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“Nonsense,” she said, drawing in air through her nose. I could almost picture her in front of me. “Because now I have Veronica up against the wall. Balls in my grip. And you’re whining because you’re coping awfully well with all this? Not trying to throw yourself off any balconies? All your veins intact? Eh?”

“Sober as a judge,” I agreed.

She was a piece of work. But then this was Gun Larsen. And apparently, I was playing her game.

“See?” she said smugly. “And that, Mr Scotland? That is how you turn this around.”

19. Stewart

I’d left it late but couldn’t stop worrying. The kids had been such a welcome distraction, keeping me occupied, but still. I knew Dylan. I knew his schedule, and his curtains were still drawn, and it was almost eight at night.

Reuben was jet-lagged and had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I’d just found Gray asleep on Jasmine’s bed, which was my usual cue to go downstairs and settle down for the night.

Easiersaid than done when all I could think of was Dylan. His skin against mine. The fact that he wasn’t answering his phone, nor his door. And that, with what I knew about him, had me frightened. Worried. Concerned to the point that I rang Jean in a panic.

“You have a key, don’t you?” I said without even introducing myself.

“Yes.” She wasn’t following me. I didn’t blame her.

“Can you come over?” I tried to suggest, but here I was, barking out orders.

“Did you argue?” she queried, moving around. I hoped she was putting her shoes on, grabbing her keys.

“He left this morning, and now I can’t get hold of him. Won’t answer the door.”

“Oh, I see! He’ll just be in a tiff. He should really make sure you have a spare key. I was just sitting down to watch a movie.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. I also felt really bad for not trusting him. He needed space. I needed space. I knew all these things and was still tapping my fingers against the tabletop, hoping she would hurry up and get over here.

“I can come pick the keys up,” I offered.

“I’ll come, Stewart. Nothing I haven’t done before, you know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I paced the room. Went and knocked on the patio doors again, hoping the horrible feeling in my stomach would ease, that he would just open the door, ask why I hadn’t brought tea, smile that little smile he did. Let me stroke his cheek.

In the end, I was pacing the pavement outside, then opening the gate for Jean as she got out of her taxi. Shame and fear were a heady mix, yet here I was, grabbing the keys from her hand and running across the driveway to get to his house. Taking the stairs in two double steps, I knocked as I got the key in the lock. Turned it. Pushed, with Jean hot on my heels.

“Dylan!” I shouted.

Silence. A deafening one. The house dark and empty.

“Dylan!”

Panic. I never panicked. Not these days. Apart from when Jasmine fell off the wooden deck and landed on the trampoline below. Or when Reuben had disappeared as a flighty teen and not come home. People mattered. People really fucking mattered.

I yanked open the door leading to the stairs, almost flattening him coming up them.

Dylan. Still dressed in the shirt from last night, with his phone in his hand.

Dishevelled to the max. Also, he stank.

Not that I cared. I fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him up the last steps, swinging him around like a ragdoll, making his phone fly out of his hand.

Then I hugged him, this stupid, silly man who somehow meant more than anyone else.

I was lying. My son. My grandchildren. Gray. But this guy? He was apparently right there with them. Who would have known?