I can do this, she told herself.
She’d survived Cal’s disappearance. She’d survived thinking he was dead for seven years. Hell, she’d survived two childbirths. She could manage a few days on her own.
She turned to face him, bringing her lips to his.
“You’re right. You should go. I don’t like beans.”
Dylan smiled. “You’re sure?”
His fingers glided along her bare shoulder and down her arm. She kissed him again.
“I’m not made of glass, you know.”
Dylan’s fingers moved further down. He kissed her, harder this time. She pressed into it. Then pulled away.
“I want to,” she whispered. “But Cal... What if he needs me?”
“No fair,” Dylan breathed in her ear. He nibbled her lobe. “Fine. I’ll add it to your tab.”
“My tab?” Carrie punched his arm.
Dylan flashed her a wicked grin. “I never told you about that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
They were both quiet for a second, the fire they had started still burning. Then Dylan extinguished it.
“What are you going to do about Cal’s dad?”
Any anxiety Carrie had put to one side came flooding back.
The last time she had spoken to Kye was ten months after Cal had disappeared. He’d made a brief return from the oil rigs. She and Dylan had yet to start their relationship. A chance meeting with Kye on the seafront had led to too many drinks and too much grief brought to the surface. They’d gone back to Carrie’s house and slept with each other, their bodies connected by sadness. Kye had left the next morning. Carrie hadn’t heard from him since, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t returned to Porth an Jowl. But he had a right to know that Cal was back. That his son was not dead.
“I’ll get in touch with his parents,” she said. “I think they’re in Falmouth now. They’ll know where to find him.”
“And what then?” Dylan asked.
“Well, I guess Kye will want to see Cal.”
Silence grew between them. Carrie no longer felt tired. Her mind was awake, racing, remembering, worrying. She glanced across at Dylan, who shared a similar expression. His gaze met hers. He traced a finger over the back of her hand.
“And what about your parents?” he said, quietly.
Carrie pulled away. What was he trying to achieve tonight?
“What about them?” she said. “They haven’t bothered with me in years.”
“But still—”
“I’m not having this conversation. Jesus, Dylan.”
She lunged for the bedside lamp and switched it off. Lying down, she turned on her side and stared at the bedroom door. If her parents wanted to find out about Cal, they’d have to do it through the press. If they wanted to see him, they’d have to make the first move. She was done with them.
An angry tear slipped from her eye and ran across the bridge of her nose to soak into the pillow. Behind her, Dylan reached over and switched off his bedside light.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He lay next to her but made no move to wrap his arm around her like he usually did.
Carrie lay on her side, overwhelmed by anger, wanting nothing more than to feel her husband’s skin against her own.
17
MONDAY MORNING BROUGHT grey skies and light rain. Carrie had been awake for a short while, lying next to Dylan as she stared up at the ceiling. She hadn’t slept well; a mixture of excitement and anxiety overwhelming her brain.
She knew she should contact Kye’s parents. Not just to locate him but to tell them that their grandson was alive. They would be overjoyed to see him. But she was unsure about having Kye back in her life again. Or if Cal was ready for more upheaval. He barely seemed able to cope with returning home to his mother and a larger, newer family.
Perhaps it was best to delay reaching out to them by another week. But by then Cal’s name would be plastered all over the newspapers. And did she have the right to make that decision, anyway? After all, Kye was Cal’s father, not Dylan.
Turning on her side, she watched Dylan sleep for a little while. He always looked so peaceful in his slumber, the weathered lines at the corners of his eyes softer. He was a handsome man. Looking at him now, she felt the same tingle she’d experienced when they’d first spoken at The Shack. She had known of him since they’d been children but they hadn’t been friends in school. Being a few years older, Dylan had frequented different circles. It was only after Kye had left that they’d exchange more than just a few words.
Dylan had been good to her in those early days. The pain of her loss was still raw but he never shied away from it. He was there when she needed to talk. Sensible enough to keep his distance when she needed to be alone. And so far, he hadn’t grown tired of her sometimes-difficult ways. But now, lying next to him, Carrie couldn’t help but worry that Cal’s appearance was already causing a rift between them. Not because Dylan was uncaring. But because everything had changed.
Climbing out of bed, Carrie threw on a pair of shorts and one of Dylan’s old T-shirts, and made her way out to the landing.
Melissa was awake, sitting in the centre of her bedroom floor, surrounded by toys.
“Morning, sweet pea.” Smiling, Carrie crept into the room and sat beside her daughter. “How’s my little pumpkin?”
Melissa shrugged her shoulders. Usually, she greeted Carrie with a babble of conversation and too much energy for an early morning. Today, she turned away and turned her attention to her game; a scenario involving one of her dolls and a police car.
“Everything okay?” Carrie ran her fingers through her daughter’s long hair.
Melissa pulled away. “I’m hungry. I want pancakes.”
Carrie sucked in a breath. Okay, here we go, she thought. She had expected some rejection from Melissa—it seemed a natural part of the process of moving from only child to youngest sibling. But she hadn’t expected it to sting so sharply.
Planting a kiss on Melissa’s head before she could escape, Carrie stood. “Well, I’ll see if the pancake fairies are visiting today. I have a feeling you may be in luck.”
Leaving Melissa with her toys, Carrie returned to the landing and moved along to Cal’s room. The door was still open a crack. She knocked softly.
Cal was not in his bed. Had he slept beneath it all night? She moved into the room and cocked her head.
He wasn’t under the bed. He wasn’t in his room.
Ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, Carrie returned to the landing and checked the bathroom. Finding it empty, she hurried back to Melissa.
“Have you seen your brother?”
Melissa looked up, a scowl creasing her features.
“I don’t have a brother,” she said.
Panicking now, Carrie hurried downstairs and made a quick search of the house.
Cal was not there.
The ground shifted beneath Carrie’s feet. She felt as if she were falling. It was the same feeling she’d experienced that day on the beach. Falling through blackness with no end in sight.
“Cal?” She spun a full circle. He was gone. She had lost him again. “Cal, are you here?”
What did she do? She wondered if she should call the police or if she should go looking for him. But what if he came back and she wasn’t here? Moving quickly, she grabbed the phone from the kitchen wall. She had to find him before he disappeared forever.
She dialled 999 for the emergency services. As she waited, her gaze shifted to the kitchen window.
A surge of relief flooded her senses.
Hanging up the phone, she wrenched open the kitchen door and stumbled into the backyard.
Cal stood, shivering in his underwear in the centre of the lawn and staring up at a charcoal sky.
Carrie ground to a halt. She watched him for a second, taking in the old scars and marks that littered his wet skin. Pain stabbed at her heart.
“Cal?”
His head s
hifted in her direction. His body grew taut.
“What are you doing?” She stepped closer.
Cal’s gaze lingered on her before returning to the sky.
“Come on, come inside,” Carrie said. “You’ll hurt your eyes.”
Cal didn’t move. He continued to blink away the raindrops, oblivious of his shivering body.
“Come inside now before you catch a cold.”
This time, Carrie didn’t wait for an answer. She took him by the arm and gently guided him back to the house. In the kitchen, she grabbed a clean towel and began drying him down.
“You scared me,” she said, as he watched her work. “I thought you were gone.”
When Cal was dry, Carrie dumped the towel on the side.
“You should put some clothes on. I’ll make some breakfast. Do you like pancakes?” She felt suddenly ashamed that she couldn’t remember. Cal stared at her. “Go on. Go and get warm.”
He stood for a second longer before heading back upstairs.
When she was alone, Carrie stared at her hands. They were trembling. Her heart thumped with dizzying palpitations, as if she had just completed a marathon.
He was still here. Cal had not disappeared. She had not lost him again. She allowed a moment for her body to relax, then began pulling out pancake ingredients from the cupboards.
She looked up. She could hear voices. A few at first, then suddenly more, rushing in like a swarm of bees.
Leaving the kitchen, she hurried into the hall. The voices were coming from outside. She knew who they belonged to before she rushed into the living room and threw back the curtains.
The press had arrived in all their glory. There had to be at least twenty of them gathered outside. A news van pulled up. A camera crew spilled out of it. At the sight of Carrie in the window, photographers turned in her direction and began snapping away. The chorus of voices, all hungry for a story, rose in volume.
Carrie snapped the curtains shut.
“Dylan!”
“I see them!” he called from upstairs.
“Keep the kids away from the windows!”
She took the steps two at a time.
Dylan was out of bed and on his feet. Melissa wandered out of her room, toys swinging from her hands.
“Who are those people?” she asked.
“Pains in the butt,” Dylan said, sweeping her up in his arms.
Carrie brushed past them and entered Melissa’s bedroom. She stared down at the gaggle of people, who were now all staring up and taking more pictures. She closed the curtains.
Returning to the landing, she saw Cal standing in his bedroom doorway, now dressed, his eyes round and his shoulders hunched. His bedroom overlooked the backyard. Unlike the idiot from yesterday, it seemed these journalists were at least playing by the rules and staying off her property.
“It’s okay, Cal. They’ll go away soon.” Carrie turned to look at Dylan, who was busy pretending he’d stolen Melissa’s nose.
“Well,” he said, glancing up, “looks like we’re staying indoors. Who’s up for a pizza and movie day?”
Melissa squealed with delight.
Cal stared at the floor and squeezed Rex in his fist.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone?” Carrie said.
“They will. Soon. Something more exciting will come along.”
Glancing worriedly at Cal, who was now swaying from side to side, Carrie bit down on her lip.
“I hope you’re right.”
18
JAGO OPENED HIS EYES then squeezed them shut again as pain pierced his skull. He groaned, turning over on the bed. An empty bottle of vodka lay next to him. Clothes were strewn across the room, along with a jumble of magazines, art books, and old sketch pads. He sat up, vaguely aware of a TV blaring from somewhere in the house. Rubbing his eyes, he fumbled for his mobile phone on the bedside table. It was just before midday and he’d missed three calls from Nat.
He couldn’t remember going to sleep, which meant he’d passed out again. It wasn’t a good thing, he knew that. But vodka washed away his pain. At least until the morning. Until right now. Grief punched him in the gut and knocked the breath from his lungs.
Doubling over, he pulled his knees up to his chest and waited for the sensation to pass. Noah was gone. Jago was forced to relive the realisation every single morning.
The hammering in his head grew louder. So did the volume of the TV. It was deafening, as if his mother had cranked it as loud as it would go.
Dragging himself from the bed, he threw on yesterday’s clothes and stood for a minute, attempting to push through the wave of nausea that rolled up to greet him.
When the risk of throwing up had passed, he moved to the window and pulled open the blinds.
The late grey morning seeped in. He winced as his eyes adjusted to daylight. Rain was coming down in a depressing drizzle, dampening the overgrown garden.
His mind flashed back to yesterday evening and his encounter with Scott Triggs. The man was a liar. He had to be. Because Callum Anderson was dead.
After returning indoors with his mother, Jago had fed her lies, telling her the journalist was only after more quotes. Once she was dosed up for the night, he had gone to his room and started drinking. Memories of Cal had swum in his mind, mingling with his memories of Noah. After drinking enough vodka to numb the edges of his pain, Jago had begun to wonder if the journalist had been telling the truth.
Was the boy on the beach really Cal? He’d drowned seven years ago, pulled under by the currents.
The more he’d thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. And yet, for a few minutes, he’d almost convinced himself to stumble down to the Killigrew house and find out for himself. The need to kill his pain had stopped him.
Now, some of the doubt he felt last night returned.
It had to have been a lie because it was too ridiculous to be true.
Leaving his bedroom, he stumbled onto the landing. The TV was booming out from his mother’s room. He wondered how she could sleep through it, even with the cocktail of pills and booze she swallowed each day.
“Mum, turn it down!” he growled. His hangover was well and truly kicking in, clawing at the base of his skull. He smacked his lips together. He was dehydrated. Somewhere deep in his stomach, a rumble of hunger echoed and he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. Yesterday at breakfast, maybe. Or had it been the day before?
“Mum!”
Anger buzzed inside him as he stalked toward his mother’s door. He knocked once. Waited. Knocked again. When she still didn’t answer, he threw open the door and stomped inside.
The air in the room was rank with alcohol. Much like his own. The curtains were closed, the bedsheets pulled back. In the corner, an old portable TV flashed in the shadows, showing a news bulletin. The reporter’s voice stabbed at Jago’s ears.
Grimacing, he crossed the room, looking for the remote. Unable to find it, he moved up to the TV and twisted the volume dial. He froze, instantly recognising the images on the screen.
The news reporter was standing outside a familiar looking house. The image cut to a shot of the beach, then to one of the town square. Jago reached for the volume and turned it back up.
For a second, he wondered if the story was about Noah. Then, as the reporter continued to speak, a picture flashed on the screen.
His jaw dropped open. He was staring at a photograph taken at least seven years ago. It was a picture of Callum Anderson. His childhood friend, who had tragically drowned one summer afternoon. But Cal was not dead, the reporter was announcing. Cal was very much alive.
Jago stood. The room spun around him.
Scott Triggs had been telling the truth. Cal was alive.
It was impossible. Where had he been hiding these last seven years? A surge of hope rushed through Jago’s body. If Cal was alive, did that mean Noah was alive, too? And if Cal was alive, did it mean that he and Noah had been together? That he knew where he could be found
?
“Mum, have you seen this?” he called. She had to be downstairs somewhere. A sliver of ice pierced his brain, jolting him fully awake. He turned and surveyed the mess in her bedroom. Normally, she would be asleep now. If you could call it sleep. She rarely woke before mid-afternoon. Jago’s heart skipped up and down as he glanced at the television. Where was she?
Leaving the room, he raced downstairs, sweeping from room to room.
“Shit,” he breathed.
His mother wasn’t here. But he knew exactly where she’d gone.
19
BY THE TIME THE MORNING passed over into afternoon, the press was showing no signs of leaving. Much to Carrie’s annoyance, she had spotted neighbours talking to various journalists as she’d peeked through her bedroom curtains. She would be having strong words with Dottie Penpol and Elvira Trevithick once she was free to leave her home, no doubt about it.
The children seemed to be handling the situation better than the adults; Melissa played happily with her toys while Cal watched television. All his favourite shows were gone. Now, he flicked between a cartoon aimed at a much younger audience and a violent heist movie. Carrie tried to persuade him to watch something more appropriate but he refused. She left him alone; it was difficult enough dealing with the shit show outside without Cal having another meltdown.
Dylan had spent most of the morning pacing the living room floor and occasionally peering through the curtains. Eventually, he’d moved upstairs.
He and Carrie had barely spoken a word in the last hour. So much had changed in the last week. Their entire world, she supposed. Dylan’s life had been turned upside down without any choice in the matter. And now he was father to a stepson he wasn’t meant to have. A stepson who’d been through an unknown horrific experience. Who was traumatised. Who couldn’t even speak.
Carrie wondered what Dylan really felt about that.
He was trying to be supportive, she could see that, but his outward veneer was beginning to crack. Being trapped inside the house like an animal in a cage wasn’t helping, either. Especially when you were surrounded by journalists wanting to put your picture in the paper.
The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1) Page 11