Lawson stood outside the auto-repair shop.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected Haz's workplace to look like. Grubby, maybe. Oil slicked across the floor, men in dirty dungarees smoking cigars outside. But the shop was full of towering windows and gleaming black cars, and it looked like the sort of place where you'd be offered a glass of champagne upon entry.

Then again, Lawson thought, pushing through the front door, this was a luxury repair shop, so maybe he ought to have set his expectations higher. A man — mustached, wearing a suit, late fifties — looked up from his clipboard as Lawson entered.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Lawson leaned against the counter. "I'm looking for Haz."

The man gave him a blank look.

"Harry?" Lawson tried. "Harold? He works here."

The man's expression cleared. "Oh, Cupid. Yeah. Go upstairs, first door on your left."

"Cheers," Lawson said.

He took the stairs two at a time, half-expecting to barge into a stranger's office. Haz was the least likely person to have the nickname Cupid. Lucifer, perhaps, Lawson mused; that would have been a closer fit.

Lawson pushed open the door. "Granville? I have your tie. You left it at the—" He stopped dead. "Jesus."

Every surface was covered in cards. The desk, the walls, the floor... Lawson blinked, staring at the little doodles and glittery pens and order forms. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing.

Villager cards.

"There is a thing in polite society," Haz said dryly, "called knocking."

He was hunched over the desk. Haz was dressed in his usual uniform — black jeans and a black hoodie — and oil stained his hands. The pink glittery pen clutched in his fingers looked oddly jarring, like a Valentine's Day card at a funeral.

"Did you make all of these?" Lawson asked.

Haz didn't answer, but the look on his face was enough.

"I don't understand," Lawson said.

Haz set down the pen. "Which part?"

"How? Why?"

"Pretty simple." Haz swiveled his chair around, his legs splayed out in front of him. "I started about three years ago. And I made a fuck ton of money, so I kept going. Now I make even more money." He shrugged. "That's capitalism for you."

"Villager." Realization struck him. "It's an anagram, isn't it? For your surname. Granville. And the oil stains on your hands..." Lawson shook his head. He was such an idiot; they were ink, obviously. "Do you actually work at the garage?"

"On Wednesdays."

"And the rest of the time you're up here?"

Haz shrugged again.

"There's no N," Lawson noted.

"What?"

"In Villager," he said. "It's not a perfect anagram."

Haz's blue eyes were steady. "I know."

"Is it because of...?"

Lawson couldn't even bring himself to finish the sentence. They never spoke about Noelle. Not since they were sixteen and Haz had ripped apart his bedroom; it had taken a hefty loan, a promise of therapy, and a plea from Margaret Dalton to keep him enrolled at Wilder Academy for two more years.

Haz's eyes darkened.

"Do you need something, Hale?" he asked.

Lawson took the hint. "You left your tie at the wedding. Diana asked me to return in." He set the navy tie on the desk, surveying the walls — the hundreds of cards, all plucked directly from Haz's brain. "For what it's worth, I think these are brilliant."

Haz's face didn't change. "You took the piss out of them in the tailors."

"I've had a change of heart," Lawson said. "About a lot of things, actually."

Haz met his gaze. There was a wariness in them both, Lawson thought; a reluctant admittance that perhaps they weren't as cynical as they thought. Maybe love did change a person. Maybe it changed everything.

Lawson turned for the door.

"Hale?" Haz called.

He paused.

"Don't tell the other boys about this, alright?"

Haz's voice was sheepish. Well, sheepish for Haz anyway, which often came out sounding angry or irritated or both.

"Done," Lawson said.

He pushed open the door. There was no point in telling the other Wilder Boys, anyway. Secrets were slippery things; you would have an easier time holding on to an oil-slicked rope. They always came out eventually. He was an expert in that, these days, Lawson reflected.

Paige was waiting for him outside.

She was sporting her usual white-top-and-jeans combo, her dark plaits dangling down her back. Lawson had tried to change it over the years — imagined his sister in a chicken suit, or dressed like Elvis Presley, just to take the piss — but it never worked. He couldn't remember if the outfit was what he'd last seen Paige wearing, or what she'd died in. Either way, it didn't matter; she was stuck like that.

"You know," Paige said, "Haz is kind of fit."

Lawson pulled a face. "Don't be gross."

"I'm being serious." His older sister skipped alongside him. "He's got that kind of James Dean vibe. If James Dean shaved his head and rolled around in a barrel of motor oil."

"Wow. Sexy."

Paige jumped gracefully over the hood of a car. "Look, can you slow down? There's something I want to talk to you about."

Lawson snorted. "You're taking the piss, right? You can't possibly be tired."

"What I'm trying to say—"

"I mean, you're a ghost," Lawson continued, fishing around in his pockets for his car keys. "Can ghosts get tired?"

"Lawson!" She jumped in front of him. "I have to go."

"Let me guess," Lawson said. "Big date? Trip to the hair salon?"

Her brow furrowed. "I'm being serious."

Lawson tried to dodge. Paige stepped in front of him. For the first time, cold sweat beaded his neck. Not because he couldn't get past her — hell, Lawson could have walked right through her, if he'd wanted to — but because Paige was wearing her bossy "listen-to-me-because-I'm-your-older-sister-look."

She reserved that look solely for when the family dog died. Or when their father had needed a kidney stone operation. Or when Harper Lane was falling off a bridge.

"Wait," Lawson said. "What do you mean?"

Her face softened. "I'm leaving today. I can't stay here any longer with you."

Ice formed in the pit of his stomach. "That's not funny, Paige."

"I'm not joking." Paige's lip wobbled. "I don't even know why I was allowed to come back in the first place. After I fell off that bridge, I felt so— so calm. There was all this white light, and I could see something in the distance. It was like — I don't know — an apple orchard, maybe? And then the orchard was ripped away, and I woke up at a café, and you were walking through the door. I was so bloody relieved that you could see me, too. It felt like a miracle."

"You said something about the cookies."

"I know," Paige said. "I remember; it was all I could say before things went dark." She shifted her weight. "Then I appeared in the living room two days later."

"I remember that," Lawson said. "You scared the shit out of me."

Paige smiled. "You screamed."

"I didn't scream."

"Yes, you did," she said. "And you threw a protein shake at me, too."

"But it went through you and smashed the TV."

Her smile grew. "And you had to tell the parents that you'd been messing around with a cricket ball. Dad was so angry."

"I didn't believe it was you," Lawson said. "I thought I was going mad."

"Do you still think that?"

He considered this. "Yeah. Most days."

"I guess it doesn't matter now." Paige searched his face. Her green eyes — so like his own, like their father's — were lit with invisible flame. "You've got so much life in you, Lawson. You're so funny and spirited and resilient, and you're a damn good cricket coach. I've seen you with those kids; they admire you. I'm so proud of you."

A lump rose in his throat. "Paige..."

She looked down at her hands. "It won't be long, now."

Her fingers were fading, turning translucent as a balloon; he could see the edge of a car bumper through them. Alarm pulsed through him.

"Don't go," Lawson said. "I need you."

"You did." Paige's smile was a little sad. "But you don't anymore."

"Are you scared?"

"No," Paige said. "There's something good out there, waiting for me. I can feel it."

His sister's eyes were remote now, staring at something that he couldn't see. A place where he could no longer follow. Lawson reached for her arm instinctively, as if he could pin her to this place, but his hands closed around air.

His throat burned. "I love you, Paige."

It was something that Lawson had never said to her before, except for when they were children. Something he didn't think he would ever get the chance to say. Paige's green eyes were bright.

"I love you more," she said. "Take care of Branville for me."

Lawson froze. "What did you just say?"

Paige smiled. She was almost completely transparent now, more of a pencil-sketch than a person. Lawson lurched forward.

"Wait!" Lawson called. "That name... I could never..." He swallowed. "Did I just remember that?"

Paige's smile was mischievous. "You tell me."

His sister vanished, leaving him standing alone in a car park, surrounded by empty vehicles and stray shopping bags.

Lawson drove towards Clapham.

He'd been staying at his parents' place for the last week — mostly to avoid Harper, if he was honest with himself — but his car guided him towards the London flat, now. A pulse thundered in his ears. He was dimly aware of his hands shaking, of the fact that he probably shouldn't be driving, but there was someone that he wanted to see.

No.

Someone he needed to see.

He parked outside the flat. The key trembled in the lock, and then he was pushing up the stairs, following the scent of frying onions.

"Hale?" a voice called. "Is that you?"

And there he was.

Griffin was standing in the kitchen, wearing a stained pink smock that was either meant to be a lab coat, an apron, or some ridiculous hybrid of the two. Lawson was hit with a wave of relief, so strong that he almost sagged under the weight of it.

"Look," Griffin said, "I'm glad you're back. I wanted to— Jesus." He broke off, taking in Lawson's appearance. "Have you been crying? What happened?"

Something in him broke. "I'm really fucking sorry, Griff."

"You are?" Griffin asked.

Lawson nodded. "I've behaved like a total prick. You're my best mate, and I went behind your back. I lied to you because I'm a cowardly piece of shit, and I should have been honest from the start." He looked away. "I hate that I hurt you."

"But you don't regret it?" Griffin asked.

He was standing beside the onions, a matching pink spatula held aloft in one hand. He looked absurd, but Lawson knew that Griffin could still find about twenty different ways to explode him right now, if he wanted to.

But he didn't care.

"No," Lawson said truthfully. "I don't regret what I did. I can't regret Harper."

To his surprise, Griffin smiled. "Good. I don't regret hitting you in the face, either." He set down the spatula. "But I'm sorry, too."

Lawson held out a hand. "Fresh start?"

"Fresh start," Griffin said. They shook, and Griffin turned back to his onions. "Now go feed Fish. I'm getting bloody sick of doing it."

Lawson took off a shoe. "His name is Branville."

Griffin's eyebrows drew together. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"That's what you settled on? Branville?"

"Well, I didn't choose it," Lawson said, "but yes. That's his new name."

Griffin's frown deepened. His natural curiosity was warring with his reluctance to ask, but common sense must have won out, because he shook his head.

"You know what?" Griffin asked. "I don't want to know. Branville it is." He hesitated, watching as Lawson took off the other shoe. "Hale?"

"Yeah?"

"Harper's flight leaves in five hours," Griffin said. "Out of Heathrow. Just in case you're curious."

Then he turned back to his onions.

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

Did I leave this on another cliffhanger? Why, yes. Yes, I did.

Question of the Day: would you rather have a personal stylist, trainer, driver, or chef? (I'd like all four, but if I had to pick, I'd go with the stylist!)

Affectionately,

J.K.

p.s. those of you that follow me on Instagram will have seen that I have some SUPER exciting news coming out this week — stay tuned for updates!

p.p.s. only four more chapters (plus the epilogue) to go ;)