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The first time I had been paid as a newly examined lawyer, I’d been so proud of myself. This time, it wasn’t pride. It was relief. It felt like something was finally going myway. I was doing good work, and my sweat, blood and tears—well, mostly my sweat and Jean’s blood and sheer determination, but my tears seemed to have dried up after spending six hours being grilled by a court-appointed psychologist whom Gun Larsen affectionately referred to as The Devil.

I fully understood that moniker and had suitably trembled when Gun had pointed out that he’d delivered his full report, warts and all.

I didn’t want to know.

Gun had laughed and told me I was being ridiculous. I supposed that was a good thing because she’d simply moved on to the next subject without even a swift drag of her cigarette.

That had been days ago, and my children were now supposed to be back at school. The schedule software on my laptop was showing September, and I hadn’t had any further phone calls from Veronica, but I’d had plenty from Constance.

I treasured them, even though she said she hated me and that I was ruining her life, forcing her to go back to school in America when she should have been in the UK. She’d actually even rung her former headteacher toensure there would be a place for her when she eventually returned.

She had one more year. One more. She’d have to go straight into exam preparation and would require some extra tutoring, and it hurt my whole body to have to tell her that I had no money to pay the fees for the school she’d previously attended. I never would.

She’d laughed in my face.

My daughter was smart. Really so. She had also laughed when I’d asked if she had any ideas where I could sell my body to science to pay for it all. She’d suggested pole dancing at some local club. I could make good tips, she said.

I suddenly agreed with her notion of leaving that American school she was at, if that was what they were teaching. Joking aside, she kept pushing, every night, and it was silly how happy it made me. Our talks. Her laughter. Her absolute conviction that I wasn’t doing enough.

I agreed, and despite not having paid my new legal team a single penny, I would hang up on my daughter and ring and pester Gun Larsen. Strangely, she didn’t refuse my calls, never told me no, allowed me to ring her and ask questions. Indeed, she was positively encouraging when I pushed for answers.

“You’re doing well, Dylan. Trust me. I have this. Have I ever lost a case?” She’d blow smoke into the receiver, her gravelly voice making me smile.

“No,” I would agree as she would tut.

“Remember, this isn’t a case, just a small amusement on the side. I love these kinds of challenges. This is me flexing muscle, and I’m enjoying every minute of it. Will we see results? Absolutely. Will they be the results we want? Watch me.”

Then she’d hang up, and I’d sit there, feeling like a fool. I had no guarantees. No safeguards in place. Only me and my stupid sofa in my former living room that now resembled some kind of library, where the occasional tables in the corner had been replaced with the bookshelves from the garage and my books and files were neatly organised behind Jean’s computer set-up.

I worked from the sofa, and then each night, I would go downstairs to my stupid guest bed and find Stewart walking through the patio doors, still in a shirt and tie, though usually also wearing a cardigan, since the evenings were a little cooler. The trains rumbled past like soothing white noise, and this was apparently now my life. This evening, he’d walked in carrying a basket full of my clothes because he was running a lot of laundry andsaid he might as well fill the load up and do mine too, my smalls mingled in with his grandchildren’s colourful attire on the washing line outside.

The things I noticed. And didn’t. Once again stabbing myself in the cheek with the toothbrush, I rinsed my mouth and returned to the room, where Stewart had made himself comfortable in the bed, two pillows behind his back as he scrolled on his phone.

“Your phone rang, twice. I couldn’t find it to answer in time, but it’s on the side in the kitchen. Next to your trousers.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Gray got back to LA in one piece. The house already feels wrong without him. I don’t like it when he’s away.”

This was so nice. Him in bed, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Me pottering around in my boxers, having managed a quick shower.

I smelled nice. He commented on that.

I liked it.

I liked that he slept here. I liked that he was so reliable. That I didn’t even have to ask for him to come. He just would.

I picked up my phone. “Veronica.” I sighed. “I’d better ring her back.” I pressed the screen as I took the stairs up to the main house, not really wanting Stewart to hear the rants she would no doubt deliver.

“Dylan,” she opened, not even offering a greeting. I’d learnt not to expect one.

“Veronica,” I replied.

“I’m in the shit here. Not happy.” She never was.

“How can I help?”Polite. Stay calm.Gun Larsen had not been wrong, and I was following her haphazardly assembled programme here, just as she’d taught me.Stay in control. Say nothing.

“I kicked Brandon out of the house. Not a day too soon, if you ask Constance, but there were complications and…” She made some weird sound before composing herself.