Page 72 of Claim

“But all my friends are here.”

“And you can’t trust a single one of them not to mention where you are to Richie’s old crew.” Lennon didn’t soften that. “You know that.”

Keeley huffed, stamping her foot in frustration, but her eyes were already glassy. She sniffed. “What about Mum?”

I spoke before Lennon could. “She’s got a place at Hawthorn Ridge.”

“I’ll take her there after we drop you,” Lennon added. “It’s a good place.”

Keeley frowned. “What is it?”

“A private rehabilitation centre.” I reached into my bag and produced the brochure. She didn’t take it, but her eyes scanned the cover—green lawns, stone buildings, the careful promise of calm. “Ninety-day residential programme. Addiction and mental health.”

She looked back at me sharply. “Who paid for that?”

I slid the pamphlet back into my bag without meeting her gaze. “It’s covered. That’s all you need to worry about.”

Lennon met my eyes and gave the smallest nod.

It had cost more than I cared to calculate. A referral through Henry. Money moved quietly, cleanly, from a career-contingency fund built on personal investments I’d been guided into at twenty-one, into his account. Funds that had existed to soften the uncertain edges of my early career, now gone.

I would manage. I always did.

For me, it meant asking Father to increase the monthly allowance drawn from the trust he’d set up years ago. I doubted he would probe too closely. The cost of living. The cost of being a junior barrister. Both were true, if not the whole truth.

Henry, on the other hand, would know exactly what I’d done.

And he would have words.

Keeley turned back to Lennon. “What if she refuses?”

“She won’t.” Lennon eased Maisie from her arms with the competence of someone who’d learnt quickly how to handle babies. “Now go get your things. The sooner we do this, the sooner we get Rich home.”

“Home,” she scoffed. “We don’t have a home.” She stormed into the living room.

Lennon watched her go. Maisie tried to shove her fingers into his mouth, but he rescued himself before speaking. “She’s not always like this.”

“She’s Razor’s sister.” I glanced over to where she shoved things into a bag. “I’d be disappointed if she weren’t.”

Keeley reappeared; bag slung over her shoulder, and gave Lennon a look with those puppy-dog eyes that were so like Razor’s I could hardly breathe. “Can you come with me?”

He glanced towards the back of the house, where Amara wrangled twins, preparing to leave for her mother’s. He sighed, then nodded. “Course.”

I then loaded Keeley’s bags into the boot of my Mercedes while Lennon hugged Amara and the boys, murmuring reassurances, before climbing into the passenger seat. Keeley settled in the back beside Maisie’s car seat, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

Then I pulled away from the kerb.

For a while, we drove with the radio playing quietly for something to sit between us. Every so often, I caught Keeley watching me through the rear-view mirror and tried for a small, neutral smile.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said after we’d made it onto the North Circular.

Lennon let out a low chuckle beside me, eyes on the road rolling past his window. He wouldn’t help me out here. I knew that. And I shouldn’t expect him to.

“Yeah.” I twisted my hand on the wheel. “I’m… on your brother’s legal team.”

Keeley snorted. “Man thinks I ain’t got eyes, Len.”

Lennon glanced over his shoulder at her. “He’s posh, babe. Thinks we’re all thick as shit.”