Page 3 of The Question of Us (Fisher & Church #2)

CHAPTER TWO

Madigan

Gazza saw me coming through the glass and managed a tiny wave, even if the accompanying smile missed his eyes completely.

He’d looked like that since it all happened.

Pale and haunted, overly thin, and riddled with guilt.

So much so that I’d insisted he spend a few nights in my spare bedroom before venturing back to his flat under the proviso he took some well-earned vacation time and kept in touch.

But my texts had mostly gone unanswered except for the occasional one to fob me off.

What was it with the men in my life, friends and boyfriends alike? I’d planned many times to talk to Gazza about what happened, but he avoided that conversation and me like the plague, insisting he was fine and that he just needed some time to think and let everything settle in his head.

He and Nick had a lot in common in that regard, and it wasn’t helping me one bit because the fine part was a bald-faced lie, and we both knew it.

I was so sick of that damn word it felt like a razor blade in my brain every time I heard it.

Gazza felt a misplaced guilt for what had happened to me, believing he should’ve seen through all the lies his so-called boyfriend had spun him—a boyfriend who’d turned out to be a dangerous fraud.

Goddammit, did I have to be the grown-up with both of them? What the hell was wrong with these men?

I opened the door and ushered Gazza inside. His eyebrows rose briefly at my state of dress. I wasn’t sure I’d ever answered the door to him in my sleep shorts before.

He mumbled his thanks, along with something about work, and headed for the studio.

“Oh no, you don’t.” I grabbed his arm as he passed. “You’re not going anywhere, mister, until we’ve talked. I’ve been worried sick about you. Returning text messages is a thing, you know? And you’re not due back until next week.”

He sighed but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I need to work, Madigan. I’ve spent too long pacing back and forth in my apartment, and my mother is driving me crazy. I just want to get lost in my books and forget about everything for a while.”

Now that I could understand. But he wasn’t getting off so lightly. “Look at me. Please.” I waited until he faced me. “You can work on anything you want for as long as you want, but we’re going to talk first.”

He groaned. “Do we have to? I know everything you’re going to say before you say it. That it wasn’t my fault. That I couldn’t have known the truth about Ben... Tobin... whoever the hell he was. And maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

“I know. But humour me, please.” I tugged him toward the dining table. “Sit.”

Gazza grumbled something under his breath but sat as directed. He turned toward the sound of the shower running in my en suite and frowned. “He’s still here then, huh?”

I followed his gaze, nodding. “Yep. He’s still here.”

Gazza regarded me thoughtfully. “That’s almost three weeks.”

“You don’t say.” I sent him a pointed look. “A fact you’d have known if you actually took the time to have a conversation with me every time I called, instead of trying to get me off the phone in record time.”

Gazza’s ears pinked. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I admit I’ve been a bit MIA.” He took in my general disarray. “It’s really serious between you two then?”

I shrugged. “It’s . . . complicated.”

Gazza snorted. “No surprise there.” He dropped the satchel he’d been clutching to his chest and then waited, looking pretty fucking miserable about it in the process. “You want to talk?”

“In a moment. Now, don’t you dare move.” I left to make both of us coffee, adding a cheese and pickle sandwich for Gazza made from his favourite million grain bread that he kept stashed in my freezer.

I returned to the table and slid both under his nose.

“Eat. You look like a scarecrow, albeit a gorgeous one, and even I know that’s not good for your brittle diabetes. ”

Gazza stared at the sandwich. “I don’t want?—”

“I wasn’t asking. Now eat,” I answered snippily. “You look like shit, so I know you haven’t been taking care of yourself.” When he wouldn’t meet my eyes, I huffed. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Gazza picked up the sandwich, inspecting it before taking a bite.

“Good. You can eat while I talk.”

Gazza grumbled around a mouthful of bread. “Jesus. When did you become so bossy?”

“And here I was thinking it was just me.” Nick crossed the lounge looking far too sexy for his own good.

“Looking good there, Nick.” Gazza eyed Nick appreciatively and I kicked him under the table. “And very comfortable in these surroundings, I must say.”

Nick laughed and flipped him off, shooting me a wink as he headed for the coffee machine.

I swivelled in my seat to track his progress, that glorious arse looking quite frankly edible in freshly washed jeans, water droplets dangling precariously from his still damp hair.

He smelled of my citrus shampoo and everything I’d ever dreamed of in a man since I was about sixteen years old and writing excruciatingly long lists about what I wanted in Mister Right.

Don’t ask. The folly of youth and its na?ve notions about love and romance had long been relegated to the trash. Or I thought they had. Although I don’t remember exasperating and stubborn featuring anywhere on those lists.

I turned back to find Gazza watching me with a knowing grin and my cheeks flared. “Oh, shut up.”

He laughed and the unexpectedly welcome sound went a long way toward calming my fears about the young man. “Come on.” He made hurry-up circles with his hand. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk. I have a backlog of work sitting on my workbench.”

I glanced once more at the noises coming from the pantry, then turned my attention back to Gazza. “Okay. First off, you need to stop beating yourself up about what happened.”

His lips pursed in a thin line. “I’m not?—”

“Yes, you are,” I countered before he could finish. “And I know this because I feel exactly the same way.”

“You?” Gazza shot me a disbelieving scowl and took another bite of his sandwich.

“Don’t give me that look,” I chided gently.

“You’re not so special, you know. We all feel guilty to some degree.

I’ve hardly slept since I handed Lee Shepherd’s name over to those arseholes and finding out he was being sent back to the man who likely abused him.

So don’t talk to me about guilt. But it’s not helping anyone, least of all you. ”

Gazza frowned. “You think this Lee guy is gay?”

“An educated guess, nothing more.” Nick sounded dubious as he wandered across to take a seat next to Gazza, coffee in one hand and one of my homemade carob chip cookies in the other.

I eyeballed the frustrating man. “The breakfast of champions, I see.”

Nick grinned and waved the cookie under my nose. “Want a bite?”

Yes . “No... thank you. And it might be an educated guess, but it makes sense.”

Nick shrugged. “It’s still a guess.”

What the hell? We’d talked about this and Nick had agreed it was a logical assumption.

I dismissed a growing niggle in my belly and turned back to Gazza.

“Samuel’s police contacts in Australia turned up a couple of things.

When they first contacted Lee, he assured them that was his name and said he had no idea what they were talking about.

He insisted Marty Klein was a friend and that Lee was there of his own free will.

But this Marty Klein is a well-known figure in Australian horse racing and is the same Marty Klein who dated a certain Graham Cunningham who we think?—”

Nick cleared his throat and I shot a pissy look his way.

“—who I think, or rather know, re-emerged as Lee Shepherd in New Zealand. But social media is thin on the ground for Graham and non-existent for Lee. Marty has a profile related to his racing business and social events, but there are almost no photos of Lee slash Graham, and those we have found are years old and involve large groups of people at various social events to do with racing. Lee is just a figure amongst many others. In his late teens or early twenties, at a guess, and with strawberry-blond hair instead of the dark brownish-black he has now. I think it’s him, but apparently that’s not enough for Nick.

” I shot the man a pointed look and he sighed.

“But no one is really looking at any of it because Lee says he’s fine.

” I almost ground my teeth at the sound of that damn word again.

Gazza blew a low whistle. “Well, I’m convinced.”

Nick grunted. “But you’re not a court of law. And I have some questions.”

I focused a glare Nick’s way. “Really? Do tell.”

I must’ve sounded snippy because Nick shot me an apologetic look that did nothing to smooth my irritation before he explained.

“In his conversation with the police Lee claimed to not even know any Graham Cunningham. And although we found those two names next to each other on that list, there’s zero evidence to suggest they’re the same person, or if this Lee is that Lee.

It was just a list of names with no accompanying explanation.

We made the leap, but that doesn’t mean it can be proved. ”

I shook my head. “That’s bullshit.”

Nick ignored me. “Marty admitted he’d dated Graham for a while but said he hasn’t seen the man in a couple of years since it ended.

He backed up Lee’s story that Lee was an old friend who’d simply run into Marty’s PA, Freddie Young, while Freddie was in Auckland on business for Marty.

When Lee mentioned to Freddie that he was planning to return to Australia, Freddie passed that on to his boss, who offered Lee a place to stay and a job while he got himself settled.

Lee accepted and decided to return with Freddie.

” Nick opened his hands. “Nothing to see here, folks.”

“It’s just more of the same bullshit,” I grumbled. “A story concocted to keep us from questioning what really happened.”