by Helen Cooper
“I love you,” he’d whispered.
“Who are you?”
“I want to protect you.”
She’d screamed: “Tell me who you are.”
He’d touched her just to try to calm her down, but she’d screamed again and beaten her fists against his chest. He’d grabbed her wrists, tried to hold her. She’d twisted away and he’d felt the friction-burn of her skin under his grasp.
Stepping back, he’d realized he was crying too.
“You’re with the police,” she’d said.
Paul had let himself have one more moment of borrowed time before he’d nodded.
Nathalie had bent at the waist, hands covering her face. “Oh, my God.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please believe I never meant to hurt you.”
“So all of it . . . the last three years . . .” She’d thrust her fingers into her hair as if to stop her skull exploding.
“It wasn’t you I was investigating. It was your brother, and the search fund. He made himself untouchable. It was the only way . . .”
“Oh, God.” Her hands over her face again. “You bastard. You bastard.”
“My feelings for you are real,” he’d said desperately. “So very, very real.”
“Three years of my life. All the things we . . . the things I . . .”
“I love you. I promise I love you.”
“Stop saying that! I can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”
“Nat—” But he’d stopped short because of course she’d been right. Nothing he said had any credibility anymore, or ever could again. He’d been trained to lie, and now she knew that. It was the only thing she knew about him.
Abruptly, she’d grabbed his arm. He’d found himself dragged toward the outbuilding, stumbling with surprise. Nathalie had banged on the door and they’d waited until it creaked open, casting a quarter-circle of orange light out into the gloom. A woman with a fountain of dark curly hair had stood there. A lacy shawl around her shoulders, long black dress with red embroidered roses.
“Nathalie?” she’d said, kohl-lined eyes darting toward Paul. “Are you all right?”
“Tell him who you are,” Nathalie had said.
“And who is he?”
Nathalie had snorted with humorless laughter. “Good question. He’s my boyfriend. He’s a stranger.” Her voice had cracked on the last word, the uncharacteristic sarcasm dissolving. “He wants to know why I’ve been visiting this place.”
If the woman had been perturbed or confused, she hadn’t shown it. She’d looked from Nathalie to Paul, then moved to one side so Paul could survey the candlelit room behind. He’d tried to take it all in: the gauzy drapes; the bowls of glimmering white crystals; the cards on the table.
“Emilia is a clairvoyant,” Nathalie said. “I’d heard she’d helped others. I had to try something . . .”
“I don’t understand,” Paul said.
“I thought she might be able to tell me where Billie is.” Nathalie had started to sob again. “Because, clearly, nobody else can.”
It was as if somebody had thrown scalding water into his face. Nathalie had been visiting this woman with her cards and her crystals: one last pitiable attempt to know what had happened to her daughter. Paul was the criminal, not her. He was the liar, the one who deserved to feel burning shame.
After Emilia had closed her door, Nathalie had seemed to cry herself out. And that was when the anger had returned. She’d said Paul’s behavior was disgusting. Claimed she’d never really loved him anyway—she’d just been lonely, he could have been anyone. Insults had spewed out, designed to wound him, and he’d let her rage until her voice became hoarse.
The last words she’d ever said to him were, You’re going to regret what you’ve done.
The last he’d seen of her, she’d been running away from him in the moonlight, hair bannering behind, fists clenched as though she was ready to fight if he tried to follow.
49.
EMMA
Zeb didn’t speak as she ushered him inside. He looked dazed by the transformed atmosphere of the street, the police and press, everything he’d been cut off from at his dad’s rural house. Even inside their flat, he offered one-word responses to Emma’s questions and her garbled updates about their missing neighbor. She chose not to notice that he had no luggage. Surely her boy was back and everything was going to be all right.
She began making him a cup of tea, hoping he still liked it strong with half a sugar: It felt too awful to have to check.
“How could you, Mum?”
The spoon wavered in her hand. “What?”
“The last text you sent me. Accusing Dad of all sorts.”
She dropped the spoon into the mug with a sinking feeling. At the height of her panic, tipped over the edge by the latest revolting delivery, she’d tapped out a desperate text to Zeb, a stream of reasons he had to come home. And she’d still left out the things she needed to ask him about Freya. Now he was in front of her and she couldn’t put them off any longer.
“You seriously think he put raw egg through the door? And dog shit?”
“I—”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
Because clearly he’s angry that I never told him about you. And he knows how to rattle me. He observed it firsthand for a long time.
“Is this another attempt to make me stop seeing him?”
“No—”
“I want him in my life, Mum! He’s my dad! The last few weeks have been so great, getting to know him at last. I honestly can’t believe you never let me have this before.”
He looked so sincere, it crushed her heart. She’d never realized, or never wanted to acknowledge, how much he’d lacked a dad. She’d believed she was enough, and the realization that she wasn’t had seemed to carve cracks into every part of her life. Alien Girl couldn’t raise a son, run a business, wear peacock-feather earrings, and stick up two fingers to her schooldays. How stupid to think she could.
“Has he been nice to you?” she couldn’t help asking.
Zeb stared at her as if she was mad. “Of course he has. I don’t know why you hate him so much. He only says good things about you.”
Emma turned cold. “He’s talked about me?”
“You think we act like you don’t exist? He says he wishes you and him could be mates.”
Emma recoiled from the idea, and Zeb must have seen it in her face.
“Seriously, Mum, what’s your problem with him?”
“I . . .” Every time she started to explain, the words curled up. She was afraid it would sound like trivial school nonsense, rather than a period of her life that had affected and changed her so profoundly. “I just don’t trust him.”
“You don’t even know him!” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “I know him now. And you trust me, don’t you?”
His question made something tighten inside her. It suddenly felt like the worst part of all of this, that the answer was no longer, Of course I do. Always. Unreservedly.
“You’ve only known him a few weeks,” she said.
“Long enough! I feel like I’ve known him all my life. Except I haven’t, of course. You made sure of that.”
“If you’d known him all your life maybe you wouldn’t have such a high opinion of him.”
“Don’t you think people change?” Zeb raised his voice. “Is it one strike and you’re out with you?”
“That’s not fair.”
“In your text you said you were going to tell the police on him!”
“Well, I was scared!”
As she flung it out there, she realized how true it was. The last few days, and even the weeks before that, had been underscored by fear. She thought of her conversation with the police officer, left unfinished when she’d spotted Zeb, and wondere
d whether they would follow it up. Whether she wanted them to, now she’d seen how furious Zeb was.
Her admission seemed to stall him, though. No matter how angry, she was heartened to see that the idea of her being frightened bothered him. She took the opportunity to step closer, brush his arm. He no longer smelled of aftershave but of something DIY-related, like WD-40.
“I don’t want us to fall out,” she said. “Especially with everything that’s been happening to our neighbors.” She watched his face as she said this, pained again that she felt the need to. He was looking at the floor. “You’re so precious to me, Zeb. But it’s just been so . . . disturbing. Things through the post. Silent phone calls—”
“The calls were me.”
She withdrew. “What?”
Zeb squared his shoulders, but his cheeks had reddened and he couldn’t meet her eye. “I’ve been calling you.”
Her heart began to thump. “And . . . hanging up?”
He pressed his fist to his Adam’s apple, rubbing the stubbly skin there.
“I just wanted to talk,” he said gruffly.
“You can talk to me anytime, Zeb.”
“Not about Dad. We’ve never been able to talk about him. Even the Freya thing. It’s been on my mind, but . . .” He scratched harder, at his chin now.
Emma found herself looking at the home phone, goose bumps mottling her arms as she remembered how she’d felt each time it had rung. Late at night. Early in the morning. Soft breathing down the line. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“I bottled it every time. Always ended up tongue-tied. So I’d wait a few seconds, hoping I could get my shit together, then start panicking about the silence and eventually hang up.”
“But . . .” She struggled to take it in. “The number was always withheld.”
“Must be a setting on Dad’s phone. There’s pretty much no mobile signal out there, so I usually used the landline in his office. I didn’t want to talk to you over Skype—it’s too awkward. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”
Emma pulled back her hair and flattened it beneath her palms. She was trying to stay calm. Trying not to shout, Well, you did scare me. For God’s sake, I’ve barely slept.
Gilbert had woken. She could see Zeb frowning at the snuffly noises coming from inside the cupboard, trying to work out what they were. He hadn’t even met her sad little attempt to make the place feel less empty. Probably thought she’d acquired a rat problem.
“What about the other stuff?” she asked.
He exhaled through his nostrils.
“I have no idea. I’m just certain it wasn’t Dad. He wouldn’t do that. Please, can you drop your campaign against him?”
She clasped his hand. “I was only ever trying to protect you.” Even as she said it, she wondered how true it was. Had she been protecting Zeb or herself? She couldn’t help thinking of Steph again: Who was she protecting with her secrets?
Zeb let her hold his hand for a moment, looking down at her, so tall and grown-up yet still with that potent teenage angst. Then he slid his arm free and turned toward the door.
“You’re not going?” she said in alarm.
His head was dipped as if he was already prepared for the flashing cameras. “I’ve said what I needed to.”
“Wait, Zeb! I have to ask you something!”
He paused, turning back. He was twisting the cuffs of his hoodie around his thumbs, a habit he’d had since he was young.
“Did you and Freya meet up more than once?”
His eyebrows lowered as he seemed to absorb her question. Then he shrugged, and released his cuffs, adjusting his hoodie with a tug of the hem. “Yeah, actually.”
Emma breathed slowly in and out.
“We became mates, sort of. Used to meet up sometimes. It was no big deal.” There was a slight catch in his voice, and he glanced up at the ceiling.
“Why did you say you’d only spent that one evening together?”
Another shrug. “I wanted to keep things simple, I s’pose. I didn’t think it mattered. I told you all the important stuff, all the stuff that might help . . .” She saw his throat move as he swallowed. She wanted to step closer again but she didn’t dare. It was all she could do to keep her voice even.
“So you don’t know any more than you said?”
“No, of course not! Why do you have to be so suspicious?”
“I’m only asking.”
“First Dad, now you’re starting on me!”
Suddenly Emma felt herself snap. When would he stop demonizing her? Idolizing Robin at the expense of everything else?
“You’re not going back to your dad’s,” she said. “You’re going to stay here and help the police.”
“No, I’m not.” He turned again to go. “I’ve done what I can. I’m going home.”
“This is your home.” She rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “I’ve had enough of this, Zeb!”
He shook her off. As she glimpsed his face, she recognized the signs that he was about to cry.
“Zeb—”
He slammed out of the flat. Emma started to chase him but stopped in her doorway, imagining the cameras springing into action outside, capturing their altercation—maybe Steph looking down from above. The questions that would follow while Emma’s legs were still trembling.
So she watched from her living-room window, as she had on so many occasions recently, but this time it was to see her son weaving a path through the journalists, pausing at one of the posters of Freya, glancing back toward the house before he was gone.
50.
CHRIS
An engagement ring was visible in the photograph, glinting like a piece of treasure among earthquake debris. Except that the debris in the photo was treasure, too, in a way, the treasure of other people’s lives: a set of keys on a dolphin-shaped key-ring; a treble clef cuff link; a red Prada glasses case. And the silver pillbox, which had been the first thing to tumble out of the glove box that day, into Freya’s lap.
What’s with all the stuff in here? she’d said as Chris had frozen, watching her sift through.
He’d just managed to think of an excuse—they’d been having a clear-out at home, he was taking these things to a charity shop—when she’d recognized the pillbox. It belonged to Jess’s cousin, whom Chris also taught. Apparently she’d recently lost it and had been asking all her friends if they’d seen it because it was a christening present that meant a lot to her. Then Chris had been able to see Freya making connections, reading his own panic, understanding she’d discovered a stash of strangely personal loot.
Now Chris avoided his solicitor’s bewildered gaze, the expectant eyes of the detectives. He stared down at his own hands on the desk. His veins seemed bluer than usual, as though his skin was thinning as he sat there.
“Freya hasn’t paid for any driving lessons since December,” he said.
Ford’s eyes narrowed. Johnson’s fingers twitched as if she was ready to slap handcuffs on Chris.
“Why?” Ford asked.
Chris said nothing for a moment. Her one-word question hovered.
“Are you—or were you—having a relationship with her?”
“No.”
“Then why wasn’t she paying you?”
Chris swallowed. “She . . . Well, I suppose you’d call it blackmail.”
“Blackmailing you?”
The scorn in Johnson’s tone made Chris stiffen. A grown man let himself be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old girl? Chris kept his gaze on Ford: She clearly didn’t like him, but at least she never seemed to be laughing at him from behind her hand.
“She had something over me,” Chris said, praying they’d somehow let him skirt around the details. “She threatened to give me away unless I let her keep her lesson money. She said she needed it to buy her own car. I was s
ure her parents would buy her one, but she acted so urgent about it.”
“Do you think she wanted to go somewhere? Did she ever mention a trip, or a plan to run away?”
He shook his head.
“Do you think the money might actually have been for something else?”
Chris jerked his shoulders. “I just know she went to some lengths to get it.”
He thought of the little comments she would throw in as they drove the streets, reminding him of what she knew, how she could ruin him. The folded notes she’d leave on his windshield. Picked up anything nice lately? . . . Still got the photos. Sometimes she’d acted like a vigilante, doing a public service by keeping him in check. But really she was just a child who’d stumbled across an adult’s secret and realized she could wield it like a weapon.
Up until the day she’d flipped open his glove box and its contents had spilled into her lap, he’d actually liked her, despite her overconfidence in the driver’s seat, despite his innate mistrust of glossy people. She had an edge, sure: She wasn’t meek or straitlaced, but she was funny and interesting. And maybe the change had begun before she’d made her discovery about him. He recalled a distracted sullenness that had developed over a matter of weeks. Then, as she’d sifted through the items, it was as if something had clicked and she’d understood she could turn knowledge into power.
Chris shot a glance at Ford’s iPad, his gaze lingering on the pillbox. It was the one thing Freya had managed to smuggle from his car after that day. Her leverage, she’d called it.
“What’s the significance of these things?” Ford asked.
Ms. Beaumont turned her upper body toward him as though hinged at the waist. “Chris, we need to talk before you answer any further questions.”
“Just tell us why Freya took this picture,” Ford said, ignoring his solicitor. “Why she was blackmailing you. Why you were driving away from Kingston with her on the day she disappeared.”
Chris felt a surge of pure terror. Was he actually going to be charged? Ms. Beaumont tried one more time to convince him to consult, but Chris just wanted to get this over with now. He could only hope they wouldn’t equate his confession with a motive to harm Freya.