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CHAPTER FIVE

December—one month later

Madigan

A heavy sigh came from the vicinity of Gazza’s bench at my back. He was working on an eighteenth-century book of maps which had challenged his patience all day. But it wasn’t the only culprit, apparently. “Jesus, Madigan, you’ve been staring at that Virgil Finlay dust jacket for almost an hour. It’s not going to repair itself, you know?”

“Mmm.” I ran my gloved finger along the jagged tear in the brightly coloured illustration, only dimly aware of his words.

A few seconds later he appeared at my shoulder. “Hellooooo?” He waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Anyone home?”

I blinked and met his gaze. “Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate this afternoon.”

Gazza huffed. “No kidding. Why don’t you call it a day?”

“I can’t,” I protested. “The collector?—”

“Can wait,” he finished. “Come on, Madigan. He’s had the thing for over ten years. He’ll survive another day or two. Better that than you work on it half-baked.”

“I’m not working on it half-baked, whatever the hell that means in this context. I’m just... thinking.” Regardless, I laid the dust jacket down and stepped away. Because Gazza was right. I’d told him the same thing a million times. The art of restoration demanded one hundred percent focus. If you fucked up a historic document, you didn’t get a second chance.

Gazza leaned his back against the book press and studied me, his long legs looking even longer in a pair of painted-on black jeans topped by a black tee and a brightly coloured Japanese-style yukata, billowing almost to the floor. Twenty-first-century Tom Ford meets sixth-century Nara period. So very Gazza. “Okay, what’s up?” He eyed me sternly. “This isn’t like you. And don’t give me any bullshit.”

“Nothing is up.” I ignored his tapping foot as I slid the dust jacket into its folder and set it aside. More foot tapping ensued and I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? I’m a grown man, Gazza. I don’t have to check in with you.”

He huffed irritably. “That’s debatable. Is this about the guy that died? The one who’d been in a coma. You’re friends with his husband, Nate?”

“Nick,” I corrected.

“Mmm.” Gazza studied me. “And is this Nick... hot?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, you pervert, not that it’s any of your business. Or mine, as it happens. The man has just lost his husband, for fuck’s sake.”

Gazza smiled. “Just getting my facts straight—or not straight, as it turns out.”

I ignored him. “And Davis was in a persistent vegetative state, not a coma.”

Gazza raised his hands. “Sorry. Either way, you’ve been about as useful as tits on a bull since the funeral, and that’s being generous. He was the same age as you, right? Is this some kind of mid-life mortality-crisis thing? Come on, talk to Papa. You know you want to.”

I narrowed my eyes. “ Papa’s gonna get himself fired if he keeps this up.”

Gazza laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while.

“You’re impossible.” I rolled my stool back from my workbench and began tidying up. “Davis was three years younger than me as it happens, not that I knew him. It was pretty gutting to sit through the service knowing what Nick had been through and how confusing it all had to be—relieved that your husband was finally at peace while knowing at the same time that it meant he was gone forever.”

Gazza’s half-smile faded into a deep frown. “Yeah, I can’t imagine.”

“Kind of puts your own problems in perspective.” I disposed of my cleaning cloth into the laundry hamper, then returned to my bench and switched off my work light, putting my face conveniently in shadow.

“So, how’s he doing then, this Nick?” Gazza pressed. “It’s gotta suck being two weeks out from Christmas.”

An excellent question. I lifted my gaze to his. “I have no idea.”

Gazza’s brows peaked. “You haven’t talked to him?”

My lips set in a thin line. “Oh, I’ve tried. He’s not answering my texts or calls. He didn’t even let me know about the funeral when he said he would. It was Jerry who told me. I put it down to Nick being busy and grieving, obviously, but at the wake he didn’t acknowledge me even once.”

Gazza frowned. “Maybe he didn’t see you. It must’ve been a crazy day.”

I sighed. “No, he saw me all right. He saw me and then he walked away. He couldn’t have been more obvious about it.”

The memory still stung. Standing in the reception room and watching Nick’s gaze land on me. I’d raised my hand in greeting and got a flicker of a smile in return followed by a frown and a carefully schooled acknowledgement. He’d politely tipped his head and moved on to someone else. Yes, he was grieving. And yes, I was being a dick, expecting any one-on-one time to offer my condolences. But not letting me know about the funeral and then ignoring me when I attended? It didn’t get much clearer.

Gazza pulled a face. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, and it’s not like I can push things.” Even if I wanted to. Even if I worried about the man almost every damn day. “That’s a job for the people who’ve known him a lot longer than I have.” I brushed some imaginary dust on my bench to the floor and then stared at the spot it should’ve landed. “I did call his mother, and she told me Nick wasn’t really talking to anyone, not even her. He insists he’s fine.” Our conversation in the courtyard came back to me. I’m okay. You don’t need to worry.

Gazza was quiet, but I could feel those clever tawny eyes taking my measure. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

I looked up. “Do?” I stared blankly at him. “I’m going to do nothing. This is none of my business. If Nick doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to talk, and I can’t make him. And based on his actions, he’s made it pretty clear that our friendship was defined by Golden Oaks. Maybe I remind him of a time he’d rather forget.”

“Uh-huh.” Gazza’s expression was hard to read. “Yeah... I’m calling bullshit on that. How many good friends do you have? Friends who you can talk important shit with.”

“Lots,” I snapped, feeling my cheeks heat when he didn’t respond. “Okay, maybe not lots, but there’re a few.”

More silence.

“Fine,” I huffed. “Two. I have two friends I can do that with.”

“ Not including your family... or me.” He waggled his brows.

I shot him a killer look. “Arsehole. Not to mention, that’s very presumptuous of you.”

He shrugged. “Hey, I call ’em as I see ’em.”

“Then one-ish,” I grumbled. “Are you happy now?”

He grinned. “Sooo happy. My point is not that you don’t have many friends, but that you don’t have them because you don’t need them. You like a small, tight circle around you, and yet this Nick guy somehow got an invitation. That in itself is intriguing, wouldn’t you say?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re telling the story.”

He grinned. “I am. And from what you’ve told me, Nick isn’t exactly a social butterfly either. So, there you are, unlikely friends at a time in Nick’s life when he really needs one. Seems more than chance, don’t you think?”

My eyes narrowed. “If you use the word synchronicity right now, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” Fucking Jung.

Gazza nodded sagely. “Internal psychological events linked to external world ones. Don’t piss off the unconscious, right?”

I indulged in another eye-roll and kicked him in the shins.

“Ow!”

I stabbed a finger his way. “I am never assigning another first-edition Carl Jung for you to restore, ever. Flicking through the chapter headings does not make you an expert.”

Gazza finished rubbing his shin, then leaned his back against my bench. “So, what are you, as a friend , going to do about Nick? It’s almost Christmas. He’s gotta be doing it hard.”

I hated that Gazza was right. Hated that I’d been asking myself the same question for days. Hated that I’d avoided it simply because I was attracted to Nick. Hated that I couldn’t hide from an answer any longer.

My whole body sagged at the thought.

Gazza clapped me on the back. “Atta boy.”

Finding out where Nick lived wasn’t as difficult as I’d thought. Lizzie sounded almost relieved to get my call, then surprised me by handing over his address without batting an eyelid. Although Nick had introduced us at Golden Oaks and we’d talked a couple of times since then, including at Davis’s funeral, it wasn’t like Lizzie really knew me.

For a ridiculous heart-fluttering moment, I wondered if Nick had maybe talked about me, and that’s why she felt comfortable giving me his details. Then I realised how fucked up that idea was and buried it where it belonged. Nick Fisher didn’t need me. I’d been a convenient, neutral ear at a difficult time, and I could live with that. There were a lot worse things to be.

“I really hope he talks to you,” Lizzie said. “But don’t take it personally if he sends you packing. You won’t be the first. None of us have broken through those concrete walls since Davis died. I’ve had calls from all their friends. People are worried. Then again, you were doing better than the rest of us before Davis died, so who knows?”

“I doubt that’s true,” I argued. “I think I was just a neutral voice. He didn’t care what I thought, not really, so I was a safe space, I suppose. Besides, he didn’t really speak about anything of importance. Mostly we just chatted.”

She gave a soft huff. “Don’t undersell yourself, Madigan. Nick’s never given a damn what anybody thought except Davis, sometimes me, and apparently... you , it seems.”

“Me?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice. “But we hardly know each other.”

Lizzie chuckled. “I don’t pretend to know what goes through that man’s head but I do know Nick paid attention to whatever you two did talk about. I know this because he was different afterward. I want to say easier, but the better word is probably steadier, especially when Davis started to deteriorate.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I settled for, “I’m happy if you thought I helped in any way but I didn’t really do anything except listen.”

Lizzie hummed, shaking her head in disagreement. “Did Nick mention that the day Davis died, I wanted him to call and let you know? But he was such a mess at the time, he wouldn’t, insisting he didn’t want to disturb you. Then lo and behold, you turn up anyway, exactly when he needs you. And when I saw you two talking in the courtyard, Nick looked... relieved. I don’t know any other way to describe it. How about that for good timing? Personally, I think it was more than that.”

Synchronicity. The word rattled to the front of my brain and my cheeks blew hot, my hands sweaty. “There was never anything between Nick and me except friendship, Lizzie, you have to believe me.”

She shushed me loudly. “Of course there wasn’t. Nick isn’t built that way.” Then she chuckled. “Although God knows that poor boy deserved some comfort. I would’ve understood and forgiven him, you know. Davis too.”

“But I wouldn’t have forgiven myself,” I softly disagreed. “That’s not who I am either, Lizzie.”

She went quiet for a long moment before whispering, “I know, Madigan. And the fact you know that about Nick says a great deal about how much he let his guard down with you. Let me know how it goes, but like I said, don’t be surprised if he doesn’t even open the door.”

I didn’t call Nick first to ask if I could visit, I simply typed his address into the map on my phone and headed out. His townhouse sat in a desirable eastern bay suburb an easy ten-minute walk from the beach. And as I drove the streets of the attractive leafy neighbourhood with its high privacy walls and fancy houses, I figured either Nick’s business or Davis’s writing career was a bigger deal than I’d imagined.

A part of me hoped Lizzie was right about Nick not opening the door, because pulling into the driveway of his townhouse, I was having a whole lot of second thoughts. Based on Nick’s behaviour at the funeral and his clear ghosting of my texts and calls, I was almost positive he was going to be less than happy to see me actually standing on his doorstep. Possibly even angry. And rightly so. We barely knew each other beyond a few weeks of random conversations at Golden Oaks. What right did I have to bowl up in the middle of the man’s grieving and think I could offer him anything?

The answer was easy and uncomfortable. No right at all.

The sensible decision would have been to turn around and leave before I embarrassed the both of us. After all, sensible was my middle name.

But I didn’t.

Because when I replayed our brief friendship over and over in my head, there was no denying the strange connection we’d had right from the start. And I couldn’t ignore the niggling idea that Nick was avoiding me precisely because of that connection. Like he wasn’t sure he could keep up the pretence if he and I talked.

Maybe he was right to be worried. Maybe he needed that wall right then.

But maybe he didn’t. I had to at least try.

I switched off the engine and stared up at the modern black-and-white townhouse—smaller than its neighbours by a fair bit but still classy. It was a three-storey affair, two floors of living above a large double garage. The windows on the first floor were closed, as were the ranch sliders, which opened onto a spacious balcony, and every blind was shut. To all intents and purposes, the townhouse looked... empty.

One could only hope. Because then I could pop a note into his letterbox and leave knowing I’d tried, right?

Wrong.

I grabbed the key fob and a first-edition book I’d taken from my collection as a talking point, in case Nick actually invited me in. I figured it might offer a distraction if nothing else, since Nick had asked me a million times to show him an example of what I did. The timing was completely off, of course, but Nick was unpredictable like that.

I climbed out of the car, stared at the black-and-white facade, and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

Following Lizzie’s sneaky suggestion, I ignored the flight of steps to the front door in favour of a path that skirted the side of the house to the back. She’d said that’s how family and friends arrived, and it was my best chance of getting Nick to actually answer the door.

I followed the narrow path sandwiched between the garage’s concrete block wall and a semi-tropical garden bed until I reached a pocket-sized backyard, containing an empty clothesline and a small vegetable patch overrun with weeds. The lawn hadn’t seen a blade in months, but a healthy-looking lemon tree groaned under the weight of a bumper crop that would’ve kept a gin palace happy for a year.

I was almost at the back door before I realised it was hanging wide open. The sight slowed me to a stop, my heartrate kicking up. Nick wasn’t the kind of guy to forget to close a door. A couple more steps and the jimmy marks on the frame came into view, along with a spray of black paint over the security camera.

Holy shit. I froze, my heart jumping in my throat.

In the quiet, I could hear someone speaking, but it was soft and indistinct. I looked up and realised it was coming from a partially open window on the first floor. It could’ve been Nick, but I wasn’t sure. The voice faded, like the speaker had walked into another room, and I returned to staring at the open door.

It was a simple decision.

Leave and call the police from the safety of my car. Sensible and very tempting. Or take a look inside in case Nick was in trouble and needed immediate help. Stupid and scary.

Door number one or door number two?

Dammit .

I blew out the breath I’d been holding and stepped into the laundry. If I’d ever done a sillier thing in my life, I couldn’t think of it right then. What the hell I thought I was going to do if I actually ran into someone, who knew? Hit them over the head with my first-edition Arthur Conan Doyle? Sherlock Holmes to the rescue in The Curious Incident of the Open Door.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I was losing my damn mind.

Two more steps and I was standing in the doorway of a hall that led off to my right. I paused again. The house remained quiet, ominously so. I glanced over my shoulder to the back door and sighed.

It wasn’t too late to change my mind.

I was still deciding when a blow to my stomach slammed me back against the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs. Bile surged up the back of my throat and I doubled over, hacking a mouthful onto the tiled floor. I was still gasping for air when a hand fisted the front of my shirt and pinned me to the wall. A clenched fist whistled toward me. I scrunched my eyes and braced for impact.

But the explosion of pain never came. Instead, a gasp of surprise was followed by a deafening crunch beside my left ear.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”