Someone was behind her. Emily spun around.
“Hello, dear.”
Harriet Golding was standing in her doorway across the hall. Emily wondered how much of the conversation she’d heard.
“Helen, I need to call you back.”
“Okay, but I’m jumping on the train home in two minutes,” Helen breathed in her ear. “If you can’t get me, try again in thirty minutes.”
Emily hung up. “Hello, Harriet.”
“Everything all right, dear?” the elderly woman asked.
“Yes, fine. Andrew tidied up that mess yet?”
“Oh yes, he’s a good boy, really.” Harriet had a curious, twitchy smile on her lips. “You never told me you had a gentleman friend.”
Finding her keys, Emily selected one and slid it into the lock. She wondered how Harriet had found out about Carter West—not that he was Emily’s gentleman friend. Had Jerome been by again and said something?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harriet,” she said, cheeks flushing.
“Rubbish! I spoke to him just a few minutes ago. Didn’t you see him on your way out?”
Emily froze.
“I just happened to be near my front door, minding my own business, when I heard someone coming out of your apartment,” Harriet said. “Of course, I assumed it was you, and seeing how I haven’t seen you all week, I thought I’d say hello.”
Emily stared at her door, then back at Harriet. The hallway seemed to tip ninety degrees.
“I hope I didn’t sound rude, but I had no idea you had a . . . guest. So, I asked him who he was. He said his name was Colin and he was visiting you from out of town. He was very polite. Said he was just popping to the shops so he could make you dinner tonight. How fancy! My husband never cooked me dinner, not once. And anyway, what must you think of me to keep him a secret! I mean, he may be a little too old for you, but. . .”
The man in the lift.
Emily’s heart thudded. She turned the key. The door was already unlocked.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Harriet said, the excitement draining from her face.
Emily gave the door a gentle push. “I don’t know any Colin.”
Behind her, Harriet began to stutter. “But he. . . I thought. . . He wasn’t. . . Oh dear. . .”
The door came to a rest, bumping gently against the wall. Everything looked in order in the hall: the coat stand in the corner filled with jackets; the pictures on the walls; the imitation chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
Blood rushing in her ears, Emily took a step forward.
“You shouldn’t go in there, dear,” Harriet said, holding on to the doorjamb. “You should call the police.”
Emily cocked her head and listened. She heard the quiet hum of electricity and the faraway buzz of traffic. Somewhere down the hall, water pipes knocked and clunked.
“Was he carrying anything?” she whispered, desperately trying to recall the stranger’s face.
“I don’t remember. Sorry, love. Here, I’ll call the police for you.” But Harriet remained in the doorway, watching Emily move slowly down the hall.
The living room door was ajar. Through the gap, Emily saw shards of broken glass. She turned her head to check the other end of the hall. Then she entered the living room.
The man hadn’t just broken into her home. He’d defaced it. Picture frames were torn from the walls. Cushions were slashed open, their guts spread over the room. Jerome’s belongings were strewn across the floor.
Numbness consumed Emily’s body as she entered the kitchen. Shards of crockery littered the surfaces. Food had been pulled from the refrigerator and dumped on the floor.
A similar scene was waiting inside her bedroom. Clothes lay on the carpet like bodies at the scene of a massacre. Bedsheets were torn. Blood rushing in her ears, Emily realized her laptop was gone, along with Max’s paperwork and appointments diary.
Tim Marsden had seen her leaving Valence Industries, and he’d informed Jonathan Hunt, who’d quickly realized that Meryl Silkwood did not exist, that the interview had been a ruse to get him to admit to exporting TEL. And now Valence had entered her home and obliterated it, taking all the information she’d gathered about Max Edwards.
Emily felt sick and faint. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t feel safe in here.
Snatching up a handful of clothes, she stuffed them into a bag, then ran from the bedroom. Harriet was still hovering in the doorway, her face wrinkled with guilty lines.
“Did he get much?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Emily shut the front door and locked it. She couldn’t stay here. She had to go. But where? Jerome was still not talking to her, and Helen was—
Emily caught her breath. “Helen. . .”
“Why don’t you come in and I’ll make the tea while you call the police?” Harriet said with mounting concern. “Andrew’s inside. He’ll know what to do.”
Emily wasn’t listening. She pulled out her phone and dialled Helen’s number. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it!” She turned to Harriet. “I have to go. If anyone comes back, do not approach them.”
“But, what about—”
“I mean it, Harriet. Stay inside with Andrew. Lock the door. I’ll call you later.”
Harriet stared at her with troubled eyes. Her mouth began to twitch. “But where are you going?”
Emily turned and hurried to the lift. Once she was inside and travelling downward, she made another call. A deep and melodic voice answered.
“Emily? I. . . How are you doing?”
“Daniel, I need your help.”
“I’m not sure he’ll want to—”
“This isn’t about me and Jerome. I need Helen’s address. Now, Daniel. Please!”
The lift reached the foyer. Emily raced out into the street. Long shadows stalked the pavements, devouring the last of the daylight. There were still plenty of people around. Emily weaved her way between them, glancing over her shoulder as she raced to the train station. Daniel’s text message came through with Helen’s address. Emily tried Helen’s number again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BY THE TIME Emily staggered out of Mile End station, darkness had already settled over the city. Although most of the journey had been over ground, the last stretch had taken her deep beneath the streets. Claustrophobic panic had sucked the breath from her lungs, leaving her paralyzed and stricken. Now, as she crossed the busy street and took a right onto Grove Road, she struggled to regain her balance. You’re all right, she told herself. You can breathe again. Relax.
Traffic was quieter here. People milled along the pavements. Emily passed a strip of takeaways and ducked beneath a railway bridge, moving further away from the noise.
The map application on Emily’s phone instructed her to take a right. She did so, passing a pub on the corner, where drinkers sat outside in the warm air, smoking cigarettes and talking about their days—normal days, where normal things had happened and no one had broken into their homes.
This road was darker. Pools of orange streetlight glowed like beacons in the shadows. Glancing behind, Emily tried to remember the last time she’d had a normal day. She came to a startling conclusion
that perhaps, for her, this was a normal day. One look back over the events of the past year could easily confirm it.
The road merged onto a long tree-lined street of Georgian terraced houses. Helen’s house was on the other side, pitched in darkness. The front door was open a few centimetres; not enough to notice if you were passing by, but enough to get Emily’s pulse racing even harder.
“Helen?” She pushed the door open. The streetlight did little to illuminate the darkness. “Are you in there?”
Emily was rooted to the doorstep, too afraid to enter. She hadn’t called the police yet. She should have done so the moment she’d entered her ransacked apartment. Taking out her phone, her finger hovered over the keypad.
She hesi
tated. What if Helen was up there right now? What if she was hurt, maybe even unconscious on the living room floor? What if not going up there right now decided whether she lived or died? Helen had already escaped death once at Meadow Pines, and it had been a narrow escape. Would she be lucky enough again?
“Damn it.” Emily stepped forward.
Just in front of her, the darkness moved.
A shadow hurtled forward like a blast of wind, slamming into her body with enough force to lift her off the ground. Arms flailing, Emily flew back and hit the path hard. Dazed, she rolled onto her knees, just in time to see her assailant dash into the street.
As Emily staggered to her feet, a car engine roared to life. Headlights dazzled her. Tires screeched. The car sped away.
Her breaths coming hard and heavy, Emily touched the back of her head. Spots of blood came away on her fingers. Wincing, she turned back to the house. Now she had no choice but to go up there.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Emily spun around. Arms laden with shopping bags, Helen stood behind her, staring in confusion. Her gaze moved past Emily, to the open door.
“And why the hell are you breaking into my house?”
The world spun a little. Emily’s head throbbed.
“They know about us,” she said. “We need to go somewhere safe.”
Helen stared at her in long, disconcerting silence, made even more terrible by the fact she always had something to say.
At long last, she spoke. “Where do we go?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE ANTISEPTIC FELT like acid against her scalp. Emily winced with each dab of the cotton swab and gripped the edge of the bathtub until her fingers hurt, too. The good news was that the wound was superficial. The initial nausea had passed and she didn’t seem to be showing any obvious signs of a concussion. What she did have was a dull, throbbing headache.
Done with cleaning the wound, Jerome handed Emily a foil strip of painkillers.
“Here, take two of these,” he mumbled.
They were the first words he’d spoken to her since she and Helen had shown up at Daniel’s house forty minutes ago.
Emily hadn’t wanted to come here, but it had also been the only place she’d wanted to be. Now here they were—Helen and Daniel drinking beers in the living room, while Jerome tended to Emily’s headwound.
“Thank you.” She swallowed the pills with a glass of water.
Avoiding her gaze, Jerome nodded, disposed of the cotton swab, and replaced the antiseptic in the medicine cabinet. He hovered by the door, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Emily, and yet clearly not wanting to leave her alone.
She stole a glance at him and winced, this time not because of the head wound.
“Jerome, I. . .” She wanted to say more. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and embrace him. Instead, she remained seated, staring at the floor tiles.
Silence filled the bathroom. Then in a quiet voice, Jerome said, “I’m sorry.”
Emily looked up. “I’m sorry, too.”
Words flooded from Jerome’s mouth. “I was horrible. All those terrible things I said. . . I never meant any of it. And I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I’ve been so ashamed. You’re right—I should have asked about Helen first. But I was only trying to help. And I hate that we’re not talking. I hate that I let pride get in the way of our friendship.”
Their eyes briefly met, then went opposite directions. Jerome sidled over to the bathtub and sat down.
“It’s more than that, though,” Emily said at last. “You’ve been off with me ever since you told me you were moving out. Before that, even. I know you’re busy with Daniel, but. . . I don’t know, I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me. Have I done something wrong?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Jerome turned to face her. His mouth opened and closed, then he shook his head and looked away.
“Next week, you’ll be gone,” Emily said. “Off to the other side of the river. And then that will be it. We’ll see each other less and less. You’ll be busy with work, with auditions, with Daniel. I don’t want it to end this way, not with you hating me.”
Irritation flashed in Jerome’s eyes. “You think our friendship is going to end? You really believe you mean so little to me?”
“No. I. . .” She couldn’t look at him. “I. . . I’m scared of being alone. You and Harriet, you’re the only friends I have.”
She hated how she sounded. So pathetic and needy. Like a child in the playground with no friends to play with. Hadn’t she proven to herself this year how strong she could be? How independent. But everyone she’d ever cared about had left her—her mother; Lewis; the people she’d thought were her friends until Phillip Gerard died. And now Jerome was moving to the other side of the city.
Maybe she was destined to live a life of solitude. But despite enjoying her own company, it didn’t mean she wanted to spend the rest of her days alone.
“You have other friends,” Jerome said. “What about Imogen? And don’t forget Carter West.”
“Work colleagues aren’t the same as friends.”
“Well, maybe you need to make them more than colleagues. London is a big city, Em. It’s not easy to meet people when you’re new here. You have to make the effort.” His hand slid along the edge of the bathtub, moving closer to Emily’s. “Besides, you’re still missing the point. I may be moving to the other side of the river, but I’m not going anywhere. We may see each other less—that’s just life—but we will still see each other. And you will meet new people. New friends. And none of them will be as great as me. But you won’t be alone. Because that part of your life is over. You just need to let it be over.”
They were quiet again. Emily wiped her eyes.
“Thanks for mansplaining,” she said.
Jerome moved closer. “You’re welcome.”
Emily reached out a hand and Jerome gently squeezed it. Waves of relief rolled through Emily’s body. She knew their friendship would not come out of this entirely unscathed, but she took comfort in knowing that time and forgiveness would repair much of the damage. For the first time that evening, she looked at Jerome without feeling completely wretched. Jerome’s expression did not share her relief.
“What is it?” she said. “I’m worried about you.”
He drew in a long breath, then let it out in a sad billow. “You’re right. The reason you haven’t seen so much of me lately isn’t just because of Daniel.”
“Oh?” Emily froze, unsure where the conversation was heading.
“I’m not doing so good, Em. I’m not sleeping. I can’t eat. I lied to you the other day. My audition didn’t go well. In fact, it sucked. I knew those lines inside and out, but I froze. Nothing would come out. I just kept staring at them and they kept staring at me. It was humiliating.”
“What is it? What’s going on with you?”
Jerome let out another shuddering breath. “It’s Meadow Pines. I thought I was okay about everything. I thought I’d put all the blood and the bodies behind me. But I’m not like you, Em. I don’t have the stomach for it. Every time I close my eyes, that’s all I see. Blood and bodies. And you—you almost died.”
“But I didn’t because you saved me.” Emily gripped his hand tighter. “Why haven’t you said anything? You’re always telling me not to bottle things up. Have you told Daniel how you’re feeling?”
“Daniel would think I was crazy.”
“He was there too, Jerome.”
“But he didn’t see the things I saw.”
“Then talk to me.” Something Jerome had said a moment ago registered in her mind. “Are you saying part of the reason I haven’t seen you lately is because I remind you of Meadow Pines?”
Jerome looked away. “I don’t understand how you do it. How you can deal with murderers and psychopaths, or risk your life trying to save people you don’t even know. I don’t understan
d how you can survive all that and then still come back for more.” He turned to face her. “I’ve been avoiding you because I felt our friendship was dangerous. Because I felt you were dangerous to be around.”
Emily was stunned. And then she wasn’t because it made perfect sense. Ever since Jerome had known her, he’d been embroiled in all kinds of life-threatening atrocities. Their friendship had been borne from danger and nurtured by trauma. Was it really so shocking they would suffer because of it? That Jerome would suffer?
“I don’t know why I do the things I do,” Emily said, dropping her gaze. “Perhaps it’s atonement for what happened with Phillip. Perhaps it’s because I just can’t help myself. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I like it. But it does affect me, Jerome. The only difference between you and me is that I have medication and therapy to help cushion it all.”
“That’s not the only difference,” said Jerome. “You want to help all those people.”
“Don’t you?”
He was quiet for a long time, his eyes shifting back and forth.
“When those doctors and their men had me cornered at Ever After, it was you who took the photos to the police,” Emily said. “If you hadn’t done that I’d be dead, along with all those other patients you helped save. At Meadow Pines, you could have gone with Daniel to get help, but you chose to stay. And you risked your own life to save mine. To save Helen’s. Don’t you see, Jerome? You may not think you want to help, that I’m dangerous to be around—and maybe I am—but the point is, you keep coming back for more. And if it’s not to help, then why is it?”
For a long time, Jerome stared at the wall. A tear slipped from his right eye and splashed on the tiles.
“Every day, I feel scared,” he said. “Scared that I’ll never make it as an actor, that I’ll still be waiting tables when I’m seventy. Scared to hold Daniel’s hand in the street because some shining example of society deems it acceptable to scream abuse at us, or worse. Scared that you’re going to get yourself killed. Scared to go to bloody sleep. Where does it end?”
Emily moved up beside him and threw her arm around his shoulders. “I have no idea. But if you find out, feel free to share. In the meantime, I suggest we use our friends as emotional crutches, and attempt to muddle on through.”
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