A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(58)

It was what they’d done to Matilda Wilkes. It was what they’d done to me. Hide the problem away so you don’t have to look at her. Put her on a train. Bin her somewhere. Shove her off to another country, shove her six feet underground, and wait for her to rot.

I was suddenly so very tired.

“I’m not going to hurt him. August. I’ll leave him alone.”

“Lottie,” Araminta said. “I never thought you would—”

“He never saw me anyway.” I turned from her then. “You can find yourself a hotel, I’m sure.”

“Charlotte—”

Was that all she could say? My name?

“I just want to go home,” I said, and it took me two tries to unbuckle my seat belt, but I did it. I did it with my own hands, and then I walked myself the five miles home.

WATSON WAS WAITING FOR ME ON THE CURB OUTSIDE OUR flat. He turned his head when he saw me at the corner, and then looked straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

“I’m locked out,” he said evenly, as I approached.

“I know.”

“Can we not do this?” he asked. “The whole, me dragging an apology out of you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t.” He snuck a look at me. “How about an explanation, while you’re at it?”

“I have one of those too,” I said, offering him a hand up. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Holmes,” he said, “are you okay? You seem a little . . . punchy.”

“No,” I said, and laughed. “No! What’s that thing that Lena says? I am so not okay, Jamie. I am the opposite of okay. But don’t worry—we’ll go upstairs and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. And very, very soon, you’re not going to be okay too.”





Twenty

LATER, MUCH LATER, AFTER WE’D RAGED AROUND THE FLAT, after Watson had held a pillow so that I could punch it, after he’d cried in the bathroom where he thought I couldn’t hear, we put on sweatpants and went down to the twenty-four-hour off-license and bought as much ice cream as we could carry. At the last minute, Watson threw in a thing of Tunnock’s tea cakes so we could eat something on the walk home.

It was only five minutes, but we were in desperate need of chocolate.

“You don’t want to see him, do you? August?” I asked, as we settled back into bed.

He considered it, his mouth full of marshmallow fluff. “Maybe eventually,” he said, swallowing. “If he stays there. He’d be stupid not to switch jobs every few months. He’s already taking such a risk, working in England.”

I stared at the pint of gelato I’d balanced on my stomach. It was beginning to melt. “Does this mean I need to forgive Milo?” I asked. “What are the rules?”

“There aren’t any,” Watson said, handing me a spoon. “I don’t plan on forgiving my father.”

I nestled in to look at him. “Can you unpack that a little more?”

“That,” Watson said, “is therapy-speak.”

“I’ve been in therapy,” I reminded him.

He sighed. “I keep thinking about my brothers. Mal isn’t even in kindergarten yet. Robbie was acting up before any of this started. And my dad is already doing the thing where he’s escaped across an ocean. Back in London, waiting for someone to take him in so he can start the whole cycle all over again: marriage, kids, running away. I don’t want to be a part of that.”

“Is that fair?” I asked him.

“Does it have to be?” he asked me. “It’s how I feel.”

“You can call him,” I said, watching his brows knit, his eyes shutter. “Talk through it all. At which point, you can forgive him, or you can tell him to go to hell.”

“Pass.”

“Or you could never call him again.”

Watson snorted. “There. A workable plan. Anyway, I thought you were the one asking for advice on Milo.”

“Fine. Enumerate my options, please.”

“You can call him. At which point, you can forgive him, or you can tell him to go to hell.”

“You’re funny,” I told him. “Hilarious.”

“Or you can never call him ever again. Or—”

“Precisely. Fuck him.” I dug into my pint. It was mint chocolate chip, and it was a revelation.

“There are other options, Horatio,” Watson laughed. “You don’t have to make up your mind tonight. You can change it six ways til Tuesday.”

“Tonight,” I said, “I am going to fill myself with gelato until there is literally no room inside of me for feeling like shit.”

“Cheers,” Watson said, and extracted another tea cake from its packaging. “Do you want to talk about something else?”

“No,” I said, and affected a smile. “Not really.” And it was late, and soon enough Watson got up to shower, and when he climbed back into bed, he pulled me up against him and fell almost immediately asleep.

If anything could make me feel better, it would have been that.

And yet.

I slipped out of bed, taking up my phone from the nightstand, and crept through the flat in the dark. I checked the locks on the door and the windows, drew the curtains. I poured myself a glass of water. I was stalling, I knew. I didn’t want to do it. It wouldn’t do me any good.