Page 118 of Not That Impossible

“You write stories?”

I stilled.

“Jasper?”

Nope. Not talking about that right now. “I’m thinking maybe I’ve retired from my journalistic career.”

He hummed. “You have to do what makes you happy,” he said. “I want you to be happy.”

“Okay, that’s the second time you’ve said that to me tonight—or ever—and honestly? It’s nice, but it’s freaking me out.”

“I can imagine.” He pushed away. I immediately missed the heat of his body. “Right. You came to apologise, which wasn’t necessary but I appreciate it.”

“Yes,” I said, because he seemed to be waiting for confirmation.

“And you’re not here to ask me questions about the case.”

“No. Unless you feel like sharing any details?”

I didn’t want to write another article, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious. Who the hell puts dead people in storage tubs and hides them in their house?

“I can’t. I’m not at liberty to share information about an ongoing case with the general public.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t really asking.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Ray earlier today. Given the age and condition of the bodies, and how many times the property has changed hands since their estimated deaths, it’s incredibly unlikely that we’ll ever know who killed them. The only reason I’m even telling you this is because a good journalist would have already put that together for himself.”

Maybe a good journalist would. I hadn’t.

“Ray’s house will be thoroughly searched and documented, and the case will eventually get turned over to a special team who deals with cold cases.”

“And that’s it? You find dead people in someone’s house, and that’s it?”

“That’s it."

“Who knew that finding mummified bodies in a quiet little Cotswolds town would be this boring?”

“It’s the nature of a lot of police work. Boring and frustrating.”

“Is it your weirdest case ever?”

Liam grimaced. “Sadly, no. Okay. Enough about the case.” He held out a hand. “Come on.”

I let him pull me up from the stool. He kept hold of my hand and I assumed he was taking me to the front door until we diverted to his sitting room.

“What—oof.” I bounced on the sofa cushion when he pushed me down and stood looming over me.

“You asked me a couple of days ago how I knew your middle name,” he said. “Do you want to know how?”

If he’d said that half an hour ago, I’d have been discombobulated by the jarring subject change. Since I’d been discombobulatedforhalf an hour, it had become my new normal. I rolled with it. “I’ve thought about that. Is it from the paperwork when you tried to arrest me when I was fourteen? Good memory.”

He laughed, then quickly sobered. “No. It’s from when you, Jasper Caius Connolly, pledged your undying love to me in Adam’s bedroom after I’d helped my Aunt Ellen wrangle you two drunk miscreants home and up the stairs. You then burst into tears and told me that I’d broken your heart.”

Oh my god. “What?”

“After which, you took all your clothes off, puked on my shoes, and passed out.”

My face was scarlet. Or on actual fire.

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