M.J. Ford - Keep Her Close

‘Hey, stranger,’ said a voice.

Jo almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the piece of paper.

Lucas stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one arm resting on the frame, his blond surfer’s hair tousled, squinting a little into the light. He wore just a pair of shorts, his muscular torso on display, and padded towards her on bare feet.

‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Jo.

He folded his arms around her, and kissed the underside of her neck. ‘Sorry. I thought you were a burglar.’

His stubble brushed her cheek, and though there was still a hint of the soap he used, his hair carried the scent of burned wood.

‘You smell funny,’ she said.

He leant past her and stabbed at a piece of pineapple, popping it in her mouth.

‘Bonfire,’ he said. ‘You want me to shower?’

‘We’ll have to wash the sheets,’ she said.

‘Guess so.’ He went to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Tipping it back, he took several gulps. ‘Busy day, huh?’

‘Complicated,’ she answered.

He replaced the milk. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not much to talk about at the moment. You go out somewhere?’

‘Huh?’

‘Car’s warm,’ she said.

‘Just the shops, Sherlock,’ he said.

He took himself off to the bathroom. She heard the shower start up.

In the first weeks of their relationship, her work was all he’d wanted to ask about, but he’d cottoned on quickly that Jo would rather talk about anything else and now he was much better at gauging her mood. She found his own work much more fascinating. Gardening wasn’t a topic she’d ever thought about much before, but Lucas had been working across the colleges for around eight years, and his tales of collegiate politics, student high jinks, and academic malfeasance were as rich as any case she’d worked on. It helped that he was a naturally gifted mimic. He had an eye for humour, an open disposition, and, compared with most people Jo came across, a sometimes charming innocence. She almost didn’t want to share the things she came across day to day – the banality of deaths, the lies and desperation, the lives shattered and inconsequential in the fringes of society – for fear it would drain some of that positivity from him.

Of his own history, she knew little. He’d grown up in Somerset, and the accent remained. His parents, who had separated when he was seven, were both dead. He had a sister, in New Zealand now, with whom he spoke a handful of times a year. His friends in Oxford were mostly in the same line of work. He wanted, ultimately, to own his own landscaping company, but he was in no rush. At twenty-eight, Jo hadn’t been either.

She wondered, in moments of self-doubt, what he thought of her. Over a decade older, weighed down by the pressures of work, one seriously failed romantic life behind her. She hadn’t told him about the counselling, not because she was ashamed of it, but because it might have meant talking more about what had happened that night in Sally Carruthers’ barn. Anyone with eyes and ears to take in the news was aware of the basics, of course. She and Lucas had met during the case – he’d been a helpful witness in the search for a suspect. But it hadn’t been until four weeks after, and the bruises had faded, that he’d left a message through the front desk, that his offer of a drink was still open. Dimitriou had overheard, and found it hilarious. And though every instinct had screamed at Jo that it was a bad time, she had taken him up on it, having run a thorough criminal record check, of course. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, Lucas was as clean as they came. The fact he looked like a Greek God cast away on a sun-kissed desert island helped.

She finished her wine and put the glass by the sink with the empty bowl of pineapple. Peeling off her clothes in the bedroom, which smelled faintly of smoke too, she walked naked to the bathroom door. It was thick with steam inside, but she could make out the shape of Lucas in the shower. For a moment, she remembered Malin’s bloody handprint across her mirror.

Pulling back the shower curtain, she climbed in behind him stealthily, then threaded a hand over his rib cage and taut stomach, making him jump.

‘Now you’re scaring me ,’ he said, turning and pulling her towards him, into the flow of hot water.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him tenderly, glad to be free of her thoughts – for a little while, at least.

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