I still haven’t heard from Taylor, and I know that worry is also adding to my exhaustion. Taylor told me that the chances of him being able to contact me would be slim given his demanding schedule and back-to-back flights, as well as the lack of reception in the jungle. Still a part of me wishes he would have dropped me a text to let me know he had at least landed safe and sound in Brazil.
But I put all of this out of my mind as I excuse myself to head to my ten thirty appointment. I check to make sure for the hundredth time that I have the piece of paper I printed out last night in my bag. I hurry through the icy rain until I find the shop front I have been searching for.
Urban Art is not what I am expecting at all, though to be truthful, I am not sure what it was I thought the inside of a tattoo shop would look like. The bell chimes softly, catching the attention of a girl about my age who is sat behind a desk, reading a book. She is heavily made up in dark eyeliner, and I can see swirling designs all across her chest, arms and neck. I am slightly intimidated, but when she smiles at me, I feel instantly at ease. “Hey, hon, who are you here to see?” she asks, her voice surprisingly childlike.
“Um, I have an appointment with Fred,” I say, nerves making my voice wobble a little.
“Sure thing, hon. He is just finishing off a client so will be with you in five,” she says, gesturing to a door set into the back of the small waiting area. “I am Sarah, by the way,”
“I am Abby,” I reply, giving Sarah a bright smile to try and cover the fact that I am considering turning around and walking straight out the shop. As if sensing this, Sarah engages me in mindless chit-chat about the weather, and before I know it, the door is opening and out steps one of the tallest men I have ever met.
“Abby?” he asks with a raised eyebrow as he holds his hand out to me in greeting.
“Um, yup, that’s me,” I say, shaking his hand as Fred pins me with startlingly blue eyes that seem to be able to see right into my soul. He gestures towards a door that I hadn’t noticed before, and I follow him through while he tells me about his background and interest in tattooing. As he pulls out a chair for me, I dig about in my bag for my sheet of paper before sitting down.
“So you are a newbie, then?” Fred asks, smiling down at me.
“Is it that evident?” I say, trying to make a joke of it.
“Well, the shaking hands give it away slightly. Plus the fact when we spoke yesterday you told me that you had never had one done.” Doh!
“I had never really thought before about having one done, but I’ve got these scars now and I kind of want to do something about them.” I hold up my wrists to show Fred and am relieved when he barely bats an eyelid before smiling and encouraging me to go on. “I am not ashamed of them; so much of my life has turned around because of what I did, but I don’t want them to define me,” I say, uttering out loud words that have barely been a conscious thought. “People see my scars and then their faces fill with pity, and I don’t want that. I am so much stronger now, so I don’t necessarily want to cover them but just make it that they are not the first thing people notice about me.”
“Cool,” says Fred, his tone non-judgemental. “So have you got a design in mind?”
I hand him my piece of paper showing him the design I found online. When I had gone searching, I had had a couple of ideas in mind, but when I saw this tribal design featuring two emperor penguins bowing their heads together to form a heart, I just knew that was exactly what I wanted on both wrists.
“Nice,” says Fred making me realise that he is not the biggest conversationalist in the world. However, we start to chat about how best we can make the design work on my wrists without messing with the still-healing scar tissue, and I suddenly realise a whole hour has gone by. When it is clear Fred has everything he needs to create the design for me, he ushers me out into the reception area to set up an appointment with Sarah for late tomorrow afternoon.
As I step back outside into the now-torrential icy rain, I actually feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel like I am taking back a part of myself, however crazy that may sound. My phone beeps and I see a text from Detective Stanton letting me know that she has arrived at the café where we agreed to meet. It is perfect timing, so I head straight there. I am not sure why I didn’t suggest meeting at Cake, but somehow I don’t think I want to discuss whatever it is we are about to talk about with all the staff around.
The first thing I notice about Detective Stanton when I slide into the booth opposite her is how tired she looks. She is perfectly made up, like all the times I have seen her, but nothing can disguise the dark circles under her eyes or the tight lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Abby,” Detective Stanton says after we have ordered our coffees and sandwiches.
“That’s no problem,” I say. “It sounded urgent.”
“Yes, well, we have been tracking down a few of Richard’s ex-girlfriends, and the picture we are building is not a good one. Of the couple who would actually talk to us, it would seem that there is a pattern emerging of systematic mental and physical abuse alongside a complete obsession with Taylor. Though I am sure this is nothing new to you?” I nod my head in acquiescence.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Hannah, if I may?” Detective Stanton asks.
“Sure, though I don’t know how much I can tell you that Taylor won’t have told you already.”
“We have been investigating further into her death, and I just wanted to clarify a few points.”
“Okay, go ahead,” I say.
“Are you aware how Taylor knew about Hannah’s incident?” she asks.
“From what I understand, Taylor had been keeping tabs on her because he was worried about her involvement with Richard. There was a report on the evening news about a girl who was hit by a bus, and when they showed some footage, Taylor recognised her bag on the ground laying a little way away. They didn’t know the identity of the girl, so he went to the police station and suggested that it could have been Hannah. They never confirmed it, but Taylor has always assumed she walked in front of the bus on purpose.” My heart feels heavy as I talk.
“Do you know if Taylor was ever in contact with Hannah’s parents afterwards? Did he go to her funeral?”
“Not that I am aware of. He never said anything to me about that. His grandmother Genevieve would know better than me. Taylor doesn’t talk much about Hannah. I know he still blames himself and was heartbroken over what happened.” Suddenly an awful thought strikes me. “Are you thinking Taylor was involved somehow?”
“Not at all,” Detective Stanton soothes. “No. Obviously, we have not been able to talk to Taylor since he set off on his trip. Yesterday one of our detectives paid Hannah’s parents a visit, and they insist that she is not dead, only missing.”
“Wh…what?” I gasp. “What do you mean?”
“No one has been able to confirm whether the girl who was struck was actually Hannah. Unfortunately, due to the injuries sustained—the accident happened on a stretch of road where the bus was going at quite a speed—dental records were of no use. When Hannah’s parents were called up to view the body, they admitted there were a lot of similarities but insisted that it was not Hannah. Apparently, she had a small birthmark behind her ear in the shape of a star, and the body did not. Although the reports that I have seen suggest that a mark could have been there but disguised by bruising at the time.”
I am well and truly flabbergasted and simply stare at Detective Stanton, my mouth hanging open. “You mean Hannah might be alive?” my voice comes out as a whisper.
“I am still tracking down witnesses to the event, but I am sure you can appreciate that a lot of time has passed, so this is quite difficult. We are also going back through the witness statements and CCTV footage that was retained at the time. As you can imagine, this is taking a lot of man-hours.” I can certainly understand now why the detective is looking so exhausted.
>
“Wow,” I say. “But I am not sure how this all relates to me.”
“Sorry, Abby, I was just coming to this. We believe that if Hannah is alive—and it is looking more and more likely—she may be the one behind the blog that Taylor came to me about.”
This hits me completely out of left field. My mind flashes back to the content and images on the blog, and I immediately feel sick. “Um…I don’t understand.”
“When Taylor came to us about the blog, it was because he was unable to track down the person himself. We got some of our tech guys on it, but they have had no luck tracing the source, but because it is still live, we have been monitoring the content.”
“Okay, I mean, I only looked at a couple of posts and I guess you know what happened after that. So I have not looked at it since,” I say.
I can’t help but notice the grimace that crosses the detective’s face, and I sense there is more to come. I am not wrong. “Having been through some of the posts myself, I asked a forensic psychologist who consults for the department to have a look. Initially, we thought the source was Richard, so we wanted to make sure that we would have evidence to help with our case against him. But Frank’s profile indicated that the blogger was female, in her twenties and had a close connection to Taylor.”
I feel like I am going to throw up, and I notice my hands are shaking in my lap. I stay silent while I wait for Detective Stanton to continue. “Going back, we can see the blog was set up shortly after Hannah ‘disappeared’. It tracks pretty much all of Taylor’s movements under the guise of a social commentary, and Frank suggests that this is because the blogger wants to feel close to him, particularly as everything is fairly positive. Unfortunately, anyone who is deemed more than a passing interest slowly gets treated with scorn. This is a pattern we see a couple of times until you started dating Taylor. There has been an increase in negativity in recent months as you are obviously aware. The language is subtle, and most people would just shrug it off, but Frank feels that the blogger is escalating and is starting to pose a physical danger.”
“You mean to me?” I shudder at the idea that not only am I facing threats from Richard, but now from some blogger, who may or may not be Taylor’s ex-girlfriend, who also may or may not be dead. Seriously, what did I do to piss off all these people? Oh yeah, date Taylor, I think grimly to myself.
“Look, I don’t want to scare you, Abby. I know you have a lot on your plate, but you need to be aware that there is potentially a new danger out there. I know Taylor organised a security detail for you, and I have already passed on my concerns to Henry, but I felt you needed to be aware of what’s going on, particularly with Taylor out of the country.”
The food that arrived at some point during our conversation remains untouched, and I find myself distractedly tearing up the bread in front of me, unable to stomach the thought of actually taking a mouthful.
Detective Stanton smiles at me, but it never actually reaches her eyes. “Abby, you don’t deserve this. We are doing our best to track the blogger and to discover if Hannah is actually dead and whether they are one and the same. I will do my best to keep you up to speed, but I need you to keep your eyes and ears open. If there is anything that seems out of the ordinary, alert Henry or give me a call,” she says, sliding a business card across the table. “My mobile number is on there, and you can reach me anytime, even the middle of the night.” I do my best to attempt a smile, but I know it is wobbly at best.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice hoarse with pent-up emotion. Right now I just want to scream.
Standing up, the Detective lets me know that she needs to get back to London. As she walks past me, she places a hand on my shoulder and says, “It’s going to be okay, Abby. We’ll figure this all out.” With a final goodbye, she walks out, leaving me in stunned silence as I try to compute everything she has just told me. I am so lost in my thoughts that I barely register a person sliding into the booth opposite me, taking up the detective’s vacated seat.
“Abby.” My name brings me back to the present, and when I look up, I am surprised to see Henry sitting opposite me.
“I guess you heard all of that?” I ask, attempting a weak smile.
“Yes. I knew the detective was coming to see you today.”
“Are you listening in to my calls as well?” I ask, feeling peeved that I seem to have no privacy whatsoever now.
“No,” says Henry, looking slightly contrite. “We are not monitoring your calls, though we are tracking your movements on the app that Taylor installed a while ago.”
“Well, thanks for being honest,” I say.
“Detective Stanton called me to let me know, and I wanted to be here to answer any questions you might have.”
“Does Taylor know about any of this?” I ask.
“No. We have not been able to get hold of him.” My body goes cold all over at Henry’s words, and a hundred different scenarios run through my head. Sensing my distress, Henry quickly interrupts my thoughts. “But that is not unexpected. We have left him messages to get in contact when he can, and I am expecting that we should hear from him in the next day or so. It all depends on where he can get a signal on his satellite phone.”
I let out the breath that I didn’t even realise I was holding. “So what does this all mean?” I ask.
“Nothing, really,” Henry says. “You go on doing exactly what you have been, and we will keep watching your back and making sure no one hurts you.” Well, that was blunt, but I am grateful that Henry is not one to mince his words.
.........................
I lie in bed, missing the feel of Taylor next to me. I think of him wandering through the jungle and chuckle to myself as I imagine him in a somewhat Indiana Jones-style outfit, complete with bullwhip and hat.
Reflexively my mind goes over the day’s events: telling everyone about my engagement, my visit to the tattoo shop, my conversations with Detective Stanton and Henry, and finally my afternoon of baking as I tried to soothe my rattled nerves. I still don’t know how I feel about it all; the whole ‘Is she or isn’t she dead?’ thing is confusing and even more so if it turns out that Hannah is the person behind the blog. With a start, I realise I don’t even know what Hannah looks like, and resolve to get a picture off Henry in the morning.
Pushing the negative thoughts aside, I go back to concentrating on the visual of Taylor looking all handsome in his jungle gear. Yum is the last thought I have before I fall asleep.
The Twenty-Fourth
I squeal with delight as the inspector signs off the paperwork so that Cake can open on Monday. I have to restrain myself from jumping and giving the guy a great big hug as finally all our hard work has paid off. Looking around me, I am astounded how much has been achieved in a couple of short weeks, and I know this is down to James and his team, and my mum, who has been working tirelessly to pull together my vision.
The inspector leaves, and I just sit and admire the café. I pinch myself; I can’t quite believe that I really own the dessert café I always dreamed about. The hulking great coffee machine sits there, gleaming, waiting to get fired up. The fridges are on, waiting to be filled, and the counter is lined with jars and cake stands ready for their goodies. I know Sunday is going to be a busy one with Annabeth coming in to hang the artwork, and all the prep that will need doing, but I am just itching to get into the kitchen and get baking.
I hear footsteps and look up to see Mum standing over me with a smile. “I take it we are all signed off, then?” she asks. For a moment, I consider playing with her and saying that we didn’t get the approval, but then I remember this is as much her achievement as mine.
“Of course! How couldn’t we with you in charge?” I give Mum a great big grin. “Plus we scrubbed this place all morning and you went over that checklist like a million times.” Mum comes to sit next to me on the sofa, and I rest my head against her shoulder. “Mum, thank you.”
“For what, sweetheart?” she asks.
�
�For helping me make my dream come true. And for pushing me to do that business degree. I know I fought you tooth and nail on it, but actually, I don’t think I would have ever been prepared for all of this,” I say, sweeping my arm around the room, “without it.”
“Oh, darling, I am so proud of you. I will always regret pushing my thoughts and ideas on you, but I think we can definitely agree that everything has worked out in the end.” I look up at my mum and see tears glistening in her eyes.
“Definitely,” I say. “I am so glad we have this now. In this moment, everything just feels like this is what I was meant to do, and it makes me so happy that you and Dad are a part of it.”
“Your Nonna would be so proud of you,” Mum says quietly.
“You think?” I ask, a quaver evident in my voice.
“I know so!” Mum says firmly. “And I think she would be proud that we are finally a proper family again. I just wish that this had happened while she was alive.”
“I really miss her, Mum,” I say, the tears running silently down my face.
“Me too, sweetie. Me too,” she says, putting her arms around me and pulling me into the kind of hug that only mothers can give—a warm, all-encompassing one that soothes my soul and tells me that, no matter what, everything is going to be okay.
.........................
I am standing outside Urban Art, mentally preparing myself to step inside. There has not been a minute today that I haven’t been thinking about how painful getting a tattoo will be, and I have to confess that even teaching my baking class this morning up at The Clinic wasn’t enough of a distraction. I very nearly had everyone adding two ounces of salt instead of sugar to the recipe until someone called me on it.
Book Two: Thirty Days, Book 2 Page 14