Keeping by Sarah Masters Page B

that.
    Oliver nodded, and they ate in silence then, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of their forks scraping across their plates.

Chapter Eight
    Langham was on his back in bed staring at the ceiling but not seeing it, the quilt pulled halfway up his stomach. No shaft of moonlight broke through the murkiness as it usually did—the curtains were drawn close together as he hadn’t wanted any light in the room at all. No, he wanted blackness, the kind where even if someone lurked in the corner their shadow couldn’t be seen. Oliver was beside him, breaths the same as when he was awake, and Langham felt for him not being able to sleep.
    “You want to talk about it?” Langham asked.
    “Could do. Might help.” Oliver sighed.
    Langham reached out and patted the bed, searching for Oliver’s hand. He found it and grasped it lightly, then gave it a quick squeeze, just enough to let him know he was there for him, that he wasn’t alone. “What…” Langham paused then decided to try again, hating himself for wanting to ask questions. “Did you get anything from Cheryl you didn’t tell me about? Anything you remember now you’re relaxed?”
    “I’d hardly call it relaxed, man.”
    “You know what I meant. Now we’re home.”
    “I’ll have a think.”
    Langham knew Oliver would do that thing he did, where he closed his eyes and either waited for a new information dump or examined what he’d already been given. Langham imagined that if stuff came at Oliver in a rush he had to focus on either the voice that shouted the loudest or the imagery that shone brightest. There was no way, with too much data streaming through his head, he could possibly catch hold of it all. It brought to mind earlier, when Langham had been trying to grasp those snippets, eventually rewarded with the one that had broken free. Was it like that for Oliver?
    I’m such a fucking shit, expecting him to do this now when I told him he ought to rest.
    But Langham’s need to find Cheryl was somehow stronger, if that were possible, than it had been with the other women. This had gotten personal now, wasn’t just his job. It was encroaching on his relationship, the well-being of his bloke, and he was buggered if he’d sit back and let that go on indefinitely. And if it meant pressing Oliver again now, hurting him a bit in the process, but ultimately preventing more hurt in the future, it was something he had to do. The situation was precarious, though. So far Cheryl was still alive—or was she? She hadn’t spoken to Oliver in a while, so who knew if the man had killed her yet.
    He waited, held his breath for a few moments, praying—and hating himself for it all over again—that Oliver got something new. It felt like the air had changed—it had that charged feeling similar to the times in the incident room when everyone was on tenterhooks ready to arrest their man. The hairs on Langham’s arms rose as he expelled his breath, and his heart thumped just a little bit too hard.
    “You all right?” he asked Oliver.
    “Yeah, I’m just… There’s something…I can’t quite get…”
    Christ, was Langham picking up on things now? He shuddered, wanting no part of that weird crap where he sensed shit. The thought of it gave him the fucking creeps. Instincts or hunches were enough for him, and even those gave him pause at times, where he questioned whether he ought to act on them or if it had just been a passing fancy in his head.
    He closed his eyes and concentrated on regulating his breathing, wanting his heart to stop kicking up such a fuss. He’d picked up on Oliver getting information—that was all. It could have been the subtle change in Oliver’s breathing, the slight flutter of his fingers beneath Langham’s—that was all.
    What has he got? What is he seeing?
    Langham tried to imagine what it was like, knowing things as though he’d known them all his life, being convinced they were truths. It must be the same as seeing