Page 14 of Unapologetic Love Story

She sighed, as if readying herself for some kind of insult. ‘The Disability Track. It’s a podcast.’

It merely confirmed what Tori had said but he nodded as if it were new information. ‘Interesting.’

She narrowed her eyes just a little but said nothing.

‘It’s a podcast about disability then?’

‘Well, sort of,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a space for women who happen to be disabled-slash-neurodivergent. To vent, to laugh, to report.’

She was ever so slightly defensive. Like she was used to people making fun of her.

‘Makes a change from all the True Crime.’

She laughed at that. ‘Yeah, I guess. To each their own. I listened to a live episode of one last week and there’s something a little jarring about a room full of people screaming and cheering when they hear their favourite serial killer’s name. Bellowing for Ted Bundy like he’s Mick Jagger.’

‘I enjoy them on long train journeys. Did you know, historically, women who kill like to use poison?’

He expected her to be bored by that titbit. Instead, she said, ‘Of course. Men like the ejaculation of a gunshot or the intimate penetration of a knife; women want the slow and creeping little death. All-encompassing. It was ever thus.’

Who are you?

Tom fought to keep his composure as they continued to sway to the music.

‘Joke’s on us,’ he said. ‘The fans aren’t supporting murder; they’re prepping for it. They’ll know the signs and the red flags from all their research, and you and I won’t.’

‘I don’t know,’ Raina murmured, raising herself up a little so she could whisper in his ear. ‘I’m very good at spotting a bad guy.’

A crack of electricity pulsed through Tom and he felt an aching pang. His hands tightened on her waist, a completely unconscious gesture.

She laughed softly, and a little knowingly.

Tom cleared his throat again. ‘Are you and Miss Cousins old schoolfriends?’

Raina grimaced, glancing back at Pepper who was still networking by their table. ‘Not exactly.’

He caught the faint scent of a story there, like the smell of a freshly blown-out candle, but he didn’t pry. ‘Where are you based in London?’

‘Definitely something a bad guy would ask,’ she said coolly, and he laughed.

‘General vicinity, then?’

‘Barnes.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Sometimes. You?’

‘Fulham.’

She gave a nod of acknowledgement, a London ritual completed.

‘You’re Scottish.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Yeah, I am,’ Tom answered. ‘Been here ten years though.’

‘Why would you leave there? It’s so much friendlier.’

He was surprised by the comment. It was spoken with barely-there sadness. ‘Work.’