‘I really don’t think I can. I need to get this feature written, and we need to lock down the next few podcast episodes.’

‘You and Cooper?’

Oli doesn’t rise to the bait. ‘Plus, I’ve got interviews scheduled. Bowman’s agreed to talk to me about the case.’

Dean’s eyes widen, then narrow. ‘Greg Bowman’s a prick,’ he snaps.

‘Okay. Care to elaborate?’

‘I just don’t trust the guy. Don’t be fooled by his ridding-the-streets-of-evil bullshit, he’s all politics and game playing.’ Dean smirks meanly. ‘His head’s so far up his own arse, he probably believes it.’ ‘I’ll take that on board, but I really just want him to spill the beans on the Housemate case. It’s weird how he seems to want it swept under—’

‘Oli, listen to me.’ Dean grabs her wrist, his fingers pressing into her skin. ‘I love you, okay? You are my priority. You know that, right?’

She’s startled. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘I realise we agreed no children, that the twins were enough, but if it’s what you really want then let’s try, let’s do it. I just want you to be happy.’

Energy charges between them. The other patrons smile and talk, cutlery scraping against plates. After a moment Dean loosens his grip and sits back against his chair, eyes not leaving hers, even when shrieks of laughter erupt from the adjacent table as the maître d’ approaches with a birthday cake and a playful smile.

‘I am happy,’ she says, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘It’s just a lot to get used to at once.’

‘But this is what you always wanted, right?’ he insists. ‘To be with me?’

Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘It is.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: FRIDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2015

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

FRIDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2015

OLI IS TALKING TO ISABELLE. IT’S SUNNY, HOT. OLI IS VAGUELY aware they’re at a picnic. She’s drinking something lemony. Gin and tonic? She can’t see the others. Not that she remembers exactly who else is there. Maybe they are alone? Yes, that’s it, Isabelle wants to tell her something. Oli needs to concentrate. Listen. They stand next to a bright-green hedge, so close their shoulders almost touch. Then there’s a confusing moment when Oli’s vision tilts like a knocked video recorder, and Isabelle’s light honeyed voice darts in and out of her ears—angry? urgent?—before a dark whip of hair hits Oli’s cheek and she’s gone.

Oli lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. She smells her own body odour mixed with last night’s perfume. Another night of sleep that has left her more tired than rested. She blinks several times, her fingers settling into the soft dip of her wrist as they feel for the pulsing blood. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.