“Nope. As of seven o’clock tonight, I am off till Monday morning.” Rosie watched Fluffy knead the countertop, which seemed appropriate given the amount of dancing around that she and Jem were doing. “Do you fancy going out somewhere?” she asked, just as Jem said, “Maybe we could meet up?”

“Okay, then, that’s sorted,” Rosie said, overriding any potential second-guessing on Jem’s part. “I need to scoot or I’ll be late for work. Text me a time and a location of your choosing.”

“I will. I have lasagne.” Jem hesitated, as if despairing of her non sequitur, and seconds later Rosie heard a soft thud.

“Was that your head?” Rosie asked.

“Yes.”

“On the steering wheel?”

“Yes. I didn’t have a desk, so I made do.”

Rosie laughed. “Is this what happens when an introvert and an idiot try to arrange a date?”

“Quite possibly,” Jem said. Then, quieter, “Is that what we’re doing?”

“I’m not sure.” Rosie wondered whether she’d overstepped a mark, but she’d always been an in-for-a-penny type. “Just out of curiosity, would you swipe left or right on me?”

“Which one’s no?” Jem asked.

Rosie winced. “Uh, left, I think.”

She heard Jem swear softly as a now-familiar beeping set off in the background. “Damn, I’ve got a job. I have to go.”

“Oh, okay, no worries,” Rosie said, chewing on her lip.

“Rosie?” Jem raised her voice above the rattle and creak of the garage doors.

“Yeah?”

“I’d swipe right, you pillock,” she said, and ended the call.

* * *

Gregory Evans clattered his fist against the wall he’d stalked toward. A mounted light fitting sent up a cloud of dust and dead moths, and he left a thin smear of blood on the nicotine-stained Anaglypta. Well acquainted with his behaviour, Jem kept her distance, ensuring there were plenty of obstacles for him to fall over if he decided to go for her throat. Not that she was overly concerned about his temper tantrum; she’d been coming to Greg for years, and the worst he’d ever done was throw up on her response bag.

He snarled at her, baring wet gums. “I wanna die, you stupid bitch. That’s why I took ’em.”

“And you took six of these?” She displayed the box of ibuprofen. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, and I cut meself. See?” He held out wrists covered in superficial scratches, none of which would prove fatal. Upon Jem’s arrival, he had immediately surrendered the razor blade he’d used to inflict the damage. It might have cut through butter if he’d pressed hard enough, and the amount of rust and muck on it suggested the greatest risk to his well-being was infection.

“How much have you had to drink?” she asked.

“Nothin’,” he snapped, and then seemed to remember who he was talking to. “Two cans.”