Page 150 of ICED
“You think the police will actually do something this time?” I ask.
“I think they already have. And now we keep the pressure on.” Owen says.
I nod. “I want to see the flat. I want to see what he did.”
“Not alone.” Owen and Ollie say in unison.
“No. With you.”
“Then we’ll go.”
I stand, wrapping my arms around myself. “Do you think this is the end of it?”
Owen doesn’t lie. “I don’t know. But it’s a hell of a turning point.”
“We’ll make sure it’s the end of it, don’t worry about that. The legal team are shit hot at this kind of stuff. You’re one of us; we take care of our own.” Ollie stands to hug me before he heads back to the lounge with his tea.
We return to bed before dawn. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, Owen beside me with one hand resting on my stomach. His thumb strokes slow, soothing circles over my jumper.
When the sun begins to rise, I hear the shuffle of small feet outside the door. Lila pokes her head in, hair wild and eyes wide.
“Mummy?”
“Come here, baby.”
She clambers in, worming her way between us like she was made to fit there. Owen shifts, wrapping one arm around her and the other around me. We stay that way for a while; quiet, cocooned, tangled up in each other like some homemade family stitched out of scar tissue and stubborn love.
Eventually, Ollie knocks lightly on the door. “Okay if I start breakfast?”
“Only if you make pancakes,” Lila says.
“That’s a very specific demand.”
“With chocolate chips!”
Ollie sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll see if your dad has any flour left from all that baking he does.”
Lila blinks up at me. “Is Bear my dad now?”
I look to Owen. His face is soft. “Not yet, Jellybean. But I’d be proud to be.”
She nods like that’s a reasonable answer. “Okay.”
I pull her close, burying my nose in her hair. She smells like sleep and chocolate.
After breakfast, Owen and I dress quietly. Lila stays with Ollie, who insists they’ll build a blanket fort and protect the house.
“I’m Security Chief now,” he reminds me. “It’s official.”
I leave them drawing posters for the front window that readNO BAD GUYS ALLOWEDin shaky, colourful letters.
The drive to my old flat is silent.
When we arrive, the front door is half open. A police officer greets us. “Miss Dawson? Mr. Jackson?”
We nod.
“The suspect’s in custody. He’ll be held overnight and brought before a judge in the morning. We’ll be pressing charges for breaking and entering, property damage, and resisting arrest.”
