BooksBarbecue
Back Last Place You Look Save as PDF
Chapters (85)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Part 1
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. Part 2
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. Part 3
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. Epilogue
  82. Acknowledgements
  83. Canelo Crime
  84. About the Author
  85. Also by Louisa Scarr

The first thing she thinks is, he’s not like Jonathan. Then the second: I don’t care. He’s clumsy, slightly rough, and they stagger, half fall into the living room and then onto the sofa, her on top of him. She hears him make a gasp of pain, and goes to pull away, but he kisses her again, one hand in her hair, the other under her shirt. She does the same to him, the crappy police tracksuit top coming over his head easily. Shoes are kicked off, her shirt over her head. She feels sober, so very aware of what she’s doing, but almost powerless to stop it. Just wanting to be next to someone, wanting to be with him.

Wanting to be with Jonathan.

And then suddenly she’s crying.

She feels the sob reach up from her chest, grab her insides and pull. The gulf overwhelms her. The emptiness, the black hole knowing that she’ll never, ever hold him again. She notices Robin move away, realising something is wrong, then pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her.

It’s not about sex any more. She squeezes her eyes shut, her hands ball into fists and she cries, her face pushed hard into his chest. They’re both half-naked, and she’s conscious of the inappropriateness, the awkwardness of all this, but she can’t stop herself, caught in the flood of loss and sadness. She misses him. She misses him so fucking much.

Robin isn’t Jonathan. And nobody will be Jonathan, ever again.

71

Robin holds Freya tightly, feeling both completely devastated for her and overwhelmingly uncomfortable at the same time. After a while, she sits up, mumbling apologies, then grabs her shirt and runs off. He hears the slam of the bathroom door.

He pulls himself up slowly, wincing as his ribs protest. He leaves the wretched grey tracksuit top on the floor and goes to his bedroom. He gets dressed in his own clothes, jeans and a shirt, all the while listening out for signs of Freya emerging from the bathroom.

He feels shit. For taking advantage, for kissing her back, for— Oh, fuck, all of it. She is his DC, his subordinate. He should not be coming on to people who work for him, let alone newly bereaved, vulnerable ones. Although, given there’s so much wrong with their situation at the moment, perhaps one more mistake wouldn’t have made much difference.

He finishes getting dressed then goes into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. He listens to it boil, taking two mugs from the cupboard, putting in teabags and milk. He’d prefer coffee, but a mug of warm reassuring sugary tea seems more suitable. He turns as he hears footsteps behind him.

Freya stands in the middle of the kitchen, once again fully dressed, her face puffy, her eyes bloodshot.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘No, I’m sorry. It was all me,’ Robin replies.