Page 8

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nick

When we’d both cleaned up, I made coffee, and while I was scouring my cupboards for something to eat that wasn’t growing green on the surface, Madigan took his mug and went in search of the lounge. He was long gone before I remembered the horrifying state of the room. I tried to call him back, but the damage was already done. When I appeared in the doorway, he was standing in the middle of the room looking pretty much gobsmacked, even if he tried to hide it once he realised I was there.

For a few seconds, I tried to see the room through his eyes and winced. Yeah, not good. I could’ve offered any number of excuses, or none at all. But I didn’t pass it off as anything other than what it was—a deeply accurate statement of where my head had been for too long and on some days still was. But the tide was slowly turning and I’d been in a much better mental space since then, even if I hadn’t quite summoned the energy to clean the place up.

The place reeked of unwashed bodies, stale food, and grief—testament to the fact I’d virtually camped out in front of the television for the first three weeks after Davis died. I’d even slept there rather than lie in our bed knowing he’d never share it with me again. Not that I could remember anything I’d watched. Just a rolling tide of reality television offering endless distraction and deep depression.

“Grab a seat if you can find one.” I brushed past and drew the curtains aside for the first time in over a month. Then I shoved open a couple of windows because yeah, the odour was truly outstanding and Madigan had a right to be worried. The thieves might’ve done a number on the place but that didn’t explain the stacks of takeout containers and unwashed plates that covered most of the coffee table and the furniture as well.

“Thanks.” Madigan’s concerned gaze again swept the messy room, but he said nothing. I should’ve been horrified that he was witnessing the true hovel I’d been living in, but for some reason I wasn’t. Two weeks earlier and things might’ve been different. Two weeks earlier and I couldn’t have guaranteed that I’d ever have the strength, let alone will to leave that dark, safe cocoon.

But there I was.

Out, if not yet free.

Baby steps, right?

Madigan tidied an empty pizza box, a selection of balled-up napkins, two pillows, and a blanket to the far end of the couch so he had room to sit. No judgement. Not platitudes. No offer to help me clean up.

He took a sip of his coffee and studied me across the coffee table. “How’s your head?”

I touched the new tape. “Okay. How’s the stomach?”

He grunted. “Sore, but I’ll live.”

The room fell silent as we sipped on our coffees. And maybe it was the very fact that he didn’t push that had me saying what came next. Or maybe it was just Madigan himself... in my house... on my sofa... being... Madigan. Either way, he didn’t even have to ask before I was trying to explain. Christ almighty, the man needed to come with a warning label at the very least. Engage at your peril .

“Before you call Lizzie about the state of my mental health, since I know damn well that she’s somehow involved in your unsolicited appearance on my doorstep?—”

“She didn’t?—”

I held up a hand. “Understand that this— ” I swept my hand around the room. “—represents the first three weeks after Davis’s death. It does not represent the last week. I’ve... progressed. Maybe not as much as some would like, but I am getting there.”

Madigan raised a brow but remained quiet as he cleared a space on the coffee table for his mug and sat back. “Just to be clear, I won’t be telling Lizzie anything that I don’t okay with you first, got it?”

I wasn’t sure I believed him but I nodded.

He studied me for a moment, then said, “You never mentioned working for the police. I thought you were an accountant and that you worked from home.”

“I am an accountant and I do work from home,” I answered. “I just happen to specialise in forensic accounting, and I do contract work for the police. Before Davis’s accident, I was full time in their Financial Investigation Team. But that meant long hours and I wanted to be able to see more of Davis. So, I resigned and took on fixed-term contracts instead.”

He narrowed his gaze. “So, you’re not a cop?”

I shook my head. “No. Just an accountant.”

He thought about that. “Will you go back full time now that Davis is...” He hesitated.

“Dead?” I offered mildly.

Madigan grimaced. “Sorry. I may or may not have been accused of being blunt on occasion.”

That made me smile, as so much about Madigan did, which was a problem in itself. “No offence taken.”

“So, tell me more about this break-in.”

I sighed and fell back against the cushion. “I had an appointment with our lawyer at one and was back by two thirty, so somewhere in that window they got in. Our lawyer is a friend, and initially he was kind enough to visit me at home regarding Davis’s estate and probate. But there’s still a lot to go through that I’m only just feeling ready to face. Most of it deals with Davis’s writing, his publisher, and his author business. There’s a lot to consider. A lot of decisions to be made going forward.”

Madigan eyed me sympathetically. “I don’t envy you.”

“Tell me about it.” I crossed my leg over my knee and blew out a long sigh. “I put a note in his online author groups and contacted his agent and publisher to let them know he’d passed, but that was all I could manage those first couple of weeks. There are about fifty-million messages and emails I’ll need to go through at some stage.”

“Or not,” Madigan said evenly. “People will understand, Nick. Right now, you come first.”

And of course, he was right. Davis had been missing from his author world for eighteen months already. There was no urgency. But just hearing someone else say it seemed to make a difference.

Madigan’s eyes locked on mine. “What did the police think about the break-in? Teenagers stealing Christmas presents?”

I shrugged. “Possibly. If so, they failed miserably in this place. The detective said there’s been a few robberies in the surrounding suburbs over the last week, but the fact it’s the second time in eighteen months for me truly sucks.”

Madigan gaped. “This isn’t the first time?”

I shook my head. “Nope, although last time it wasn’t like they took anything of value, just made a mess in the kitchen and scrawled some homophobic slurs on the walls. It happened right after Davis’s accident, and I admit it shook me up. Samuel has a security analyst friend who had a whole security system installed when we first moved in, mostly because of my forensic work. But the focus was on my office, which has a high security door and is separately alarmed and monitored.”

“Wow.”

I sighed. “Yeah, the room is literally Fort Knox. And don’t even ask about the rigmarole I have to go through just to login to my computer and keep all the files safe for use as evidence. As for the rest, Davis and I didn’t mind the external cameras, but no matter what we did, Shelby, our cat, was always setting the motion detectors off, so we were never good about using it.”

As if on cue, Shelby strolled into the room and made a beeline for the couch. Madigan immediately bent down to stroke the temperamental silver tabby, and I was about to warn him off when, instead of hissing and spitting, Shelby arched her back approvingly and began rubbing herself against his leg, the little hussy.

“I hate to pop your bubble,” I told him. “But you clearly smell like her favourite cat food. It’s the only explanation.” I extended both arms to show him the scars that criss-crossed the backs of my hands like a tic-tac-toe board. “Shelby was always a one-man cat, and that man had been Davis. After the accident, it took almost six months for her to let me pick her up without suffering grievous bodily harm. And now, she’s positively flirting with you .” I glared at the cat. “Contrary little madam.”

Shelby cast me a look that screamed entitled little tart in anyone’s book and then leaped onto the couch and cosied up next to Madigan’s thigh.

“What can I say?” Madigan grinned as he continued to stroke Shelby’s back, the cat arching delightedly under his touch. “The lady clearly has excellent taste.”

I threw a cushion, which Madigan nimbly ducked. “She’s no lady,” I scoffed. “I can tell you that much. Then again, I’ve aways been more of a dog guy.”

“Me too, if I’m honest,” he replied, making kissy noises at the cat who was looking up at him adoringly. “But she is kind of cute. Now finish telling me what the police said.”

I sighed and slid down in my chair. “Not much, if I’m honest. They dusted for prints and even tried the dogs for a scent, but this is a busy school and commuter route, so things ran dry pretty quickly.”

Shelby yawned and started to wash, and Madigan let her be. “Did you lose much?”

I shrugged. “My tablet and a few smaller electronics like our Bluetooth speakers. But they left a stack of money and two watches in my bedside drawer, and all the televisions are still here. They also didn’t take any of the jewellery I’d bought for Davis over the years, which was in full view on the tallboy in the bedroom. I’d been going through it just this morning. The fact I was out at all was good luck on their part. I’ve hardly left the house in a month, just in case it’s not obvious.”

Madigan gave a soft huff. “Like I give a fuck about a bit of mess. You’re grieving, Nick. I’d be more worried if the place was spotless. Although to be fair, if you’re going to exist on takeout alone, I could leave you an alphabetised list of healthier options less likely to induce a heart attack. You need to be careful at your age. Just saying.”

I flipped him off. “Jerk. You’re older than I am, remember?”

He chuckled and swept a hand over the mountain of takeout boxes. “Maybe, but I’m not the one bathing my blood in saturated fats until my arteries look like a Slip ’N Slide.”

He had a point. “ As I was saying, the police said the thieves were either lucky I wasn’t home or they were watching the place, but the latter makes no sense. There’re plenty of other places to go rob.”

Madigan’s brows crunched. “True.”

“But whoever it was,” I continued, “they seem to have got in through the property behind and not the path. If they’d come up the side, they would’ve been caught by the camera in the magnolia.” I paused. “Just like you were.”

Madigan’s eyebrows arched accusingly. “You knew I was coming around the back?”

I grinned. “No, of course not. If I’d seen you coming, do you really think I would’ve... well, you know. I don’t have the notifications on when I’m home, but I checked the video clips while you were in the bathroom.”

“Which circles back around to why I’m here.” Madigan studied me long enough to make me squirm. “Lizzie didn’t contact me, by the way. I called her because I was worried and wanted to see you. You’ve avoided me like the plague since the funeral, including not answering any of my texts and voicemails.” He paused for effect and added a good eyeballing for emphasis.

My cheeks blazed and Madigan didn’t miss it, softening his tone as he continued. “Maybe if you’d answered even one text with a polite, I’m okay but please leave me alone, then we wouldn’t be here, and my stomach would feel a hell of a lot better. I appreciate I haven’t known you long, but friendship is friendship, and yes, I was— am worried.”

I picked at the hem on my shirt and shrugged. “Which is very thoughtful of you. But honestly, I’m fine.”

“So, I see.” Madigan gave the room another pointed once-over and I sank lower in my chair. “Believe me when I say I’ve heard all about just how fine you are from Lizzie. The poor woman’s been fielding calls from all your friends who’ve been given the same story from you and know it for the shit that it is. People who care about you. Nick. People who know you.”

The idea that people had been talking behind my back made me bristle. “I have no idea who you’re talking about since most of our friends were Davis’s, not mine.”

Madigan frowned at the bitterness in my words and I felt an urge to walk them back because it wasn’t true. Not totally anyway. Davis had been responsible for most of our friendship group. It was the kind of man he was—open and gregarious. Admittedly, I’d grown close to a few of them, but they were still Davis’s friends more than mine and I didn’t want them to feel obligated to continue a relationship with me just because of him. I wasn’t sure I wanted that either. Davis had done all our social heavy lifting. He needed people around him. Me? Not so much.

Madigan’s gaze softened. “People care about you, Nick.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Or maybe they’re just ticking boxes.” He frowned at that but I barrelled on. “Either way it’s really none of their business what kind of state I might be in, or yours as it happens.”

Another frown, and I wanted to haul those words back as well, but I didn’t. “Davis’s death has been coming for eighteen months.” I wanted him to understand. “Do I miss him? Of course, I bloody do. I loved him more than anything.” More than life itself. “But it’s... different, the way it happened. Not better or worse, just different. I feel like I’ve been numb and grieving forever, and now I’m trying to breathe again the only way I know how. I’m not being callous, just real. I’ve thought about Davis dying since the day of the accident. Imagined it. Dreaded it. It’s so fucked up. One day I’m praying for a miracle, for his death to never happen, and the next day I’m praying for the exact opposite and feeling guilty about both. It fucks with your head. Eighteen months of back and forth and watching him slowly die, piece by piece, in that damn bed.”

I scrubbed at my eyes, horrified at the unchecked emotion in my voice, but Madigan said nothing about my tears. He waited while I collected myself, his eyes steady on mine, his body quiet until eventually I was able to draw a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

“Davis always said I was shit at just feeling what I felt and accepting it, so now I’m doing my best to follow his advice and not overanalyse everything. Just... feel, like he’d want me to.” I huffed in disgust. “Hardly my comfort zone.”

Madigan’s lips quirked up.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t look so pleased with yourself. It’s... hard for me. It’s not logical or pretty and it hurts like hell, but I promise you that I’m not running from it. I’m not pretending or in denial, and I wish people would believe that and let me be. I know Lizzie thinks I’ve shut down—” I looked up. “—but I haven’t. I just don’t want to drown in anyone’s well-meaning sympathy, not even hers. Or... yours.”

“Lizzie is grieving too,” Madigan said, the words so soft I had to strain to catch them. “Davis was your husband, but he was her son, and she loves you both.”

Oh god . I swallowed hard. “I know,” I answered just as softly. “But I can’t be there for her right now.” I held his gaze, begging him to understand. “You never saw Davis, but if you had you’d know how alike they are, especially the eyes. And that laugh...”

Madigan closed his eyes for a second and it was like the room went dark. Then he opened them again and nodded. “Okay, now I get it. But maybe you could tell her that rather than simply avoid her.”

I sighed and turned to stare out the window. “I know. And I will, thank you. Lord knows I suck at peopling, but the truth is I’m trying to get through this the best way I know how, the only way I know—by listening to Davis’s voice in my head, no one else’s. I might not be as fine as I’d like, or as fine as I tell people, but I am okay, so far, at least. I just need some time.”

I finished on a sigh and waited for Madigan to respond. He took his time, the silence between us growing but not uncomfortably so. This was Madigan, after all. Garrulous, he wasn’t. Everything that came out of his mouth was considered but blunt, sometimes irritatingly so. It had purpose, even if it was a snarky aside or an acid opinion to put me in my place. It was as if he thought words too precious a commodity to dispense willy-nilly, with no thought to their value. I imagined him reading a book in the same fashion. Slowly. Relishing every word like a fine wine. Paying attention not just to the words but to the cover and the pages and the crafting of the whole thing.

The thought made me smile.

As the seconds ticked by, the storm in my chest quelled enough for me to breathe again, the boiling acid in my stomach reduced to a tolerable simmer. The Madigan effect, I thought wryly, closing my eyes. The befuddling man needed to bottle that woo-woo shit. He’d make a fucking fortune.

“Can I ask—” He waited until I looked up before continuing. “—if your avoidance of me is part of not wanting other voices in your head?”

No. It’s because you see through me just like he did. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I answered, “Partly. And I’m sorry for that. But I was glad to see you at the funeral.”

Madigan nodded but I could see it in his eyes . Just not enough to talk to me . “What about today?” he asked. “Are you glad I came today?”

Yes. No. I fell back against the cushion and studied him. “Undecided,” I admitted. “Depends on what you expect from me.”

Madigan didn’t jump to answer, just watched me like he was weighing his response. “What I expect from you?” He hummed thoughtfully. “Well, since this is you we’re talking about, it’s safe to say I came here with zero expectations—” He shot me a rueful look. “—aside from not being whacked in the stomach with a length of framing timber. I’d have thought that was a pretty low bar on the expectation scale, which only shows how wrong a guy can be.”

I threw my head back and laughed, which was pretty much a fucking miracle, all things considered. “Fair point,” I conceded. “I apologise... again.”

He grinned. “You’re chalking up quite a list there.”

“Something I’m not unfamiliar with,” I admitted. “Davis used to say that I had the unenviable ability to put both feet in my mouth while shoving my head up my arse at the same time.”

Madigan laughed. “I think I would’ve liked your husband.”

I stared at him for a moment, the lump in my throat expanding—struck silent by hearing those words outside of my head. Because it wasn’t like I hadn’t thought the same on the all-too-frequent nights when I wore a deep hollow in the middle of my empty bed, doing anything but sleep. Safe in the dark, I’d draw the warm cloak of Davis’s love around my body and consider what it meant that Madigan had walked into my life at the exact moment that Davis was so intent on leaving. How Madigan and I... connected in some strange way that wasn’t too dissimilar to Davis and me. Same, same, but so very different. Sliding doors. Entering and leaving. It was intriguing and disturbing to say the least, and crazy at best.

Too disturbing and too crazy on top of everything else.

Distance was the sensible option. Distance was good. Distance was safe. No big existential questions. No suffocating guilt. No spilling my heart. Distance gave me time to sit with Davis. Time to make sense of this sudden gaping chasm in my life. A yawning hole I wanted to bury myself in. A hole I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. A hole that had no room for the blunt kindness of Madigan Church.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

“No.” I shot him a quick smile. “I’m pretty sure he would’ve liked you as well. Two men of books? Yeah. You two would’ve got along well.”

Madigan gave a clipped nod. “I don’t think I told you I read one of Davis’s books before he died, the last one he published, Strange Passion . It was really good. He had a real talent.”

I blinked at the admission, although I shouldn’t have been surprised that Madigan would take the time to learn about Davis in that way. It was a very Madigan thing to do. And yet it somehow felt... intimate, like he’d glimpsed behind a curtain into our lives, and the thought was weirdly unsettling. Or maybe it was simply the fact that I’d been trying so hard to keep them apart in my head for reasons that would remain unmentioned, when the intersection happened, it felt jarring.

Madigan’s smile faded. “Oh god, I’ve done it again. I did warn you I wasn’t safe for public consumption. I’m sorry, Nick. I wasn’t being nosey.” He blushed prettily. “Well, maybe a little nosey, but I was intrigued. I spend all my life working with books, but I hardly know any actual authors.” The flush deepened. “Not that I knew Davis, of course. I only meant— Shit. I think I’m just going to leave it at, I’m sorry.”

“Stop.” I managed a grin and disposed of my empty cup onto the coffee table. “It’s actually reassuring. Makes us even on the socially awkward scale. I feel better already.”

Madigan chuckled. “Happy to be of service.”

“To be honest, I feel a little guilty. I hadn’t even read his last book when the accident happened, and then I just... didn’t.” He looked thoughtful. “Although to be fair I was shockingly bad at keeping up with his projects. It was just as well he didn’t need my approval to be amazing. The week before everything went to shit, he’d signed a contract on the screen rights to that book. He was as excited as I’d ever seen him, and we’d celebrated with his favourite pasta and cracked open a bottle of bubbly. He’d actually laughed at my promise to finally read the thing.”

And then he made love to me like we’d just met all over again. Like he was discovering my body for the first time. Like I hung the moon and he couldn’t get enough . Like the gaping distance I’d felt between us for those last couple of months before the accident had never existed.

“It was the last time we really spoke about anything important to do with his writing,” I confided, my gaze sliding to the spread of magazines on the floor where I’d swept them in a fit of rage at some point and then left them there. “A week later he was in hospital.”

The room fell silent and Madigan’s gaze burned two holes in the top of my head. I couldn’t meet those gentle eyes, the aching emptiness eating me alive still too raw. Instead, I reached for his book and changed the subject. “Sherlock Holmes, again .” I finally looked up. “Is this some kind of obsession I should know about? Now I’m the one intrigued. Tell me more.”

Madigan relaxed and set about answering my question. Maybe we both needed the distraction. He explained that he’d found that particular Sherlock Holmes almost falling out of its spine in a tiny bookshop in Reading in the UK. He’d been teaching a weeklong course on illuminated manuscripts at the University of Reading and spent his evenings and weekends prowling the bookstores and antique shops in the vicinity.

I held up a hand. “Stop right there. Illuminated manuscripts? Jesus, Madigan. Even I know they’re a big deal. I’m gonna assume you’re not a run-of-the mill conservator, then?”

His face blew hot and his gaze slid over my shoulder. “I, um... well... some people seem to think I’m good at what I do.”

I waited until his eyes tracked back to mine. “Good, huh? And what do you think?”

That blush turned crimson and he let out a long sigh. “ I would say that I’m knowledgeable in some areas and a complete novice in others.”

“Uh-huh.” I bit back a smile. “And you can’t lie for shit. If I asked the experts in your world, what would they say about you? Would they consider you an expert?”

He shuffled in his seat, looking as uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him. “I don’t know what you want to hear. Why is this important?”

I took a breath. “I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable, but most of our conversations centred around me, or Davis, or Golden Oaks. I want to know more about you . Give me something here.”

Madigan scrubbed his hand down his face and grumbled, “That’s a bit rich considering you’ve spent the last month avoiding me, and in truth, you’ve told me very little about yourself. Just enough to shut me up so you could change the subject, which you’re very good at by the way.”

He wasn’t wrong, but he was one of the few people to call me on it. “Noted. And you’re right.”

Madigan fell back on the couch and blew out his cheeks. “Fine. Yes, people in my field would likely consider me an expert at what I do. Happy now?”

I grinned. “Extremely. Now, back to this first-edition collection of yours.”

He groaned.

“Is there money in old books?”

Madigan shook his head. “Not much. Historically important pieces are priceless, of course. Illuminated manuscripts, for instance, although very few of those are in private collections. Some one-off prints are worth a lot, certain Bibles, historical documents, it really depends. The books I like to collect are small change compared to those.”

I leaned forward. “For instance?”

Madigan’s brows drew together. “One of my most valuable books, or should I say expensive rather than valuable, is a rare first edition of The Sphinx by Oscar Wilde. It’s one of only two hundred limited-edition copies and is illustrated with red and green inks by Charles Ricketts, with a bright gilt illustration on the cover. Other than a little soiling, it’s a surprisingly clean copy and it set me back six and a half thousand pounds.”

I blew a low whistle. “Pricey.”

“I also have a first-edition Live and Let Die by Ian Flaming. It cost a little over five grand but was much less pristine. It sounds a lot of money, but it’s a chicken feed compared to similar artworks in other genres that can go for tens or hundreds of thousands, even millions. The collectable market is driven by demand, and old books just don’t have the glitz and glamour that other collectables do. Plus, with books, like other art, the value is often driven as much by the provenance as the item itself.”

“Who owned it and where it’s been?” I offered. “That kind of thing?”

Madigan nodded. “And sometimes the dustcovers are worth more than the books themselves because the illustrator happens to be highly sought after. A friend of mine has an Ian Fleming first-edition Casino Royale , complete with dust jacket. It was a library copy so it has a ton of wear, but because it has a signed insert by the author, my friend forked out twenty-eight thousand pounds to snare it.”

I blinked. “Wow, okay. That’s getting up there.” I took another look at the book in my hands. “I have to admit, this is pretty cool. Apart from Sherlock and Oscar, what other books take your fancy?”

Madigan shot me a boyish grin, clearly pleased at my interest. “I have pretty eclectic tastes. I like Yeats and Lord Byron. I have a soft spot for Agatha Christie, although I focus on the provenance for those. I have a Bram Stoker’s Dracula , a few American Classics, and even Helen P Branson’s 1957 Gay Bar .”

“Never heard of it,” I admitted.

He pulled a slow smile. “And you call yourself gay. Branson was a heterosexual divorced grandmother who ran a gay bar in 1950s Los Angeles at a time when it was illegal for homosexuals to gather. The book is her story of said bar, and the dust cover has an illustration of Helen as a mother hen protecting her chicks from patrolling police. It makes for fascinating reading.”

His enthusiasm was charming. “I’m sure.”

Madigan rolled his eyes. “I’ll lend it to you. But there’ll be a test at the end.”

I chuckled, my mood continuing to lift as Madigan talked animatedly about how he’d started collecting as a thirteen-year-old and how he’d worked weekends at his local library to fund his habit. It wasn’t hard to imagine a teenage Madigan sitting in his bedroom on a Saturday night, surrounded by stacks of old books, while all his mates went out partying. The image made me smile, and at some point, I lost track of the conversation in favour of simply watching Madigan talk, hands flying and eyes sparking with excitement.

Whether it was the smile on my face or the realisation I hadn’t said anything in a while, Madigan eventually slowed and a red flush crept up his throat. “I’m sorry.” He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and then sat on those expressive hands. “Never ask a collector about their collection.”

“Don’t apologise. It’s the most I’ve heard you talk since you chewed me out when we first met. Besides, it’s a welcome distraction.”

He offered a small smile and a look that said he wasn’t sure he believed me.

“Do all the books you buy need restoring?” I asked.

“Conserving,” he corrected, then winced when my eyebrow lifted. “In our industry we’re a bit pedantic about labels. I’m trained as a conservator. That’s my wheelhouse and what I’m known for. But I do a range of things, including conservation, restoration, and repair, depending on the goal and what the client wants.”

“I have zero idea about the difference between those.”

He gave a soft snort. “You and nearly everybody else. In a nutshell, restoration tries to return a book to its original condition, and conservation attempts to maintain it in its current condition while futureproofing it against further deterioration. It’s a more stringent process and is what most museum and historical libraries look for. The work I do is often a mix of both. A book can’t be conserved if it’s falling out of its spine, so some repair and restoration might be necessary to stabilise it. But with something like a family Bible, for instance, I might be asked to try and return it to its original state rather than preserve it as is.” He’d been worrying the hem of the T-shirt I’d given him, and I was struck by the sight of it on his body for the first time.

It looked... good. I blinked and cleared my throat. “I can see it’s a highly skilled job.”

He shrugged. “No more than a forensic accountant, I imagine.”

The conversation trailed away and we studied each other in silence across the coffee table. Less comfortable this time. Like the ground beneath us was suddenly less sure.

It was Madigan who broke first. “Let’s be honest, Nick. We both know that you don’t really want me here right now, and that’s perfectly understandable. You’ve indulged my concern, but it’s best I leave before I overstay my welcome. I just wanted to make sure you...” He hesitated, searching for the right words.

“Hadn’t lost the plot completely?” I offered with a smile.

His eyes widened. “No! I just—” He chuckled. “Yeah, okay, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t lost the plot completely, as you so eloquently put it. And you haven’t. Do you mind if I let Lizzie know that?”

I had no problems with that. “Sure. Just please don’t tell her about the break-in.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Understood. Will you promise to answer my texts now and then so I don’t have to come and check on you?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “If you promise not to walk into another piece of wood.”

He rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “You’re still an arsehole for that. Let me know what happens with the police. And what are you doing for Christmas? Do you need a place to escape?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ll go to Lizzie’s. As you reminded me, she’s grieving as well. Neither she nor Samuel are celebrating, so we can be sad sacks together. And I’ll text you about the police.” I began walking Madigan to the front door; that unique scent of old paper and ink rising from his skin was oddly comforting. For a second, I wondered if my shirt would smell the same when he gave it back, then I quashed the thought. “Anything else I can do for you while I’m at it?” The question was meant in jest, but another red flush swept up Madigan’s neck.

“Sorry. Ignore me.” He stopped at the front door.

I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t apologise. I promise to do better at keeping in touch.” I opened the door for him to step through but he stayed where he was.

“I really am so sorry about Davis.” His green eyes glistened in the sunlight. “And I get that you’re doing things in your own way, but if I can ever be of any help, or if you ever need anything , please call me.” He covered my hand on his shoulder with his. “I’m a good listener, Nick. I’m even good at just being in the background if you need silent company. I aced Wallflower 101.”

That made me smile.

“You probably won’t need any of it, of course, but just in case.” He locked eyes and there it was again, that strange tug that almost had me asking him to stay.

I didn’t, and Madigan headed out the door and down the steps without a backward glance. I watched until his car disappeared from view, then pressed the door closed with a quiet snip and turned my back against it.

One long slow breath was followed by another and another. The walls of the townhouse pressed in, the endless silence screaming in my head. I slid down the smooth surface of the wooden door until my butt hit the floor and sat there. How long for, I had no idea. Long enough for the shadows to stretch across the vestibule and begin climbing the wall. Long enough for the afternoon sun to fade and grey. Long enough to feel a pull to the numbness of the lounge, the television, and maybe a beer or six.

I was about to cave when my phone broke the tomblike silence and Madigan’s name flashed on the screen. I almost laughed.

Get out of the lounge.

I snorted at the text and typed. I’m not in the lounge, arsehole.

He took a few seconds. But you’re thinking about it.

Smug fucker. Am not. Totally a lie.

Dots came and went. Liar.

I laughed at that.

And eat some damn vegetables. Maybe a decent protein, too. Any food group other than heart attack 101 would be excellent.

It was hard to argue with that. Yes, Dad.

These places do excellent home-cooked food deliveries. A couple of links appeared on the screen and neither rang a bell.

I shook my head and replied. I’ll think about it.

The dots went on for a long time before finally, Do that. And just so you know, I think Davis would be proud of you.

I tried to breathe but there was something blocking my throat. It felt something like hope and a lot like gratitude. I stared at the screen for a long time, Madigan’s words blurring through my tears.

Because I knew Madigan was right. Davis would’ve been proud of me. He always was. And he’d understand if I was fucking things up now and then. There wasn’t any right or wrong way to do this grief shit. There was just my way, for today. Maybe tomorrow that would change. Maybe not.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and struggled to my feet. I took a tentative whiff of one armpit and screwed up my nose. Damn. That was one thing Davis would’ve had a lot to say about. And with that in mind, I planned the rest of my day, starting with a shower, then ordering some decent food and cleaning the fucking lounge.

None of that was going to miraculously ease my grief, but the house and I would at least smell better while it processed.

Baby steps.