The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  “But before then . . . on Friday night,” Craig chips in. “Izzy told me the boys posted about the sleepover. Anyone could have seen what they were up to.”

  “No one posted specifically about the ‘terror test,’ though,” DCI Maxwell counters. “We’ve checked. And you both saw how hard it was to find Nick. Someone had to have had precise info on his whereabouts. Only the boys knew about the dare. Ergo Suspect A must be known to one of them. Unfortunately, that makes for quite a list. But we’re on it.”

  “That could take weeks.” I sigh. I’m still no closer to knowing the truth. “Maybe Nick will wake up before then.” I stare at his white face, the machines keeping him alive; I pray silently for a miracle. “He’s the only one who really knows, isn’t he?”

  “Whoever did this won’t get away with it, Izzy,” Jo says firmly.

  “No, they won’t,” DCI Maxwell concurs. “Our FSIs are examining the rope we believe was used to tie Nick up, as per Dr. Lynch’s suggestion. Ditto the padlock on the shed. We might be able to retrieve DNA from both. DS Clarke will also be visiting local hardware stores today. Maybe someone bought them recently. I’ve got officers checking CCTV around the park. There’s no sign of forced entry through the gates. Our Suspect A found a different way in. We need to find it, too.”

  “And all the while this monster is still out there.” I continue to stare helplessly at Nick. He’s in a critical condition medically, but I thought he was at least in a place of safety.

  “We have a plainclothes officer outside as a precaution,” Jo says. “And I’ll be around. I’m here to look after you, Izzy, as well as keeping you in touch with the investigation.”

  “On which note, I’ve got to head back.” DCI Maxwell checks his watch and stands up.

  “Thank you, Detective.” Craig holds out his hand. “I’m sorry if I was a bit sharp. It’s just the shock, you see.”

  “I understand, Mr. Brookes. No apology needed. We’re all praying for your son. The whole team is committed to finding whoever did this. Before they do it again.”

  My eyes drift fearfully to the door. “Or come back to finish what they started.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I weigh Nick’s laptop in my hands. It’s basic and clunky, and I make a silent promise to him that I’ll treat him to a brand-new one when he comes home. He will come home, I tell myself for the thousandth time, staring at his poker-stiff body, willing there to be some sign of movement. At least his vital signs are beginning to stabilize, Dr. Lynch assured me. For now, I’m trapped in a waiting game: waiting to find out if Nick will pull through; waiting for the police to find whoever did this to him.

  In the meantime, I need something to keep my mind occupied: to brace the door shut against the hovering shadow of terror. I look back at the laptop Jo has just returned to me; they found nothing of any significance on it, and Jo thought I might like to have it here with me. There was one thing that caught their eye, she added quietly: a video diary.

  “Seriously? Nick has a diary?” I thought of how many times I’d searched his room, hoping to find one. “On his computer?” That had never even occurred to me, and I lifted the laptop lid, thinking of my own dog-eared notebooks of teenage scribblings, hidden under my bed along with novels I’d pinched from my mum’s bookshelf. I stared at the black screen, admiring its power, hating its secrecy; its hold over my son.

  “It’s really not extensive. Just the beginnings of a vlog,” Jo said quickly, as if to reassure me that the police haven’t been prying into my son’s private thoughts. “They were short clips—recent, but nothing that casts any light on the investigation,” she added, correctly anticipating my next question.

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad. On the one hand, I was happy to know there was nothing disturbing lurking in my son’s computer; on the other, I was chewed up with frustration at still not knowing exactly what happened on Friday night.

  “You may want to watch it in private, though,” Jo cautioned in a low voice, giving me a kind smile as she headed to the door. She glanced back at Nick’s silent, immobile form, adding: “I don’t mean for his sake. I mean for yours.”

  She was right. Desperate as I am to hear Nick’s voice again, I know it’s going to upset me. I glance at Craig. He’s absorbed in a newspaper, reading the financial pages, sitting quietly in the corner of the small hospital room. For reasons of security, Nick is being cared for well away from the busy main ICU. Craig and I have hardly seen another soul, and neither of us has left Nick’s bedside for more than a few minutes over the last night and day.

  “I can call you, you know,” I say softly. “If there’s any news.”

  “Sorry?” He looks up with a slightly dazed frown, as though lost in thought.

  “Dr. Lynch said Nick’s finally stable. Now might be a good chance to catch up on some sleep. I know you’ve taken the week off work, Craig, but—”

  “I’ll go back when I go back.” His hand carves a dismissive wave.

  “Likewise. Laura told me to take as much time off as I need.” I bite my lip. I don’t want to come straight out and ask him to leave; I know he’s waiting with equal trepidation for Nick to show any sign of recovery. But I really want some time alone with Nick. And his diary. I try again. “Time passes so slowly in hospital, doesn’t it?”

  “A watched pot never boils, so they say.” His attention returns to his newspaper.

  “Exactly. Knowing my luck, I’ll be in the bathroom or something when Nick wakes up.” I roll my eyes. “At least there’s no chance of me being asleep. Not on those things.” I nod at the low hospital beds where we’ve both been camping out for the last twenty-four hours.

  “I’ve slept on concrete floors more comfortable,” he agrees, without looking up.

  “I know. My back’s in agony. Yours must be, too. In fact, there’s no point both of us torturing ourselves, is there? We could take it in turns to suffer,” I suggest lightly, even though I have no intention of going anywhere. “Why don’t you go home for a bit?”

  “Our home?” He finally puts down the paper, looking quizzically at me.

  “Sorry?” Craig and I are getting along so much better, and it’s good to have someone around who is praying for Nick as hard as I am. Only I’m pretty sure this new truce between us is mainly due to the relief of finding Nick, the worry of waiting to see if he’ll recover, and the tension of the ongoing police investigation.

  “No, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thought. It’s your house. I don’t live there anymore.” He watches my face for a moment then folds his newspaper and stands up, reaching out to lift his coat off the back of his chair. “You’re right. I’m exhausted. I should go and get some rest. At my own apartment,” he clarifies with a wry smile. “If you’re sure you’ll be OK here?”

  Instantly I feel guilty at how I’ve manipulated him into leaving. “I’m sure. You’ve seen the police officer outside. No one’s getting past that guy.”

  “Good. That’s good. Because you and Nick . . .”

  “I’ll call you, I promise,” I jump in, rescuing us both from the awkward pause. “If he . . . if there’s any change. OK?”

  “Sure.” Craig hesitates a moment longer, then moves slowly toward the door. Eyes lingering on Nick, he gives me another small, lopsided smile. “I guess neither of you are going anywhere.”

  * * *

  “Favorite color. First pet. Darn it.” I tap yet more password attempts into Nick’s laptop, wishing I’d thought to ask Jo what it is before she left. The police must have cracked it, or managed to bypass it somehow, but I’d wrongly assumed Nick wouldn’t have set one up—as he didn’t on his phone. “Favorite film. Ballet . . .” His screensaver remains stubbornly in place, with a quote wiggling across the middle: Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.

  “Your dad used to say that. It was one of his favorite quotes,” I tell Nick, wishing he would sit up and ask me why I’ve never told him that. I should have; I shou
ld have told him everything about his dad—not just the happy stuff but the difficult bits, too. Still thinking about Alex, I type his name with a sigh and press enter.

  “What the . . . ?” My heart feels like it is pumping at a thousand beats per minute as the laptop’s home page opens up, and even though Nick’s middle name is also Alexander, I have a sudden intuition that he chose that as his password because of his dad, which makes me feel sad and happy all at the same time.

  I open random files in his directory, not sure where to start looking, but all I find is homework assignments, book reports, and some playlists of music tracks for his dance classes. In frustration, I start clicking frantically on anything and everything, stabbing the keys with my fingers, wishing I’d never bought the damned laptop in the first place.

  I’m about to give up and call Jo when the screen suddenly lights up. I must have accidentally clicked on the correct link, and my heart beats faster as a video uploads. I turn up the volume and press my hand against the screen as it starts playing, my eyes glued to the sight of Nick in his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on his bed, with Marzipan curled up next to him. From the angle of the video, the laptop is on his desk.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” The contrast between the familiar sight of our messily comfortable home and the sterile room where Nick now lies trapped brings a lump to my throat. Nick is so rarely still; I’m aching to see him move, dance, smile again. I wait impatiently as the video suddenly buffers, leaning closer to the screen when it bursts into life once more.

  Hey, people. This is me. And this is my diary.

  So if your name’s not Nick Brookes, do one!

  Nick is looking shyly away from the camera, just as he struggles to look people in the eye. After his plucky introduction, he stops talking and seems to clam up, experimenting instead with different poses, blue eyes half-hidden by his bangs. I press pause for a moment, suddenly conscious that I’m invading his privacy. Jo said they found nothing relevant to the investigation; maybe I shouldn’t watch. I swipe the cursor toward the close button . . .

  But I can’t. I’m desperate to remember Nick as he was—as I am praying he will be again. “Sorry, darling. You can tell me off later for snooping.” I blow him a kiss, then turn back to the laptop and, before I can change my mind, press play.

  Sorry, did I say Brookes? I meant Blake. Or is it

  Blake-Brookes? That would be kinda cool. Two

  dads are better than none, don’t you think?

  The video buffers again, and I sit back in frustration, staring at the freeze-frame of Nick’s image. There is more than a slight hint of American about his accent, I realize; I recognize it from the YouTube vloggers he seems to find hilarious. He’s clearly trying to imitate their slick, cool patter, yet beneath the jaunty banter and constant hair-flicking I see the same little boy who used to dress up and put on shows for me in our living room.

  I’ve never seen this side of my son, though: a young boy rehearsing his future teenage self. I’m guiltily fascinated to see more; I’m also struck by the reference to Craig. Curious to know if and how I will feature in Nick’s vlog, I watch eagerly as the video restarts.

  So much homework. Yawn. Don’t these teachers know I’ve got a show to rehearse for? “The boy with flying feet.” That’s me. I’m famous. Huh. You can keep fame. I know Mum was proud I got my name in the papers. But it was just like one big, dumbass advert. “Look at this guy, thinks he’s legit. You should totally batter him!”

  Anyway, I guess secondary school is better. Well, the book group is. I’ve even got some mates. Hashtag miracle. Or maybe not. I’m not sure. It was easier when I trusted no one. If you know everyone is out to get you, you always know where you stand. I think I’ve figured out what to do about it now, though. It’s showdown time. Bring on the sleepover . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “What are you watching?”

  “Craig! You made me jump!” I close the laptop with a snap, suddenly reluctant for him to know about the diaries. It’s not that I want to shut Craig out; it’s more that I’ve worried so much about losing my connection with Nick, and I feel a jealous need to guard even these tiny secret snippets of insight into his thoughts. “Nothing. Just . . . browsing. Passing time.”

  “I meant on the TV.” He nods at the screen in the corner.

  “Oh. I’d forgotten I left that on. I was hoping Nick might hear it, and . . . you know. Familiar theme tunes. Favorite programs. I thought it might help. Anyway, how come you’re back so soon?” I check the clock on the wall; he’s only been gone half an hour. “I thought you were going home. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem. Only that I felt bad leaving you to cope alone. I made that mistake a year ago. I meant what I said, Isobel. I’m trying to put things right. Turn over the proverbial new leaf.” He shrugs and gives me a rueful smile.

  “Sure. I can see that.” I try not to show my irritation at his bad timing. I appreciate his thoughtfulness, but I wanted to hear more of what’s been going on in Nick’s head. The police obviously didn’t think his reference to the sleepover was a big deal, but it’s been so long since Nick confided in me, I’m greedy to hear what else he has to say.

  “Any word from DCI Maxwell on this Suspect A, as they’re calling him?”

  “Or her,” I point out. “Though I grant you, somehow it feels more likely to be a man. We hear it all too often on the news, don’t we? I’ve got a terrible image in my head already. Almost certain to be wildly inaccurate.”

  “The bogeyman. Yes. Everyone has their own idea of what a monster looks like. I guess murderers come in all shapes and sizes, though. And sex offenders.”

  “Sex offenders. Oh God.” The term terrifies me. Both the detective and Dr. Lynch assured me there’s no evidence to suggest Nick has been assaulted in that way; I still can’t shake the fear that it was the ultimate motive behind his attack—especially if someone had contacted him online, perhaps after seeing the photos Nick posted on Facebook.

  “The police are looking again at everyone local on the register, yes?” Craig asks, moving to Nick’s side and gently stroking his hair.

  “So DCI Maxwell said.” I have no idea how many names are on that list, and I was reluctant to ask. The thought that I could be living next door to a known sex offender is horrifying. Part of me wants to know; the other part is too scared to find out. I shudder, remembering the intruder in my yard, the Range Rover I thought was tailing me to the press conference. I put both incidents down to the overactive imagination I seem to be plagued by, but to be on the safe side I should mention them to the police, I decide.

  “Good. Let’s hope they come up trumps. Sick bastard needs locking up before they do it again to some other poor kid.”

  “Don’t say that, Craig. I can’t stand the thought of them still being out there.” I look anxiously beyond him toward the plainclothes officer talking to someone in a low voice outside Nick’s room. DCI Maxwell instructed “no visitors.” I haven’t seen anyone, which means either there haven’t been any visitors or the officer is doing a great job of turning them away.

  “I know, but . . . Isobel, look.” Suddenly Craig grabs the TV remote from Nick’s bedside table, pushing buttons until the room fills with the strident voice of a news anchor.

  I swivel around, staring mutely at Nick’s image on the screen. Underneath, the rolling headlines confirm that the “missing child inquiry” has been upgraded to “attempted murder.” It’s the photo I chose for the press conference, I realize, rage and disgust roiling through me at the thought of someone having seen other pictures of my son—eating pizza and messing about with his friends at the sleepover—and deciding to target him. “Switch it off. Please.”

  “Sorry.” Craig quickly turns off the TV.

  “It’s OK. I just need to not hear it for a while, you know?”

  “Yes. I do know. Sometimes it helps to bury our heads in the sand a little. Pretend life is normal. It will be again soon, I promise.” Craig g
ives me a small, slightly sad smile.

  I sit quietly for a moment, reflecting on the change in our relationship. I’m almost starting to feel sorry for Craig, I realize. I know he’s hoping things between us can go back to the way they were; I don’t feel the same, but maybe we can be friends.

  Two dads are better than none, Nick said in his diary. Until he wakes up and talks, I can’t know how he really feels about his stepdad. They used to be close, but distance has definitely crept in between them over the last year. For now, I think the best policy is to stay on cordial terms with Craig: friendly but not intimate; close but not personal.

  “You OK?” he asks, when the silence stretches into minutes.

  “Yes. Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “Ah, I thought I could hear the cogs turning,” Craig quips. “It’s funny. Nick’s such a quiet boy, but I can’t get used to him saying nothing at all.”

  “I know. The silence without him at home was so . . . empty.”

  “And uncanny, I bet. I remember feeling like we never had a moment to ourselves when I lived there. One of my biggest regrets is not making more time just for us. I realize I probably spent more time with Nick. I just wanted to be a good dad. Stepdad.”

  “And you were,” I tell him truthfully.

  “Was I?” He sighs. “I tried. Maybe too hard. I think I wanted so badly to make everything perfect that I was too . . .” He hesitates.

  “Judgmental?” I finish for him. I won’t lie about how Craig hurt me at the end of our marriage, but I am glad he at least has the good grace to admit his mistakes.

  “Ouch.” He mimes a stab to the heart.

  “But Nick’s always been very fond of you.” I know that much to be true, even if I’ve seen little sign of it lately. After all, Nick has closed off from me in exactly the same way.