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I noticed, over those weeks, that Elliot was a strange person.

He didn't console. He couldn't flatter his way through a compliment if you paid him. But whenever he was present, I found things felt less terrible.

We met almost every day. Either at the firm or running down evidence.

One night I sat outside a Tesco at eleven, eating an onigiri, feeling as though I was held together with tape.

Elliot handed me a cup of warm milk.

"Stop drinking coffee. You haven't slept properly in two days."

I took it and asked, before I could stop myself: "Why are you so personally invested in this case?"

He gave me a look.

"I'm a solicitor."

"You have a lot of clients. You don't follow all of them like this."

He didn't answer immediately. He set his files aside.

"Because cases like this shouldn't lose."

"Just that?"

"What else would there be?"

I looked at the side of his face — no particular expression — and laughed quietly.

"Nothing. Never mind."

Later, Sadie told me in secret: Elliot had seen me at a university debate. He'd been visiting from another college.

He told her brother: when she stood up to speak, she looked like someone who was born not to lose.

I sat with that for a while.

"How did you find out?"

"My brother got it out of him over drinks." Sadie had the look of someone who'd been waiting to tell me. "He didn't plan to say anything — he was worried you'd think he was taking advantage of a difficult situation."

I felt something warm, and just as quickly pressed it back down.

The flat first. Everything else after.