The Artisan (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 3) by M K Farrar

Author:M K Farrar [Farrar, M K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime fiction, British Crime, Serial Killer, police procedural, detective series, British Detective series, crime thriller
Publisher: Warwick House Press
Published: 2020-08-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Lara walked into the kitchen and drew to a halt. Tristan was standing at the kitchen counter, his head bent over a plate containing a couple of pieces of toast, the butter dish and jar of marmite standing next to the plate. But it wasn’t his breakfast that had caught her attention—as much as she loathed marmite. It was the dark rivulet of blood that ran from his left ear and trickled down his neck.

“Jesus, Tristan! What happened to you?”

“What?” He shot her a glare of annoyance. “Nothing.”

“But... but your ear. It’s bleeding.”

He lifted his hand to the side of his head and brought back his fingertips, tinged with blood. “Shit.”

“And the top is all swollen,” she continued, still concerned. “You can’t have not noticed?”

“I banged my head on the cupboard door. It was stupid of me. I should have closed it. But it’s not a big deal, Lara. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You must have really knocked it. Don’t you think you should get it checked out by a doctor.”

“No!” he snapped. “I told you I was fine.”

She’d only been trying to help. She was worried about him. He’d woken up this morning in the worst mood she’d seen him in for ages. She didn’t understand it. When he’d gone to bed the previous night, he’d been in a great mood. He’d cooked dinner with the radio on, poured her a glass of wine, and danced around the kitchen. He hadn’t glanced at his easel or mentioned her sitting for him, which was always a massive relief. She’d gone to bed the previous night rather tipsy on the wine, and she’d fallen asleep the moment her head had hit the pillow. She should have known better than to accept that second glass from him, since wine always left her groggy-headed the following morning, but she hadn’t wanted to break whatever good-mood spell he’d been under.

It seemed the spell had certainly broken overnight, however. Had it been injuring himself that had caused this dark cloud to hover over him? She could understand how that would have pissed him off.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” she said, desperate to veer him away from the black cloud hanging over him. “How can I help? Do you want a tissue? A plaster? A cold cloth, maybe? What can I do?”

“You can leave me the fuck alone, Lara. Why do you have to be so clingy? Always asking questions. Always wanting to know everything. I’m allowed to have a life without you in it.”

She reared back as though he’d slapped her. Like you do to me, you mean.

“I know that, Tristan. I wasn’t trying to poke into your life. I just saw you were hurt and I wanted to help.”

He picked up the knife and stabbed at the butter, squishing it into a distorted shape without actually scooping any of it up to put on his toast. “I don’t want your help. I thought I’d made that clear. I don’t need anyone’s help.

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