Page 34 of These Tears

My hand doesn’t feel steady enough to hold the cake any more. I set it down behind me.

‘Was it Isak?’ I ask.

The colour drains from his face.

His eyes snap to mine, the hard mask that calcifies his expression nearly has me moving to the other end of the bench.

‘How do you know about Isak?’ His voice drops a register. The soft philosopher with the sky in his eyes disappears, leaving behind the man that the prison built restraints for.

Every sensible part of me tells me to put distance between us.

Some darker part notices how deep his voice has become. And I’m not sure if I don’t move because of fear… or because something twisted in me wants more of it.

‘You won’t tell me anything,’ I respond.

‘It has nothing to do with you.’

‘What’s Simon Cromwell doing about the whole thing?’

His nostrils flare.

‘Exactly what he’s expected to do – nothing. He’s the Crane Logs & Timber lawyer. He caters to the company’s interests.’ He frowns at a pebble between his feet. ‘And then some.’ His throat works on a swallow. ‘I’m just the renegade son my father had with a foreign mistress who’d left me to his mercy.’

My hand fists on my lap in an effort to stop myself from reaching for him. ‘You don’t have anyone to represent you?’

‘Drop it, Leah, you don’t know everything. You don’t know what’s at stake.’

I should stop.

‘And Melody?’ My tongue rushes in.

I’m almost certain I hear a tooth crack when his jaw clenches.

His ragged breathing and the intense stare he gives me have my hackles rising.

My body reacts on instinct as I slowly get off the bench and leave the cake behind.

‘Guard!’ he calls, firmly this time.

I look at the man who starts towards us, making a quick assessment of the situation, and I nod in quiet acquiescence.

‘All done, Ms Nottingham?’ the uniform calls, still walking towards us.

I hold Crane’s gaze.

He gives me nothing back. Not a twitch of his mouth. Not the slightest softening around his eyes.

‘Stop looking into this.’ The words fall quietly and break against the concrete between his feet.

George has already opened the door.

‘Come along now, miss, it’s hot outside,’ he yawns, tugging at his sweat-damp collar as he glares at the clear sky.

I start for the exit, passing the other guard.

Each step away feels like walking against a current. The bench behind me might as well be on fire.

‘No kiss again, Crane?’ George sniggers. ‘Ladies must really hate your ugly arse.’