Chapter 8: Second Charge

I slid off the worktop so fast I knocked Gran's tea caddy into the sink.

Nathan stepped back and turned toward the hall.

He put himself in the kitchen doorway.

Not in front of me. Beside the frame, so I could see past him.

The front door swung open.

Alfie walked into my hall.

He was halfway to the stairs when he saw us.

He stopped.

He looked at Nathan's T-shirt, rucked up where I'd had my fists in it.

He looked at my top, half untucked.

His face did something ugly.

"Well," he said. "Mum was right."

"Your mum met him ten days ago, same as me," I said. "Give me the key, Alfie."

"It's my house."

"Give me the key."

He put it in his pocket instead.

Then he looked up at Nathan, who was a full head taller than him.

"Enjoying my leftovers, mate?"

Nathan didn't move.

"I'd leave," he said. "While it's still your idea."

Alfie laughed, a short nasty bark.

"I'm not here for her. I'm here for my stuff."

"Your stuff is in your mother's garage," I said.

"The loft box."

I frowned.

"What loft box?"

He didn't answer.

He turned round, yanked open the cupboard under the stairs and started dragging out the hoover.

"Alfie, what are you doing?"

He threw the ironing board into the hall.

Behind it, on the shelf where Gran had kept her Christmas tins, was the grey plastic file box.

Every paper in this house went in that box.

The deeds. Gran's will. The boiler guarantee. Our marriage certificate.

The loft quote from the builder.

Alfie grabbed it with both arms.

"That's mine," I said. "Put it down."