Free Learning to Trust by Lynne Connolly Page A

that our situations had changed, or that we couldn’t afford the good stuff. Or that if we hadn’t started on the junk in the first place, we wouldn’t have found ourselves there.”
    The coffee bubbled and she turned to pour them a mug each. “It’s not your fault, Jon. Nor is it mine. We’ll feel as if we’re guilty. That’s only normal, but we can’t let it take over.”
    “You sound like a therapist.” He accepted his coffee when she gave it to him and raised it to his lips. He must have an asbestos mouth.
    “What can I say? I picked up a lot of the jargon when I went through rehab.” She shrugged. “But it makes sense.”
    “So does this,” he said quietly. “Us. Put your therapy to work there. I know I’ll never stop feeling guilty about my brother. I could have done more, I should have noticed earlier, I should have made him go to rehab, not tried to persuade him. Maybe he’d be alive today.”
    “Or maybe not. Maybe that car that knocked me down would have killed me, maybe Byron would have killed me. Maybe I’d have killed him. Maybe we’d have gotten a bad score that killed us both. Maybe we’d have been on a plane that went down.”
    She told herself that mantra every day. Never had it sounded less convincing.

Chapter Seven
    Almost domesticated now , Jon thought with a wry grin as he leaned against the wall of the college. It came as a surprise to Jon to discover that Lina had sorted out her life to this extent. She was so interested in the shelters, she was doing a night school course in social work.
    His patois had increased, but his sojourns in the café at nights had also made him aware of an atmosphere, a tension that had not been immediately apparent. It underlaid everything and while most people were willing to drink and chat, others watched him warily. Probably because he’d managed to do with Lina what they had not. He even managed to avoid calling her by the name the society belles and paparazzi knew her as in New York. But she’d always be Bella to him. He’d fobbed off several inquiries about his mythical knockoff T-shirts and handbags. He kept telling them he was expecting a consignment soon.
    He wanted to take her back home. He’d have to persuade her. What scared him was her ability to vanish. He’d gotten most of the details out of her, and he knew that what she’d done twice, she could do again. She had the nuns in Rome to help her, and he had no doubt she could do it on her own if she wanted to. He could wake up one morning and find her gone, with no trace left behind. Franco paid her in cash. That, plus her tips, probably went into a bank account under her own name, with a substantial amount secreted somewhere as an emergency stash. He knew too little about all this to be certain of following her again.
    Every time she went out of his sight he felt on edge, worried about if and when he’d see her again. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to lose sight of her, but his first reason, that she was the only link between him and Byron, had gone now.
    It wouldn’t be long before the coroner’s report was complete, the paperwork done and the cremation taken place. He’d informed his mother, who was arranging a memorial service for when they got home. Transporting a body, or the remains of one, took a great deal of paperwork, he’d discovered. And a fair bit of palm-greasing, too. Otherwise he’d still be here this time next year. But not in that little room. It was sauna-hot right now, and he’d bet in winter it could be bitterly cold, despite the heat from the café below. That she should come to this.
    Not for much longer. Neither would he allow her to face anything alone. He’d sat back and watched her destroy herself once, longing to take her in hand, knowing she wouldn’t accept it, would probably hate him for the rest of her life. And then, that terrible night when Byron had told him he wanted her for himself. What could he do except watch? Well no