8.

When Oliver woke up on the lounge, opening his eyes, someone was tapping his forehead with a bottle of wine.

‘Good afternoon. Or good morning, whatever you’d prefer.’

It was Harold. Was it midday already? The light floating across the room was vivid.

‘I knocked,’ he said, ‘but you were out of it.’

Oliver was dreaming that thugs had broken into his cottage. They’d made a mess, turned the furniture upside down, spilled coffee beans everywhere searching for money Theo had left behind; had tied Oliver up and thrown him in the back of a truck. Taken him to a warehouse in the city. Some of the same people in the picture with Theo. The mugshots.

Harold moved to the kitchen and placed the wine and a glass jar of something on the bench, the echo of his boots reverberating through the cottage. Oliver sat up and smudged his eyes with his palm.

‘Big night?’ Harold asked.

‘Wasn’t little,’ Oliver said, eyeing the coffee table – there was a tipple of port still in the glass. ‘Weren’t you coming for dinner?’

Harold was dressed in dark jeans, a chartreuse button-up and a leather jacket. He stood in front of Julia’s three paintings. ‘I need to be back on the coast but thought we could cook lunch. I brought some lemons I preserved from last year. Been hankering for a good roast chook and I want to try out an Ottolenghi recipe.’

Oliver stood next to Harold, who was gazing at the paintings. Landscapes – more seascapes, really. One of a vineyard beside the ocean and the others of the land and the sea and the clouds. Somewhere on the Margaret River, where Julia had grown up. Wide strokes with thick oils. Close up, the paint was so glossy it appeared as though it hadn’t finished drying. When Oliver stood back, everything morphed into something less abstract.

‘Ah, don’t we miss her.’

You miss the money.

No, that wasn’t fair. Harold had always loved Julia. He’d encouraged her when others hadn’t been as supportive. Miles was not an emboldening character. Oliver and Theo were too young to fully understand the gravitas of the art and the talent their mother possessed. Harold had fought hard for Julia when most others had found her style too risky to pursue.

‘I miss her every day,’ Oliver said eventually.

Harold appeared old. He was ageing ordinarily enough, but Oliver knew that when you only caught up with someone once every blue moon you noticed the wrinkles, the receding hairline, the extra paunch, that little bit more. Whenever Oliver thought of Harold, he remembered him the way he was when Oliver was a kid: a jet-black beard and the same thick glasses; someone always immaculately dressed. And now he was stooped slightly further forward, the little hair he had left had gone grey, beard white, voice gravellier and more guttural.

Over the years, Oliver had imagined Theo overseas, his appear­ance the same as the day he left – resembling someone who was perpetually twenty-two. Which was stupid, considering he stared at himself in the mirror every day and knew he’d left that juncture of life long ago. Why would your twin cease ageing while you continued looking so much older? It was a ludicrous supposition, but the mind was less rational than most of us considered. Oliver believed that.

He peered at Harold, who was deeply engrossed in Julia’s art. Did you peter out bit by bit, Oliver nearly asked him, or did you just change overnight? This sudden shift from middle aged to fully bald? A slow coastal erosion or an unanticipated earthquake?

Under normal circumstances, he would have made a joke about it. Teased Harold about his grey hairs and extra chins. But instead, he stayed silent.

Harold broke the stillness by walking over to the coffee table and picking up a novel.

‘Book, book,’ he said. ‘The sound a chicken makes. Don’t know about you, young man, but I’m fucking starving.’

***

Heavy black clouds teetered in the distance, opaque over the mountains.

Harold clutched the Jesus handle of the ute. ‘I didn’t know it was going to storm today. It was clear when I left Orange. I should have grabbed some shopping on the way in.’

‘They were predicting rain,’ Oliver said, avoiding potholes as they drove towards town. It looked nasty; broodier than it usually did at this time of the year. ‘Better get you fed and out of here before you’re washed in.’

‘The Beemer loathes this road when it’s dry,’ Harold said. ‘Wouldn’t like to be cruising around here while it’s bucketing down.’

There was a small stretch of dirt and gravel between the tarred road and the vineyard that was fraught with holes and rocks. Uneven and imperfect. Oliver loved that it deterred tourists, although taking the Jaguar out for a drive along here wasn’t always easy.

‘Imagine it,’ Harold said. ‘You and me, stuck at the vineyard together for a couple of days.’

‘Gabe’s got a canoe. I’d paddle you out.’

‘I’d love some time among the vines. A few days to relax.’

They passed a wombat, dead on its side. Oliver thought it appeared ready to leap away at any moment and mosey back into the trees.

‘Harold,’ Oliver said, ‘I’ve known you for nearly thirty years and I don’t think you’ve taken a proper holiday once.’

‘I like a good working holiday. There’d be some bumbling artist I could sign up out here.’

He wanted to ask Harold about Theo. Why his twin brother had been to see him before arriving in Mudgee. Why have you been here twice in a couple of days, when I’ve barely seen you for years?

He opened his mouth to ask the question, but when he looked at Harold – gazing out at the countryside, watching a flock of sheep shuffling through the grass – he decided he’d wait until they were eating lunch.

He would bring it up once Harold had finished a couple of glasses of wine. When he was becoming more relaxed, biddable, open to questions.

***

Harold tended to the chicken with precision. He stuffed it with stale sourdough crumbs and herbs he’d picked from Oliver’s garden, then basted it with preserved lemon juice and stock. He even massaged morsels of salted butter under the skin. And once he’d placed it in the oven, he returned multiple times to watch it crisp under the element until it was done.

‘I wish we had more time,’ Harold said as they were eating.

‘In life?’

‘For the chook. You’re supposed to let it almost go bad.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re meant to warm up the meat before you cook it, make sure it’s at room temperature so it cooks evenly. It makes the protein tenderer. If you put the chicken into the oven when it’s too cold, the outside crisps up but the inside stays raw. So the outside is overcooked before the inside is even halfway where it needs to be.’

‘It was fine,’ Oliver said, rolling his eyes slightly.

Harold moaned as he chewed. The meat was good, but Oliver wondered whether it was for show. Part of his act. Always looking to plug the silence with something. Oliver had read somewhere that some men would rather zap themselves than spend time alone with their thoughts. Harold was one of those people. While Oliver kept himself busy, he’d learned to love the peace of the winery and the freedom to work at his own pace. It helped the past remain buried; kept it from rising too often to the surface.

‘You’re not eating much,’ he said, pointing to Oliver’s plate.

‘I don’t have a huge appetite at the moment.’

‘You can talk to me. You know that.’

‘Not much to say.’

‘Let’s go back to the day Theo arrived.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Why?’ Harold was cutting up pieces of his chicken, as though preparing to feed a child. ‘We both know you can’t ignore it forever. It’s not healthy, mate.’

‘Righto,’ Oliver said. ‘Let’s do it, then. Someone poisoned Theo, Harold. They beat him up. Bruised his ribs. Cut his throat with broken glass from a bottle of whisky. Or maybe he was so sick from the poison he cut his own throat to escape the pain. There was blood everywhere, skin scabbed, a bucket of bleach beside his dead body and specks of blood splashed up the wall. Is that what you want to hear?’

Harold leaned in. ‘You need to talk about it. Let it out. It’s no good festering inside—’

‘I know you were here,’ Oliver said, leaning back into his chair. ‘The day he died.’

He was taking a punt by playing it this way. He didn’t know whether Harold had been at the vineyard, but he wanted Harold to think that he knew more than he did, and it paid off when he saw the telltale sign that Harold was about to lie. The art dealer closed his eyes before shaking his head, feigning a look of indignation.

‘What shit are you dribbling? I came here to see you, Oliver—’

‘Stop lying. You were—’

‘I didn’t fucking kill him!’ Harold said, straightening his jacket with a lugubrious movement. ‘But I was going to talk to him.’ Visibly rattled, dour, he grabbed his wine and tipped back the rest of the glass in one gulp. ‘Whether he died or not, I was coming to visit on Sunday. Theo took something of mine.’

‘You were here the day—’

‘I visited you, yes. Two days ago.’

‘So, the whole caring-about-me thing was just an act?’

‘Stop talking fucking rubbish.’

‘Well, what did Theo take?’

‘Paintings,’ Harold said. ‘He took two of Julia’s canvases. Unfinished ones. I thought he must have been visiting last week to … catch up. But he came for the unfinished pieces. I know she was your mother, Oliver, but they’re mine. And I need them back.’

***

Oliver and Harold searched the kombi van. Behind and under the seats, in the back, lifted up the floor – they found nothing. They trawled the wine shed, Harold with the urgency of a setter on the scent. After a fruitless search, the rain began thrashing the shed’s tin roof so loudly Harold could barely hear Oliver yell that there was no point looking any further.

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me about them?’

‘What’s there to tell,’ Harold said half-heartedly. ‘Your mother had so many unfinished pieces. You have the ones you wanted. You know I have to manage the estate. If Theo wanted them, he should have asked me. Not just pilfer them like a pickpocket in Prague.’

‘How did you let him leave with them?’

‘I didn’t. He must have come back. I don’t know how he took them, but they’re gone.’

‘How do you know it was Theo?’ Oliver challenged.

Harold tilted his head and tittered. ‘Don’t they say a coincidence will always be a coincidence until its significance is realised?’

‘I’m not sure it has been yet. I can’t find them and neither can you.’

‘He took them, Oliver.’

‘Why does it matter so much if they’re unfinished and not really worth anything?’

‘Everything is worth something. You know that. Everything has its place, has its order. You don’t just nab something you believe belongs to you.’

A few minutes after the BMW left the driveway, Oliver began hunting through the house. He turned on the lamps. It was quiet, the place peaceful, nothing ominous. He opened the spare-room door, its hinges groaning in protest. He gazed at the bed, stripped of its sheets, and the chest of drawers. The room was basically empty. Who had cleaned it? He certainly hadn’t. The police? Maybe Gabe had helped – organised it without him knowing. It was something he’d never thought to ask.

Theo definitely hadn’t mentioned anything about stashing paintings here. He hadn’t had the chance. Oliver was sure if his brother hadn’t been murdered that he would have told him about why he’d taken them from Harold.

Unfinished pieces? Oliver had never questioned any of the arrangements from his mother’s art or her estate. He’d decided to let it be, and he was wondering now whether that had been a reckless oversight. He was realising that he should have heeded the warnings from Miles about Harold a little more genuinely.

Where were the paintings? Maybe someone Theo knew had seen him take them and had stalked him. The predator had waited until the prey was asleep in bed before it pounced. Theo, despite his proclivity for trouble, wasn’t stupid. He was lucid when he’d showed up at the end of the driveway. He liked a drink and a joint, but that was nothing unusual. He didn’t think Theo would leave two paintings, worth more than a block of land in Mudgee, in a navy kombi van. They were probably safe, somewhere else, a place known to no one other than Theo. Maybe he hadn’t taken any of the paintings at all, and Harold was trying to throw Oliver off the scent?

Oliver remembered the bedroom they’d shared as kids. Where the two of them had hidden things. Theo had stolen a copy of their father’s Penthouse magazine. They had a desk with a large black leather chair, which had a zip at the bottom where Theo had stashed the magazine. Oliver remembered they both took turns in sharing it, looking at the naked women, the sex. Maybe they were twelve? They had studied the pages like the contents were closer in style to a comic book than pornography. It was more educational and entertaining than it was erotic. Oliver remembered they also hid anything they wanted to keep private underneath the drawers of their bedroom cupboard.

A thought hit Oliver, suddenly. He’d slept beside Theo for the first fifteen years of his life, had loved and hated him for the next fifteen years, and then thought he would likely not see him again. How had he allowed them to drift so far apart? They’d lost their closeness, their bond, but Theo showing up on his doorstep was a sign that he had been ready to rekindle one.

He needed to find the paintings. Walking over to the chest in the spare room, he opened the drawers. They were empty inside. He pulled the bottom one off the track and looked underneath. There was nothing but clean carpet.

Oliver walked around the house. There were no drawers you could pull out in the living room or the kitchen. He checked the ones in his walk-in robe but found nothing. He went to the office and tried the chest of drawers, which he quickly realised were being used as a filing cabinet. He pulled out the bottom drawer and there they were. Two rectangles wrapped in butcher’s paper, right at the back. He pulled them towards him and then placed them atop the desk. Ripping off the paper, he peered at the colours beneath, feeling both relief and dread course through him all at once.

Oliver had the two canvases in his hand and was about to leave the cottage when the phone started. Before he went to answer it, he ran to the office, opened the laptop and kicked the camera to life. He could see the piano, the cellar, which seemed empty. After a moment, he saw someone appear in the corner of the frame. Although they looked familiar, he couldn’t tell who it was. He almost thought it was Chase, but he couldn’t be sure. The man didn’t have a phone to his ear. Oliver finally picked up the landline, expecting to hear the metronome, only to realise that he’d missed the call. He waited a moment, but the phone didn’t ring again. When he refreshed the camera, the man was gone.

Keeping the light on, he walked to his car as fast as his legs would carry him.

***

Oliver kept glancing at the paintings on the passenger’s seat as though they might suddenly dissipate if he wasn’t careful.

On the outskirts of town, a car turned around and put its siren on. Oliver cursed, flicked his blinker and reached behind the passenger’s seat in the ute, sliding the paintings as far back as they’d go.

When he saw the door open in the rear-view mirror, the car’s interior light came on and Oliver noted that Sergeant Mulaney was in the driver’s seat and another uniform was in the passenger’s seat.

After a few moments, Mulaney approached. ‘In a hurry, are we?’ he said, surveying the scene.

‘I wasn’t speeding.’

Mulaney leaned down, staring into Oliver’s eyes. ‘Heard about your little squabble last night.’

‘Huh?’ Oliver said, growing anxious. ‘What are you talking about?’

A couple of cars with bright-white lights whizzed past.

‘You play it like that, then,’ Mulaney said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you both for assault. You know that?’

Oliver nodded, a schoolboy scolded.

‘What does he know?’ Mulaney demanded.

‘Thought you had your finger on the pulse. Knew things.’

‘If the Vernons are in any way involved, you need to tell us. Keeping this to yourself isn’t going to do you any favours, Wingfield.’

‘Maybe. My lawyer told me I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.’ It was a lie; Oliver still hadn’t spoken to one.

‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ Mulaney peered inside the car, his eyes quickly scanning the interior. His entire nose was pink, swollen like a pimple ready to pop. ‘There’s no reason I need to search the car, is there? Not in possession of any illegal substances or weapons?’

Oliver felt his heartbeat quicken. He was glad Mulaney’s finger wasn’t on his wrist or he might feel the speed of Oliver’s pulse. How nervous he was. First, the stranger in his cellar, and now this. He could explain the paintings, but he was paranoid any connection to a canvas might raise an alarm, imply a connection with Theo’s file.

‘Go ahead,’ Oliver said, pointing a thumb to the back.

The sergeant squinted his eyes, checking behind Oliver’s head towards the rear of the vehicle. Oliver could tell, without the sergeant having to say anything, that Mulaney believed him to be innocent. Idiotic, reclusive, antisocial, perverse. A pain in the backside, but not guilty of murder.

‘You know what. I’ve been living in Mudgee for twenty-two, nearly twenty-three years. And we’ve had plenty of drug busts, assaults and accidental deaths. But this feels cold and calculated, your brother dead like that. I want to get to the bottom of this before anyone else or anything else falls down here. Does that make sense to you?’

Mulaney paused, staring deeply into Oliver’s eyes. To intimidate him, or to see if he was listening?

‘You need to work with us. Do you understand that?’

Oliver smiled at Mulaney and said that yes, he understood. After the sedan had pulled out and driven away, Oliver reached down and touched part of the canvas, to make sure both paintings were still there. He watched a couple of sets of lights approach from the rear-vision mirror and move towards town.

Eventually, he put the car into gear and merged into the traffic.

***

It was dark and raining when Oliver reached Penny’s, the wind scourging the gums and the hedges, the coldness so stark he felt it must be coming from snow.

The first thing Penny said when she opened the door was, ‘I know it’s been a shit week, but can you leave the punch-ups out of the bar?’

‘I didn’t start it,’ Oliver said. ‘You know he’s an arsehole.’ He pecked Penny’s cheek, giving her a brief hug.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘He knows better than that. To come into a bar that legless.’

They moved to the kitchen table, where there was an open magazine and a steaming cup of green tea. ‘I was pissed off, but more so because I didn’t hear from you. You should have called me.’

‘I passed out,’ Oliver said. ‘And then Harold came the next day.’

‘That name sounds familiar.’

‘You know how I’ve told you my mum painted?’

‘And played the piano?’

‘Yeah. Well, Harold was her manager. He exhibited her works. I haven’t seen him for years.’

‘Oh,’ Penny said, blowing on the steaming liquid. ‘Was he closer with Theo?’

‘Apparently, Theo visited before he came here. And there’s something I need to show you.’

He walked back outside, grabbed the paintings from behind the seat and set them up on the dining table. Both were unfinished – some paint splotches on each canvas, pencil marks and lines. Newspaper and ripped paper were blotted to the canvas, a rough layer of gesso applied to both.

‘They were stashed under a drawer in the office. Theo stole them from Harold. It seems that Mum painted them before she passed.’

Penny’s fingers drifted to the canvas. ‘Do you mind if I touch them?’

‘Go for it.’ Oliver did the same. Closing his eyes, he traced the coarseness of the canvas. He was hoping it would make him feel something profound – seeing a piece of his mother’s artwork for the first time – but there was no smell, nothing fresh, just dried paints and the paper’s curling, dehydrated edges.

‘Can I keep them here?’ Oliver asked. ‘I want to find out why Harold is so protective of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to search for them again at the vineyard.’

‘Of course,’ Penny said, and Oliver took them to the office. As he placed them down, he noticed for the first time the small black writing in the bottom right corner of the paintings. One said, Oliver 18th and the other Theo 18th.

‘Was she making these for your birthday?’

Oliver breathed in through his nose. ‘I suppose so.’ It gave him a sense of comfort, knowing Julia was painting them something. ‘It’s great she was starting them. Really sad, though, that we didn’t get to see the finished product.’

Penny hugged him and offered him a wine, but when he didn’t reply immediately, she took a bottle of gin and poured them each a good couple of nips, adding ice to each glass and topping it with tonic water. They sat down. The fireplace was toasty, painting the walls a warm amber.

‘Tell me about the art,’ Penny said.

‘Mum was a good painter. You’ve seen her works, on my wall.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Julia Wingfield,’ Oliver said, taking a sip of gin to quell the unease he felt at giving her a false name. ‘She was talented, but obviously not every artist’s success continues when they die.’

‘Do you think Theo took them because they were meant for you?’

‘Perhaps Harold hasn’t passed them down like he was meant to. It might have been in Mum’s will and he’s ignoring her wishes. I guess it’s a possibility.’

‘But if they’re not worth much, why bother holding on to them?’

It was a good question, but he couldn’t really tell her the truth. That any work of his mother’s – finished or otherwise – would be worth a small fortune. Which was what made the fact that Harold had never mentioned them before so suspicious.

‘Although Theo was smart, he could be erratic as well. But I just don’t think he would have stolen them for no reason. There must be more to it.’

‘Smart but erratic sounds a little like someone else I know.’

After the gin, Penny reheated a duck pasta left over from the bar. Oliver hadn’t realised – until he was halfway through the meal – how hungry the ordeal had left him.

‘That really hit the spot. Thank you.’

Penny stood up, took their empty bowls and rinsed them in the sink. Oliver followed her into the kitchen as steam wafted through the room.

‘It’s funny how you can know so much about someone, but still so little.’ Penny’s words weren’t heartening; they almost sounded like an allegation.

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said, hoping to avoid an argument.

‘Do you think whoever killed Theo was connected to the paintings? Connected to Harold? But when they killed him they didn’t find what they were looking for?’

‘I have no idea,’ Oliver said. ‘I really don’t know why Harold or anyone would kill Theo for a couple of unfinished paint blobs on canvas. He would have given them up.’ Or would he have fought to keep them? Oliver couldn’t be sure of anything at this stage.

‘These people in the photos that detective showed you. They were involved in art heists. Maybe Theo was doing something for them?’

‘Maybe, but I can’t find any other clues. I’ve looked for any kind of hint, but there’s nothing. Other than the fact that Harold wants them back. But Harold’s an old gallerist. He’d stress about a parking fine. I don’t think he’s telling me everything, but I don’t think he or this group the police mentioned killed Theo.’

‘Then who did?’

Oliver wasn’t sure how he was going to tell her about his theory. Clare had basically insinuated that he was crazy, and while Gabe had been intrigued, he’d quickly rebuffed him and hadn’t brought it up again.

‘Do you remember when I went to the wine conference last year with Clare?’ he began. ‘Orson flew down for it as well.’

‘You actually leaving town? Of course I remember.’

‘Well, the three of us were having a drink in the hotel courtyard. Then we saw a politician holding hands and flirting with his secretary. He looked shocked, annoyed, when he knew we’d seen something.’

Penny rolled her eyes. ‘Barely page-three bullshit, by the sounds.’

‘His secretary was a man. And John Geraghty has a wife and children,’ Oliver said. ‘I have a bad feeling about him. The way he glared at me. A few months later Theo winds up dead, and I’m thinking maybe it should have been me. And it seems likely that Orson was poisoned and now I’m really worried about Clare.’

‘Wait,’ Penny said, sitting up straighter and moving away from him. ‘You honestly think he’d have you killed? To keep you quiet?’

‘I don’t know. It’s possible, isn’t it? I’ve got nothing else. Other than Harold.’

Penny breathed in through her nose; she exhaled a sound that was a blend of a sigh and a groan. ‘It’s all fucked up, that’s what it is.’

Oliver felt himself burr up. ‘So, you think that my theory is fucked?’

‘I didn’t mean that. I said this whole thing’s fucked.’ Penny waved her arm in the air, emphatically.

‘I don’t know. The cops think I might have something to do with it. If Orson was poisoned and Theo’s dead, it’s not looking good for me. And Harold wants his precious paintings back.’

‘Are you going to give them to him?’

‘I honestly don’t know yet,’ Oliver said. ‘I just want all of this to be over. I just want to be checking on my barrels and tending to my old vines. I want Theo’s funeral done with and to be able to move on in peace. I’ve never left the bloody vineyard so much since I’ve owned it.’

‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Clare. Maybe Theo got in too deep and Orson had a heart attack? I think you just need to cooperate with the police and it’ll all be over soon.’

‘Yeah, if no one kills me first,’ Oliver said, standing up. ‘I really think there’s some link here, something bigger going on, and it’s pissing me off that no one’s taking me seriously.’

‘I didn’t say I wasn’t taking it seriously.’ Penny went to say something else, but stopped.

‘You didn’t have to,’ Oliver murmured. ‘If it’s not Geraghty, then who? Why would Harold be framing me? And who could have driven my car from your place to my cottage the night Theo died without either of us hearing a thing? If Harold didn’t kill Theo, the only other person could be me.’

Penny sat up abruptly, letting go of the cushion she’d had pressed to her belly. ‘But you didn’t!’

He pointed to his car parked on the street, feeling his frustration mounting. ‘I know! But they’ve got video footage of the car leaving this terrace and driving to the winery. How the hell did that happen?’

There was a long, heavy pause.

‘Oliver, what was Murray talking about at the bar?’

He felt a prickle of panic. ‘What do you mean?’

Looking up, he noticed Penny was the picture of frustration. ‘I heard what he said to you. About your “dirty little secret”.’

‘I honestly don’t know—’ he began, but she cut him off.

‘Honestly, I think you do.’

‘No, Penny. He was drunk. Ranting, being a dickhead.’

‘And yet he seems to know something about you that I don’t. Why is that, Oliver?’

Gabe’s voice came to him: Oli, you should have told her from the beginning.

‘Don’t you get it?’ Oliver said indignantly. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I moved to Mudgee for the sole reason that I don’t have to fucking talk about it.’

‘Yeah,’ Penny sneered. ‘You’ve made that pretty clear.’

‘Just …’ Come on, Oliver thought. Use your words. ‘All we do is pretend, Penny. Drink wine and talk shit. And now you want to suddenly act like you care about me and everything that’s happened in my past?’

Penny pulled back. ‘You think everything between us is just an act?’

Wrong words.

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Oh, it definitely sounded that way to me. You’ve had a big day,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time you go home and sleep it off.’

He leaned towards her. ‘Penny—’

She jerked away from him and stood abruptly. ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she interrupted. ‘Before I say something that I shouldn’t.’

‘I’m sorr—’

‘See yourself out.’

Oliver closed his eyes, expecting to hear the door slam, but the sound never came. He found his keys on the bench and made sure the door was latched as he closed it behind him.