Oliver pulled up his phone and checked the West Newton webpage. “The deadline for transferee applications is the end of this month.”
“I know.”
“You’ve already checked?”
“I have.”
Oliver grinned, rolled off the bed, and padded over to his bedroom window. “I'd say ask the Inspector if you can apply for Blake’s position. But then you’ll just be another tea-drinking, Clifford the Big Red Dog loving, grandmother. Like me.”
Lucas chuckled. “I know. But what about your promotion? Aren’t you earmarked for the role?”
Oliver smiled and plucked Roger up off the bed. He squeezed his squishy body between his hands as his eyes drifted to the street below. “I think… I want a change, too.”
“What do you mean?”
Oliver sighed and shifted from foot to foot. “There’s a spot coming up in the domestic violence unit. I just kind of thought that… after everything… I might do some good there, you know?”
There was a pause, then, “I agree.” And Oliver could hear Lucas smiling as he said it. Which made him smile back. And then tears pricked his eyes.
“Have you told your parents? About transferring?”
Lucas hummed as the ice cubes clinked again. “Not yet. Aliya somehow knows, but I’ve sworn her to secrecy.”
Oliver chuckled. “Do you think she, shit—” without warning, bile shot up his throat and he clapped a hand over his mouth. “Fucking hell,” he said, swallowing the copious amounts of sick-spit wetting his tongue.
“What’s wrong, Reed?”
“N-Nothing,” he replied, shuffling into the kitchen to splash some water on his face. “I’m… I’m just nervous about tomorrow. Really fucking nervous, actually. What if they don’t like me, Lucas? What if I?—”
“Reed.”
“What if I make a mess of everything and they end up hating me? What if they throw me out of their house? What if I have an argument with Aliya?—”
“Reed.”
“Oh God, what if I accidentally call one of them a cunt? Do they mind swearing? Because I fucking hope you’ve told them I have no control of my fucking mouth. Shit. Fuck! Oh God, it’s like fucking Tourettes.”
“Oliver, just take a breath. You do not have Tourettes.”
“I could do. How do you know? “It could be stress-induced. Oh shit, that would be bad. Fuck?—”
“Right. Oliver, just pack a bag. I’m coming to get you. Tonight.”
TWENTY-FIVE
WHITE DAY
“What isthat?” Oliver said, staring at the black Aston Martin parked next to the Yellow Peril.
“My car,” Lucas replied.
Walking a slow circle around the vehicle, he frowned. “What happened to the green one?”
Lucas chuckled, slipping the duffle bag off Oliver’s shoulder once he’d finished the appraisal. “I had to return it. I wasn’t lying when I said it’s a police vehicle.”
“Oh. But I liked the green one. This one’s… different.”
Lucas grinned as he loaded the bag into the boot. “Yes. But it’s mine. Should we take your car down to London instead?”
