any easier, and I don’t allow myself time to take it in as I climb off my bike and pull the file from my bag.
I knock on the front door and wait.
My mother answers after a minute, her face transforming when she sees me. “Lance—”
It shouldn’t be so hard to look at her. “I’m here to see Ben.”
Her shoulders drop, her throat bobbing. “Oh.” She nods, opening the door wider and letting me in.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve not seen you in months,” she tells me as my eyes dance along the stripped-back walls.
“I’ve been busy. You’re redecorating?” I ask.
“Trying to.”
I watch her, her tired eyes shining. She’s wearing her work clothes, a sweatshirt with the local supermarket logo covering the pocket.
I hurt her pride, making her get a job.
She probably hates me even more than she ever did because of it. It’s why I haven’t bothered to come here, sending the money for rent and bills and not giving them a minute more of my time.
“Ben’s in the office,” she tells me.
I frown. “Dad’s—” I cut myself off, gritting my teeth and shaking my head. “Dad’s office?”
She stares at me, her eyes widening at my reaction.
I turn and head down the hall.
Ben’s sat at the large wooden desk in the centre of the room, my father’s pictures now replaced by stark white walls.
“Lance,” he greets, not looking up at me.
I shake off my emotions, striding to the desk and dropping the file. “Jasmine Lockwood.” His eyes meet mine, bored. “Where did you find her?”
His lip tips up, and he pushes away the file with a finger. “Really, mate? You can’t even say hello now?”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries, and you can wipe that smug smile off your face before I knock it clean off. What do you know about this?”
He shakes his head, sitting back in his chair.
“Hello, big brother. I thought I heard your voice.” I turn, catching Nessa Anne on the threshold, her togetherness making my brows furrow momentarily.
Her hair is freshly washed, down and curled, skin clear—flawless even. Clothes pristine. The opposite of my mother in every way.
“Nessa Anne,” I mutter.
“Did someone die?” she asks, falling back onto the Chesterfield sofa that’s been pushed back against the wall. “I presume you came for a reason.”
“I need to speak with Ben in private—”
