The Bones of Summer by Anne Brooke Page A

The atmosphere in the small kitchen was so thick as to be almost unbreakable. Maddy stared at him, her eyes wide.
    Craig took Paul's hand and kept holding his gaze. “I'm truly sorry.”
    “It's not your fault,” he whispered. “Anyway, I've taken you to Devon, so I suppose I'm already involved ... in something. And the boyfriend in question was an ex. The ex.”
    “I promise I won't ever set you up,” Craig said. “I don't have a gun. And I'm not your ex.”
    Another moment of silence.
    Then Paul said, “Okay. I'll help you. Have you got a computer?”
    “Of course,” Maddy replied. “No problem.”
    * * * *
    It took them just a week. Not that they were doing that all the time. After all, they had lives to lead and the beginnings of a relationship to look after. But watching Paul carry out his business fascinated Craig. Paul was a good teacher too, allowing him to take the lead, ask questions, letting the net gradually close in on what he found he was thinking of as his prey. Craig came to see how being a private investigator could take you over and be an all-consuming part of life. It made him wonder what Paul would think of his modeling/acting career if he ever had the chance to watch him in return. Strangely, it also made him feel in charge of his past for the first time. Or at least the first time he could remember. Looking back, it seemed as if he'd been running all his life, certainly in the past seven years, reacting to shadows, half-memories, fears he could only glimpse, never grasp. Now, with this decision, he was doing something about it. And because he wanted to. Not because somebody else had forced him into it.
    The shadows, however, grew darker. Several nights that week, Craig woke up, nightmares tearing at the edges of sleep. Pictures of his mother slipping away. A dripping tap. The color red. Danger. The fourth night, it was so bad that he surfaced groaning, clutching at the pillows and managing to wake Paul, who'd spent the night with him.
    “ What...? What's happening?”
    “Nothing,” he mumbled, heart racing so much he could hardly catch his breath. “Nightmare, I think. That's all.”
    “Bugger. Come here.” Paul pulled Craig to him. Then, “God, you can hardly breathe. And you're so cold.”
    “F-felt real.”
    “Hush.” He wound his legs around Craig's and pulled him even closer, so he was wrapped in his boyfriend's body. Paul held him until his breathing had steadied and he felt warmer again.
    “Thanks,” Craig whispered after a while.
    “'S'okay,” he said. “Do you get a lot of nightmares?”
    Craig snuggled against him and felt the beat of his heart. “Used to. Not so much recently though. Not ‘til this week anyway.”
    “I see. Do you think it's to do with this mission we're on? To find Michael?”
    Craig couldn't help his laughter. “Are you asking with your PI hat on, or are you just being nice?”
    “Cheeky bugger, I'm always nice. I don't have to be it. Look, I'll show you. I can take your mind off it.”
    “Mind?” Craig murmured as Paul's fingers touched his prick, which was already stiff. “What mind?”
    Later, they slept again. And this time, the nightmares didn't come back. Not that night anyway.
    They found Michael one frosty afternoon toward the end of that January week. Or rather they didn't find him. Maddy and Julie were both at work, and he and Paul were busy on their laptops in the kitchen. It was the only room with a decent enough table. Craig had been trawling through the various London council records Paul had managed to get into. He had no idea how—and he didn't ask. He was simply grateful. And, over the top of the screen, he could see a frown of concentration wrinkling Paul's forehead. He was about to take a break, ask Paul if he wanted a drink, when his boyfriend suddenly sighed, sat back, and cocked his head at the screen.
    “What've you found?” Craig asked. “Anything worth a look?”
    He waited for the answer. He'd discovered, since