Page 122 of Claim

I hadn’t been able to see him. Nor speak to him.

Part bail conditions. Part ongoing trial. Part survival.

I’d had scraps of information filtered through Lennon, through Imogen, through people who chose their words carefully. I knew he’d gone from the hospital to a private place to recover. Then back to his parents’ place out west. I knew he was okay. That he’d healed. That he was expected to return to work soon. But Imogen had been clear. As a witness, as someone tangled in the same case, there was no version of this where we could be anywhere near each other.

And honestly, I’d believed six months was plenty long enough for him to realise he was better off without me. That I didn’t belong in his world. That I had nearly cost him everything and this endless waiting was one sided.

I’d made my peace with that.

I was grateful he was alive. That he was well. That loving me hadn’t broken him beyond repair.

But I’d be lying if I said his absence hadn’t stung.

“Small,” I said, my voice still rough.

“But it’s yours.”

“Yeah.” I bit my lip. “It’s mine. How are you?”

“Bored out of my mind.”

I snorted. “What, even with all that luxury you live in?”

“It’s a well-rehearsed myth that money relieves monotony.”

“Says someone who has it.”

He laughed. “True. You’re right. You win.”

I glanced around at my dingey bedsit. “Ain’t sure I have.”

The silence following wasn’t awkward. It was necessary. A moment to recalibrate. Listen to each other breathe. To know we were both still there. Alive and kicking.

Then I couldn’t help myself. “Miss you, Tricky.”

“Miss you too, Richie.”

I smiled, the name sounding exactly right in his mouth.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “the reason for my call… the Hale-Fitzroys would like to extend you an invitation to dinner.”

I furrowed my brow. “You what?”

“Dinner. Here. You. Me. And various members of the Hale-Fitzroy clan who wish to express their gratitude for me not dying.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No. Apparently, they rather like me alive. Who knew, eh?”

I snorted. “I meant the dinner. You can’t be serious?”

“Are you busy?”

I barked out a laugh, the sound half disbelief, half something dangerously close to happiness. “My diary’s been empty for months.”

“Well, come to dinner and we might change that. Hale-Fitzroy’s don’t tolerate bone idleness.”

I drew in a slow breath. It sounded unreal. Me, invited to his family’s table. Me. The man his father had once tried to bury. The man he believed should be buried.