Run Away

by Laura Salters

  They had no idea where Oliver was staying or what he was doing. Especially not why he was there, though Kayla could hazard a guess. Every time she caught him staring at her from a bar or market stall, or every time she turned around to see him following them down the street, she felt queasy. She was constantly on edge, wondering when he’d pounce. When he’d finish what he started. What she started.

  Without a regimented itinerary, the group was finding it hard to go out and do things. The extreme heat had hit the region later than usual that year, and the lure of an air-­conditioned flat beat the desire to explore, hands down. Russia and Sam, with their confidence, charisma, and above-­average looks, had both gotten jobs on the clubbing strip as a shot girl and flyer boy respectively, cleaning the bars before opening hours for some extra pennies. The other three spent their time alternating between watching the geriatric television set in the bungalow and lounging by the lake, deepening their tans and daydreaming about where they were going to go after Thailand. Kayla had been offered a job too but didn’t know if she could handle spending eight-­hour shifts out in the open for any male predators to prey on her. Not that the bungalow felt any safer—­she found herself double-­ and triple-­checking the locks every night, ensuring that every last window was bolted shut.

  One night, she was restless. Lying in bed in the small hours of the morning, the nasal snore next to her prevented the fuzzy edges of sleep from forming around her overactive mind. The same mind that had, in turn, started to play cruel tricks on her. The creaking of the old building, the tin roof rattling in even the slightest breeze, and the oddly shaped shadows of eccentric tropical plants—­everything seemed amplified through the lens of fear, became imposing, intimidating, inhuman. The branches were warped, the leaves distorted, the flowers eerie, and her imagination had them dancing a tango of terror across the bedroom wall. It was like a morbid version of the Disney film Fantasia they’d been made to watch in middle school.

  She and Bling were sharing a room, as were Russia and Dave. Sam was alone, in the tiny box room at the end of the corridor. Kayla imagined an intruder forcing his way into their villa, into her room. Bling’s petite stature would render her helpless against a muscular man—­Kayla didn’t know why, but she pictured her potential attacker as beefier than Oliver, with bulging biceps.

  Whether it was lust, terror, or an electrically charged combination of the two that propelled Kayla through the hallway toward Sam’s bedroom, the anticipation caused the hairs on the back of her arms to stand on end. She knocked timidly on his door. No reply. She tried again, a little louder. A muffled sound vaguely resembling a response echoed through the thin door, and she pushed it open.

  Even in the near blackness she could tell Sam was surprised to see her. He propped himself up on his elbows and blinked rapidly, trying to force his eyes to adapt to the dark. The white cotton bedsheets were tangled around his legs, and his tanned torso glistened with a thin layer of sweat—­the fan overhead had stopped spinning. Kayla flicked it back on using the dial next to the door frame. “Hey.” Her voice croaked. She was in desperate need of water, but the need to be next to Sam, to feel his skin on hers, was far greater.

  “Kayla?”

  “Yeah. Can I come in?”

  “Oh, um . . . sure. What’s up?” Where do I start?

  “Can’t sleep.” I’m petrified.

  “Me neither.” He unraveled the sheets and shifted his body to the side of the bed. He didn’t have to spell it out. Kayla crept forward and closed the door behind her. The room smelled of sweat and after-­sun lotion, and she could still taste the strawberry cider on her tongue from earlier.

  Banishing her hesitance, she padded across the smooth tiled floor, but the bravado only lasted until she reached the bed, where she perched awkwardly on the edge. Sam chuckled. “Do I smell that bad?”

  Kayla blushed more furiously than she had since she was fourteen. She was grateful for the dark. She slid her legs down the length of the bed and inched closer to Sam’s warm body. After she had lain rigidly on her back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, his hand found her hip. He rolled her body slightly away from him and curled his own around her, tucking his arm underneath hers and looping it around her waist. His face nuzzled her neck, and she could smell the sweet coconut shampoo on his hair.

  “You fit perfectly,” he mumbled, planting a delicate kiss on the back of her neck. The spot of skin his lips brushed tingled. She wished he’d do it again, all over her body.

  She tucked her knees up toward her chest as if curling around a ball, pushing her back even closer to Sam. She could feel him pressing against her, hard and firm, and wished she wasn’t wearing pajama shorts. An overwhelming longing pulsed through her veins; a delicious aching that, until now, she hadn’t fully realized Sam reciprocated.

  The air-­conditioning had kicked in and the room was cooling rapidly. Sam wrapped his arms tighter around her. He slid her tank top strap halfway down her upper arm and swept her hair out of the way, kissing her warm, bare shoulder with tender pecks that lingered longer each time. She laced her fingers gently through his, careful not to squeeze his fractured hand. She started pulling him down toward the waistband of her shorts, edging his fingertips underneath the elastic.

  “Kayla . . . are you sure you—­”

  An aggressive ringing cut through the quiet. Kayla jumped with fright and crushed Sam’s hand, who yelped in pain like an injured puppy. On the bedside table next to Kayla’s head, his phone was vibrating and ringing shrilly, much louder than it seemed to during the day. Squinting at the screen, Kayla could only make out two words: Unknown number. The phone’s clock told her it was 3:33A.M. Who on earth calls at this time? It might have been someone calling from back home who didn’t understand the time difference, much like her nan. But something in the panicked expression on Sam’s face told Kayla it was more sinister than that.

  She climbed out of bed and made for the door, not wanting to intrude on what she assumed would be a very private conversation.

  Sam picked up the call without greeting the person on the other end. His voice went cold. “Now isn’t a good time. No . . . No!” He shot Kayla an apologetic glance and gulped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .”

  She left the room.

  Chapter 25

  July 22, England

  “SO NOBODY SAW Sam break his hand?”

  “Nope.” Kayla once again met Sadie in a bar, off hours, for a conspiracy and gin session. While she was backing away from Aran Peters—­for her nan’s sake, if nothing else—­that didn’t mean she was about to surrender all suspicion without any answers.

  Bling had eventually texted Kayla back to inform her that she hadn’t seen the injury happen, and Kayla jumped at the chance to meet with the detective. She missed having ­people around her, and Sadie was young enough and nice enough to almost pass as a real friend.

  “Which means that the theory about a drug dealer’s bailiff chasing Sam for money, and providing physical incentives to pay up, makes sense.” DI Winters was making light work of the wasabi peas on the bar, crunching loudly through the fiery balls. Kayla swore that her mouth was even bigger than last time, her teeth even more crooked. That didn’t make her imperfect smile any less attractive, though. “Did Sam receive any threatening phone calls? Or appear to be on edge?”

  “It’s hard to say, really. Obviously I never heard what the person on the other end of the phone was saying, but there were a few times that pleasantries weren’t exactly exchanged, and Sam seemed unsettled. As for being on edge the rest of the time, he definitely was. But it’s hard to know why.” Kayla polished off half her gin and tonic in one fell swoop. “It’s a little complicated, if I’m honest. This guy Oliver, who we all hated, had followed us to Phuket and wouldn’t leave us alone. So Sam was a little aggravated by that. And since he’d apparently asked to borrow money from his mum, who the
n declined, he’d have been stressed about that, I guess. I’ve tried to call Kathy to ask her more about it, but she hasn’t got back to me.

  “I don’t know,” she went on. “My memory is so fuzzy, like it didn’t actually happen to me. Feels like a lifetime ago, like I can’t distinguish between what I think happened and what actually happened. Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention.”

  “Everyone wishes that,” the detective replied. “If only you’d read the signs, if only you’d done something differently. It’s natural for ­people to obsess over how they’d live the past differently if they could.” She took a gigantic swig of gin to wash down the five kilograms of wasabi peas she’d just inhaled. “This guy Oliver. You’ve never mentioned him before. Tell me about him.”

  “Ugh. Do I have to?” Kayla dreaded the thought. Sadie said nothing, just looked at her expectantly. The stakes were too high not to share the story. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “When we were in Sangk—­Sangkhlaburi—­sorry, I still have no idea how to pronounce it, I’m such a tourist.” She laughed, but her false giggle did little to soften Sadie’s intense stare. Kayla went on then and told the detective about what happened between her and Oliver. No matter how many times she said it aloud—­albeit it only a few—­it never got any easier.

  Sadie choked on her mustardy snack and hastily took a sip of her drink. “He tried to rape you?” Kayla wished she’d keep her voice down. ­People were starting to stare, and it wasn’t something she’d wanted to announce to the whole bar. The stereo system was between songs, and Sadie’s voice rang through the silence, lingering on the word rape. “Did you report it?” Kayla shook her head. She felt like a naughty schoolkid. The music started up again. “Why the bloody hell not?”

  “I don’t know . . . No, I do. It would have been difficult to prove, for one thing. And after everything that had happened with Gabe, all I wanted was to move on and not cause any more stress or heartache for my family. Can you imagine how my parents would feel losing a son to suicide, then a few months later it comes out that their daughter had been assaulted? It would’ve broken my mum. My dad would pummel Oliver to a pulp, then probably go to jail for murder. Even if he didn’t, we’d all be stuck in Thailand until the trial was over, and God knows how long that’d take. At the time, I thought we were only lumbered with Oliver for another week and then he’d be back in Bangkok with the next Escaping Grey group.” Preying on his next victim.

  Kayla realized she was rambling, and was aware that she sounded incredibly selfish. She hadn’t meant to imply that as long as Oliver was no longer her problem, he could do what he liked to who he liked. But that’s the way it sounded. Sadie looked shocked.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Kayla said, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “No, I know you didn’t,” said Sadie, a little too quickly. She gestured for the barman to bring her another gin. “I really think you should report it, Kayla. I know it’s been a while but . . . I shudder to think of him doing the same to countless other girls and getting away with it. Did you say he followed you to Phuket?”

  “Yeah. He lurked near us all the time. In bars, down the street, at the market. He was a bit . . . obsessed by me.”

  “And how did that make you feel?” Sadie asked, before erupting in laugher. “Jesus Christ, I sound like a therapist.” Kayla thought it’d be too awkward to tell her that she really did have a therapist. And actually quite liked her.

  “It’s hard to explain. Trapped, I guess? Suffocated?” She couldn’t bring herself to drop in the small detail of her entirely consensual kiss with Oliver a week after the initial rape attempt. She cared far too much about what DI Winters thought about her. “Observed. I felt constantly observed.”

  Sadie nodded. “Have you heard from him since Sam went missing?”

  Kayla opted for honesty. “Yeah. He texted me about a week after it happened.”

  “What saying?”

  “Basically, that he was really sorry to hear about Sam and that he was a nice guy, blah blah blah. And that if I needed anything, I knew where he was.”

  Sadie’s eyebrow jolted upward in an arch, as if caught in a fish hook. “That’s a little strange, isn’t it? Why on earth would he assume that you’d want to go to him for comfort after what he did to you?”

  “I suppose it is odd.”

  “Well, forgetting the fact that I think you’re utterly bonkers for not reporting the assault—­which I do, but it’s your decision—­let’s look at it in another light. Do you think Oliver was so obsessed that he might have let jealousy over your and Sam’s relationship . . . influence his actions?”

  The idea had crossed Kayla’s mind once before, if only briefly. It didn’t seem compelling enough a hypothesis to run with. Obsession in itself was a powerful force, sure, and it had been enough for Oliver to follow her to Phuket. But enough to commit murder? She didn’t think so. Plenty of ­people experienced obsession in various forms: a band, a teenage crush, a sports team. It was largely harmless.

  The only aspect that caused any doubt, in this case, was the carnal nature of most of Oliver’s actions. At times he seemed almost doglike, unaffected by morality, a slave to his urges. “I genuinely don’t know if he was jealous. Sometimes I think absolutely not. But that’s maybe because I myself can’t imagine a crush driving me to homicide. It’s hard, isn’t it—­as a normal person—­trying to wrap your head around the thought processes that would drive someone to be so . . . evil? Murder. It’s just such an absurd solution. One that no ordinary person would resort to.”

  “I know,” Sadie said. “It’s something I used to struggle with a lot. Couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it. I’ve always been a logical person, so to work with ­people every day that were so far from logical, so far from normal . . . it was difficult. So I went back to uni, a few years ago, and started studying for a master’s degree in criminal psychology. It was fascinating, really amazing.” Sadie’s pupils were dilated, her skin flushed, her hands gesturing animatedly. Her passion was written all across her face. “It meant I would be able to apply so much of what I learned to my work, help me get into the brains of rapists and murderers. It was an uncomfortable place to be, but that’s when I started to really engage with the messed up ­people I deal with on a daily basis. It sounds so weird, I know, but I genuinely love my job.”

  “So what happened?”

  Sadie looked confused. “What happened with what?”

  “You said a lot of that in past tense. It was fascinating. It was an uncomfortable place to be. You started studying for your masters. What happened? Didn’t you finish it?”

  “No,” Sadie admitted. “And I wish I had. Sometimes I dream about going back, but . . . it’s complicated.”

  “Why? Did you drop out, I mean? I’m sorry if that’s too personal . . .”

  Sadie sighed, looking around to see where the barman was in the gin-­and-­tonic-­making process. Not very far along, it seemed. His attention was entirely focused on the bosomy brunette at the other end of the bar. “A few reasons, I guess. Some were circumstantial. Because my work had improved so much, I was offered a promotion. I took it, of course. Who wouldn’t? But the increased workload meant I missed a lot of my classes. I was studying part-­time—­six to eight, two nights a week—­and found myself staying in the office until long after seven. Juggling both got a lot harder. I finished my first year, then got so caught up in work that I just never went back for my second. So I deferred it a few times. I’m supposed to go back this September, but . . . I don’t know. I could pick up exactly where I left off, but it feels like there’s something stopping me. I can’t work out what, though. I just get to the start of the semester, and when I’m prompted to re-­enroll, I just . . . don’t.”

  “Do you think the disturbing things you’ve learned made you subconsciously not want to go back?” Kayla speculated.


  “No, I don’t think that’s it. I wouldn’t throw myself into a job dealing with psychopaths on a daily basis if I’d become squeamish toward crime. The only thing I can think of is that my young cousin—­he was only twenty—­died as I was doing my exams, and it hit me pretty hard.” Sadie chuckled, a little sadly. “Again, you’d have to ask a therapist.”

  “Your cousin died? I’m so sorry.”

  Sadie shook her head dismissively, the words you didn’t know left unspoken. Selfishly, Kayla didn’t want to let it go, though. She remembered the initial reason Sadie had felt so connected to Sam’s case was because she said that she too knew what it was like to lose a young loved one.

  “How did he, or she . . . ?”

  “Drug overdose. Stupid. He was a pretty shitty person, actually, but he was family, you know? The funeral was the worst.”

  Memories of Gabe’s funeral hit Kayla with a pang of sadness. She knew how gut-­wrenching they were. She thought, for a split second, about how death was hard on everyone, no matter what walk of life they were from or what the circumstances were. “I know it’s messed up to wish this . . . but part of me feels like it would be so much easier to have closure on what happened to Sam if there had been a funeral. Maybe that’s why I’m so hell-­bent on discovering what really happened the day he vanished.”

  “And maybe that’s why I’m so hell-­bent on helping you.” Sadie smiled, a glint of determination in her eyes.

  There was a lull in conversation—­something that didn’t often happen when drinking with Sadie Winters. Kayla took a deep breath, trying pluck up the courage to ask her something that had been troubling her for a while. “Why do you think there hasn’t been much on the news about Sam? Usually when this kind of thing happens, especially to a guy from such a tight-­knit community, it’s on the news for months on ends. But not with Sam.”