Page 74 of Claim

Keeley chewed her lip.

“Shall I show you around?” Eloise angled her head towards the building. “You can see the rooms. The garden. Decide where you’d like to be.”

Keeley glanced back at Lennon.

He nodded. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”

Eloise led her inside, pointing out the communal kitchen, the nursery rooms, the washing lines strung between trees, and the quiet corners where mothers could sit without feeling watched. Keeley followed, Maisie pressed close to her chest.

I exhaled.

“You know a lot of good people in high places,” Lennon said beside me.

“I also know a lot of bad ones.” I took a breath, realising I probably knew more bad ones. “Eloise is my sister-in-law. She’s a patron here. One of the founding donors.”

I’d remembered Marcus mentioning it at the baby shower. Eloise’s work. Her boards. The one involving vulnerable young mothers. So I’d called her the same night I’d spoken to Lennon. Kept it clinical. Professional. I was a barrister seeking safeguarding options for the sister of a remand prisoner, at risk due to criminal association.

Rosewood House wasn’t council-run. It didn’t rely on waiting lists or stretched statutory funding. It was privately owned, charity-registered, funded through donors and placements. Some families paid to keep daughters safe and anonymous. Others were funded by patrons when urgency outweighed bureaucracy.

This was one of those cases.

Rosewood offered safety, structure, parenting support, access to education and work placements, on-site childcare. Midwives. Social workers. Mental health support. A place to recover without being interrogated about how you’d ended up needing help.

Eloise was funding this herself, despite my offer to cover it. She’d said, simply, that there were placements reserved for cases like Keeley’s. Urgent, safeguarding-led, no questions asked. I’d been ready to hand over whatever I could access without delay, but in truth, I was relieved the money wouldn’t trace back to me.

Funding, like everything else here, sat behind layers of confidentiality.

As a board member, Eloise was bound by strict safeguarding protocols. She could not, and would not, discuss Keeley’s presence at Rosewood House with anyone. Not with Marcus. Nor my parents. Meaning it wouldn’t slip into conversation over Sunday lunch.

I trusted that obligation more than I trusted her goodwill.

When Eloise returned, Keeley followed, Maisie half-asleep buried into her shoulder. Eloise met my eye and gave a single nod.

Settled.

Lennon passed over the last of Keeley’s bags and pulled her into a hug. Eloise waited by the door, giving them space, and when Lennon stepped back, Keeley hesitated. Then came over to me.

“When you see him.” She chewed on her lip, trying to look tough and not quite getting there. “Tell him he’s a bellend from me. And give him a slap.”

I let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh. “I’ll pass it on.”

She turned to go, then paused. Looked me up and down. Tailored suit, knotted tie, hair behaving itself. She gave a small, knowing nod.

“You’re cute.” She winked. “Can see why he likes you.”

Heat rushed straight to my face. I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I watched as she followed Eloise inside. Then I got into the car, shut the door, and sat there for a moment before starting the engine.

Beside me, Lennon exhaled. “Right. Now we get him home.”

I nodded, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Yeah. That’s the hard part.”

* * * *

And that hard part started the moment I stepped back into chambers.

We had the papers spread across the long table like a body laid out for identification. Bail summary. Prosecution skeleton. Custody record. The same thin disclosures I’d read so many times they felt memorised rather than understood. Intelligence-led. Redacted sources. No physical recovery. No fresh charges. Ten weeks in and still nothing solid enough to touch.

Imogen stood at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on her nose as she annotated the prosecution schedule in tight, economical strokes. Mercer leant on the windowsill, arms folded, the city smeared grey behind him. I sat nearest the papers, waggling my pen between my fingers, pulse irritatingly loud in my ears.