Oliver stared up at a small crack in the ceiling. He’d have to get Seb’s landlord to look at it.
“If you don’t love it, though,” Seb continued when Oliver didn’t say anything, “that would be okay. You don’t have to follow through on everything. Sometimes it’s okay to walk away.”
“But I quit my job. I moved here.”
“And I love having you here for these little heart-to-hearts. But, Ollie, you’ve only ever been one person, your entire life. You followed one path from the time we were kids until the time you got your fancy legal job with your fancy legal boyfriend in your fancy legal condo. I, on the other hand, have spent my entire life with questionable revenue streams and dubious housing. Trust me when I say it’s okay to fuck up from time to time. Change is good.”
“Dubious housing?”
Seb shuddered. “Let me tell you about the apartment I had when I dropped out of art school. It wasn’t really even an apartment. Just a room with a big closet that had a toilet and a shower. It was so dark and damp in there that mushrooms grew on the tile in the summer and—”
“Okay, okay!” Oliver pulled himself up to sitting and ran his fingers through his hair.
“All I’m saying is, your dickhead boyfriend left you high and dry, right after you made a massive life change, and you did what you could to hold the rest of the pieces together. That’s admirable. But if it’s not the thing you really want to be doing, why are you doing it?”
Oliver groaned and tipped his head over the back of the sofa. Seb was right—or he was making sense at least, which was irritating in its own way. Pulpabilitywas challenging, but not especially satisfying. He wanted to help people, but lately, the residents of Seacroft had made it clear they didn’t want his help. Not like this, anyway. If he weren’t trying to keep the business afloat, what else would he do?
He hunched forward so he was looking down at his brother, still lying on the floor. “When you’re not being an asshole, you’re actually pretty smart.”
Seb grinned at him. “That’s my secret. I’m always—”
Oliver’s phone rang, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. Oliver pulled it out of his pocket and warmth swept over him when he saw Nick’s name. He stepped over Seb as he answered the call. “Hey, baby. How’s your day going?”
“Oliver? Hayden’s in jail. I need you.”
22
Oliver stared at himself in the mirror. The suit fit perfectly, but then, that was the beauty of a bespoke suit.
Going home to change might have been the height of self-indulgence, but he needed the armor, and he’d given Nick explicit instructions to tell the police Hayden wouldn’t be talking to anyone without his lawyer present, so he had time.
He ran a hand over his beard and then through his hair. They didn’t fit with the tailored black of his jacket, but that was fine. He wasn’t the guy who wore suits like this every day anymore.
Oliver drove across town and strode into the police station with the confidence of years of training and practice. He introduced himself to the officer at the desk and was taken down a dim hall without much fanfare.
Hayden was sitting at a table in a cramped room. Anya sat next to him, looking small. She stood when he walked in. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes, but she straightened and came around the table to shake his hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Of course.”
Beyond them, Hayden sighed heavily. He was spread out in his chair, taking as much space as he could. For all his mother was so obviously shaken, Hayden looked like everything about this turn of events was incredibly inconvenient.
“Have you spoken to the police?” Oliver asked.
Anya shook her head. “No. Nick told us that you said not to.”
“That’s good.” He tried not to sound too invested when he said, “Where’s Nick?”
“I’m here.”
Oliver turned to find Nick standing in the doorway, a uniformed officer hovering behind him. Nick held two paper coffee cups.
“Hi.” His eyes were tired, but his smile was warm.
Something inside Oliver clicked into place. Nick. He would do anything for Nick. “Hi. Everything okay?”
Nick nodded and walked across the room to hand one of the coffees to Anya. They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, and she leaned into him while he wrapped an arm around her. Oliver might have been jealous, except for the twin expressions of worry and fear on their faces. They were every inch the terrified parents, and he was here to help them win this fight.
“I’d like to speak with my client and his family,” Oliver said to the officer, who nodded and shut the door. Two sets of eyes were pinned to Oliver, waiting expectantly, while Hayden traced a fingernail over the battered tabletop.
