Page 71 of Claim

Twenty four hours later, I stood on the doorstep of a narrow-terraced house in Stratford, trying to work out whether I’d slept at all.

I don’t think I had.

Between securing what needed securing to get me here, I’d still had to do my job. Other cases. Other clients. Other courts requiring me to stand up straight and sound as if my head wasn’t full of fractured timelines and contingency plans. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day to do any of it properly. I’d simply… kept going.

I blew out a breath and rang the bell.

The door opened to noise. Three babies crying at slightly different pitches, overlapping in a way that felt almost mathematical. Two women shouted over the top of it and Lennon filled the doorway, one sleeve smeared with something I hoped was milk. He took in my expression and smirked.

“Yeah.” He waggled a finger at me. “That face right there is why you rich boys don’t come out east.”

“Christ.” I winced. “No wonder you’re keen to relocate the population.”

He shot me a look. “Watch it. It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos. And I ain’t keen, I’m being made to.” Then he stepped aside and jerked his head towards the hallway. “Come in. She’s nearly ready.”

I stepped inside and the noise closed in behind me.

The house was small. Not in a way that demanded comment, but it was compact, efficiently lived in. Two rooms downstairs: a narrow lounge at the front, a kitchen at the back, divided by a tight hallway barely allowing two people to pass without turning sideways. Upstairs, I assumed, the same again with a bathroom carved out wherever there had been space to take it.

It was easy to see why Lennon was worried about space if Razor ended up here as well. Especially on tag. If Razor came, he wouldn’t be going far. The house would become the boundary of his world. Every wall a limit, every room a reminder that freedom, for now, meant staying put.

From the kitchen, a woman in scrubs lifted a hand in greeting, a baby balanced expertly on one hip while another clung to her leg, wailing as she tried to stuff nappies and bottles into a canvas bag. I assumed this was Amara, Lennon’s partner, the twins, Micah and Marley, asserting themselves as the centre of their universe.

Then movement down the hall caught my attention.

I’d seen Keeley once before, but I hadn’t really met her. I’d been operating on avoidance, slipping out of Razor’s life after a weekend that had left too much exposed, trying not to be noticed.

She had a presence I couldn’t miss now I was paying attention. Or perhaps it was simply that she was Razor’s. The one person he loved without qualification. The fixed point around which all his worst decisions and best intentions orbited. She was his everything, and responsibility had landed on his shoulders far too young, much like it now had hers. And it showed. Not in hardness like Razor, but watchful. Cautious.

And that scowl…

That, at least, was unmistakably his.

Keeley halted when she saw me.

She had her baby on her hip. Maisie, I reminded myself, though she looked closer to a toddler now. Bow pinned crookedly into dark, flyaway hair, dressed in a neat pink tracksuit, shoes that had clearly been wiped down minutes earlier.

Keeley herself, though, looked… young. Younger than I knew she was. Long dark hair scraped into a messy knot, wisps escaping everywhere, leggings and a tight top that on anyone else might have looked deliberately provocative. On her though, with her sharp angles and hollowed cheeks, it emphasised how slight she was.

My sister was the same age. Sheltered. Cocooned in the soft, managed safety my mother insisted upon. Amelia worried about riding schedules and university open days. Keeley worried about roofs and money and whether the people who owned her house might come knocking.

Or worse.

“This him?” She snapped her gum as she looked me up and down.

Not hostile. Not welcoming either.

Entirely justified.

“Hi.” I held out my hand and immediately knew I’d misjudged the moment. This was not how one greeted a teenage mother from Hackney who was being told her life was about to be uprooted. Keeley grimaced down at my hand, unimpressed. I withdrew it, chastened. “I’m Tristan.”

She ignored me completely and looked past me to Lennon. “I don’t want to go.”

“Babe, you have to.” Lennon stepped around me, sliding an arm around her shoulders as she shifted the gurgling weight of Maisie. “Rich wants this. He needs you safe.”

“Why can’t we stay here?”

“Because I don’t have room for all of you,” Lennon said gently but firmly. “And if you want him home, this is how we do it.”