All she can do is smile and nod, then walk back to her desk. The air feels chillier now, the office space she was initially so enamored with, all hard edges. Fuck it, she is proud of her handiwork, she will wear the jacket. It doesn’t matter what Nicole thinks.
She slips it on and gasps as a shock of cold slaps her back. Then she smells it. The dark, dirty scent of filter coffee, and the roughness of coffee grounds. Someone has poured coffee inside the cream satin lining of her new jacket. The brown stain runs along the inside of the jacket and into the lace cuffs she picked and stitched so meticulously. Freya fights back the tears. It’s only an item of clothing. She has many more. But this one was her favorite. Come on, she wills herself, don’t be unprofessional and cry at work! But this was more than just a jacket, it was a symbol of her old and new lives coming together.
‘Come to think of it, I actually do like that jacket,’ says Nicole, as she walks past with Melanie to have a cigarette. There is a depth of rage in her fake smile that makes Freya’s stomach turn. How does Nicole have friends? And how do they stomach being around such toxicity? Why does nobody stop and help her? A fear tugs at her, threatening to unspool her completely. Her dream job is slowly turning hostile, all because one person is out to get her.
Chapter 24
Freya
Two months before the murder
Freya picks at the lace on her leather jacket, tearing it off strip by strip. Undoing her handiwork feels painful, unnatural. Tearing apart this project is worst of all. She sewed this jacket to fit in with her new life. It was a symbol of hope.
‘What are you doing?’ Kate, as usual, so attuned to the sound of Freya up and working at her sewing machine.
Freya holds up the jacket, a lump in her throat.
‘Oh, Freya, I’m so sorry. You were so proud of that jacket. It feels like you only got it the other day! Is this because of Nicole?’
Kate gingerly picks up the lace and turns it in her hand. ‘Shit. The stain has spread everywhere. It’s ruined beyond repair.’
‘It’s so silly,’ Freya says, trying to be strong. ‘It’s just a jacket and it will look just as good without the lace. I guess it’s because . . .’
She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Her best friend knows. Kate takes the destroyed fabric out her hands and wraps her arms around Freya as she cries and cries.
Chapter 25
Isla
Six days after the murder
‘So let me get this right, you’re investigating a case of a woman who has been murdered, and you’ve had one of your hunches – this time that a woman who has no strong link to the victim has been involved?’
‘You should run a true crime podcast, Mom. Your line of questioning is brutal! But yes, that’s about right.’
Her familiar guffaw resounds over the phone, making the hundreds of miles between them feel inconsequential.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I trust you. I just can’t believe this is your job.’
Isla has been studying the footage of the evening, frame by frame, social media post by social media post. She has printed out a blurry selfie of Freya and Jay Singh grinning maniacally into the camera at the office party, his hand tellingly low on her hip. And another video of Julian Cox cheering on Nicole Whittington as she twirled self-consciously on the center of the dancefloor. Every person that interacted with her that night could be a potential witness.
‘What makes you so sure that Freya has seen something she shouldn’t have?’
It’s the question that has been keeping her up at night. ‘Well, seeing her outside the apartment that day is too much of a coincidence. And then her demeanor during her interview. She seemed too careful, like she was consciously avoiding saying the wrong thing. She knows something, and she is trying desperately not to think about it.’
‘Isla—’
‘Yeah?’
‘I can hear your breathing from here. Are you using your asthma pump at the moment?’
It’s only when she focuses on it that Isla realizes that it feels as if she is breathing through a thin straw. ‘My old one is around here somewhere.’
The feverish heat of her mother’s worry beams through the phone. The woman has superpowers. ‘As soon as I hang up, I want you to go straight to the doctor and get a new prescription, OK? You do not sound well, and I worry about you.’
Stress-induced asthma, where her anxiety grips its fingers around her throat and won’t let go. Every time she reads the name Nicole Whittington in the news, or imagines how scared and lonely she felt that night, or the shock in her eyes when the first thud of her treasured artwork hit her skull, the grasp grows tighter and tighter. Whoever did it just left her lying there. After all these years, this is something that grinds at the back of her mind, that feeling of being discarded as if you are nothing, of being treated like trash.
‘Are you having flashbacks again?’
‘Kinda—’ If you can count waking up in the middle of the night sobbing as a flashback and the constant jumpiness that plagues her. Post-Traumatic Stress has manifested in her life as a constant state of disease in the world. And then there is the remaining guilt that she cannot shake, no matter how irrational it is.
‘Please go talk to someone, and for God’s sake, eat something that doesn’t contain chocolate or coffee! You’ll give yourself an ulcer!’
Isla hides her packet of M&Ms underneath a cushion on the sofa, as if her mother can magically see them. ‘My friend at the station, Simon, keeps telling me this too. He calls it my “battery acid diet”.’
‘He sounds like a wise guy. Maybe you’ll listen to him, even if you willfully choose to ignore your mother.’
She laughs. ‘I love you, Mom.’
As she sits alone, the silence still ringing with her mother’s voice, sadness washes over her. What kind of person would she have been if she had chosen not to go out that night? Would she eat better, exercise more, have a few more friends, or maybe even a boyfriend? Would she have had the energy to fight for a place at a better newspaper, or the strength to host her own TV show and oppose her small-minded classmate, Tiffany?
Although Isla’s wounds have healed, she doesn’t quite feel whole. She walks around tentatively, as if she is missing something critical. A normal conversation becomes an effort, let alone a normal relationship, a normal life.
Isla looks at the time, 10 p.m. Still many hours left to research and avoid sleep. Perhaps if she can get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Nicole’s death, she will feel like she still has some power and agency against the depravity she sees on a daily basis in the news. If only she could write the real story, she would feel more at peace.
Chapter 26
Freya
Two months before the murder
When you move around a lot, you soon learn that it only takes one enemy to make your life a living hell. Just one person, like Nicole.
It’s a Saturday morning and Freya should be sleeping. Instead, she is on her way to a volunteer coding center downtown, alone. Her attempts to drag Virginie along fell on deaf ears – ‘I already waste five days of my life at work, why would I waste another?’ she said. Jay is away for the weekend, visiting his parents in Boston, but has already sent her a cute picture of a kitten, wishing her a happy morning. She is up far too early, mind whirring with anticipation of the day, so she takes an extended walk through the Presidio to catch the pink blush of the sunrise over Golden Gate Bridge. Watching the cyclists and joggers in the glow of the morning makes her feel boundlessly positive. Today, she will spend the morning helping young women learn how to code with some of her colleagues.
This could be the day she finally feels worthy of the luck she has received. Her position at Atypical is a result of a few teachers nurturing her talent, lecturers giving her a chance and her college believing in her enough to sponsor her. Helping women in a similar situation to hers will make the cycle complete. Yet her mind is crowded with thoughts of Nicole. Freya keeps pushin
g herself to try harder, and be friendlier, in the hope that she will somehow earn Nicole’s approval. Nicole is running the workshop today. Maybe if she’s helpful enough, they will finally become civil.
The building is worn but functional. There are twenty computers set up on old wooden school desks. An urn hums at the back. Next to it, there is a tin of cheap instant coffee and some boxes of tea. She smells the peanut butter sandwiches before she sees them.
The desks are already filled with girls in their teens. The room is silent, save for the tapping of keyboards and the voice of the person lecturing up front. Freya smiles. It takes something special to hold the attention of so many young people. She felt that something the moment she sat in front of a computer for the first time: potential, ambition, the realization that she had the power to change her world if she wanted to.
A sigh comes over the mic. Freya rummages for her glasses and puts them on. Shit – she’d got carried away with her early morning walk and ended up late! Not only is she late, but it’s Nicole’s lecture. Not the smartest way to gain her approval.
She mouths an apology and sits in the back row.
‘What you’ve got to realize,’ booms Nicole, ‘is that good coders understand human behavior as much as they do facts and figures. Coding is like weaving an intricate tapestry – on the back it may look complex but on the other side it looks pleasing to the human eye.’
The girls all nod in unison, rapt. She continues. ‘There is no use making something just because it’s cool or you’ve pulled off some impressive technical feat. I’m not interested in that. The Internet is a big place, filled with flashing lights and nonsense, and it’s our job to make things a bit easier, to help it make sense. I want to see ways in which technology can be applied to the grittiest, most challenging parts of life. What if technology could educate those who cannot afford to go to school? Or what if it can be used to deliver clothes, food or medical supplies to people who lack these essentials? We don’t need another clever app.’
The girls clap and beam at Nicole. Freya is a little jealous. She is still petrified of teenagers and it takes a lot of grit to stand up there and speak like that. As always, Nicole’s style is effortless, her edgy office look replaced by perfectly cut jeans, a slim black polo neck and Givenchy ankle boots. The bitch has everything, style, career and confidence. It is impossible to imagine that this is the same person that constantly whispers behind her back.
When Nicole finishes, she walks around the room answering questions and helping some of the girls. The smattering of Atypical colleagues present do the same. But there is something in the way Nicole does it that shines like a beacon. She laughs raucously at their jokes and listens patiently to their concerns. Some hug her or give her a high five before she kneels down next to them. The love everyone feels for her is tangible. Freya pushes the thought out of her mind, but it comes nonetheless. It’s not fair.
Freya weaves through the desks towards her, ignoring the way Nicole’s face shuts down as she moves closer.
‘Hi, I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic . . .’
She rifles through a stack of paper. ‘It’s fine. Here is what we’re working on. If you can just go round the class and check how everyone is going, I would really appreciate it.’ It’s slightly forced and overly polite, but it’s not an insult. A formidable start.
The girls are charming, hard-working and suck up everything she says like sponges. Freya’s cheeks hurt from smiling. This is what her purpose is. She doesn’t care about the new cellphone in her pocket or the boots she bought yesterday. She wants to see the face of someone without hope light up when they realize they are worth something, that they are smart, and that they have something to contribute after all. That is the silent killer of those who don’t grow up with the privilege of money, stability or a happy home. They begin to think their voice is meaningless, that they are not worthy of a seat at the table. Freya knows this.
She looks up from helping a particularly promising young woman with a stutter and catches Nicole staring at her. Freya checks and triple checks to make sure she’s advised her in the right way. Nicole meets her eye, and she spots the hint of a genuine smile.
The rest of the hours speed by, buoyed by a new hopefulness. Freya always makes friends with everyone in the end, even the most stubborn enemies. All they needed was the right moment to bond and turn the situation around! Virginie was right – she didn’t need to get so upset about Nicole.
The kids disperse, one after another, until it’s only Atypical staff left. Nicole is buzzing. There is a swing in her hips, and lightness to her steps. Freya knows the feeling, there is nothing better than a job well done. It keeps her going for days, its own kind of fuel. A new energy enters Nicole’s voice now, as she begins to round everything up.
‘Great work today, everybody! Can you believe these kids? I can’t even get my head around being so talented at that age. Now who’s up for a quick bite to eat? Mel? Dave? Anne?’
Nicole goes around the room, asking each person by name. Freya looks up expectantly, ready to say ‘yes’, but her name is never said. Worst of all, not one of her colleagues calls Nicole out on it.
They walk away, a close-knit group laughing and joking, leaving her standing conspicuously outside. Freya tries not to feel upset, but the feeling infiltrates her whole body. It could have just been a mistake, she has been quite quiet, after all. She could follow them under the assumption that she was invited all along. But, in the distance, Nicole turns and smirks, holding eye contact with her for a few excruciating seconds. This was not a mistake, it was intentional, and it makes her want to scream.
Chapter 27
Freya
Six days after the murder
I need you, the message says. These are words she wanted to hear once, when she was younger, unconfident and alone.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
It doesn’t make sense. It must be a mistake. But if it is a mistake, why won’t it stop?
You’re a naughty girl, Freya. Why won’t you send me that picture you’ve been teasing me about?
It’s the kind of sexy banter she’s had with the odd boyfriend, a thrilling game of tag, but this time, she screams into her pillow. She throws her phone on the floor. On impact, a crack snakes across the black screen.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she whispers, like a woman trapped, like a woman whose every move is being watched.
Chapter 28
Freya
Two months before the murder
Freya paces to the office, the wind howling at her neck. It’s still dark and the streets are quiet. The solitude calms her. She turns the corner and spots Bean There, Done That, the coffee shop a few blocks from the office, and the strangest thing happens. Her stomach twists into an excruciating knot. She cries out, keels over and struggles to catch her breath.
This happened yesterday, and the day before. Always this terrible pain, and always the same spot. Freya thinks she knows why. As soon as she sees the coffee shop, her body realizes where it is going and revolts. The ache is her soul’s way of saying run.
Another day lies ahead of Nicole belittling her, of Nicole questioning every decision she makes. It’s like being hit with a thousand small stones. Each one is insignificant on its own, but fighting off a constant assault is exhausting. And through it all, she has to fake a smile and pretend this doesn’t bother her.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she says as she walks into the office. She needs to act like an adult, and not be seen to be participating in cat fights. The silence of the empty space is intoxicating. She was like this at college too, shifting through libraries before everyone woke. These usually busy places take on a holy quality in the moments before they become animated with people. Or – in this case – before the office is darkened by Nicole’s presence.
She checks her reflection in the window – she can’t wait to show Virginie the sleek, fitted jumpsuit she’s put together from a 1970s pattern she picked
up at a vintage store. Matched with her bright maroon blazer, it’s definitely a striking office look. Will it inspire Nicole’s ridicule? Or will it be something else this time? Trying to prevent an attack is hopeless. Nicole will find a way to single her out. She always does.
Her hand feels for the light switch and the office is illuminated. On days like today she feels ashamed and a little immature. Why does this hurt so much? Why can’t she take the everyday knocks of adult life? There is no doubt that she is smart enough to be here but is there something in the way she carries herself, in the way she acts, that has made her deserve this? That makes her an easy target, a victim?
The emails in her inbox make her feel better. Most begin with ‘wow’, ‘great job’, and ‘I’m impressed’. A smile glows across her face. She knows she’s doing better than anyone expected. Not that she would expect anything less from herself – coding is the language she feels most comfortable with, it’s the complexities of human language she battles to understand.
The elevator doors open and her heart jumps in her chest. What if it’s Nicole, and she is stranded in the office with her, alone? Free from her colleagues’ eyes, would Nicole ever physically hurt Freya? There is something explosive behind her constant, aggressive verbal assault. Maybe she is being mad, irrational, and overly sensitive, but she keeps her house keys nearby, sharp side up, just in case. Her hands are trembling now. She busies herself by typing a note on her cell to buy a can of pepper spray.
But it’s not Nicole, thank goodness. She can tell exactly who is approaching from the sound of his footsteps. Freya turns around, smiling.
‘You walk like the Incredible Hulk, you know that?’
‘Well, well, well – hello there!’ he says. ‘I quite like this habit of bumping into each other so early in the morning.’ His hair is still wet from the shower, the warm musty cologne fresh on his skin. She has begun to picture his early morning routine, the water falling against his chest, him walking to his cupboard in his boxers, the song he hums to himself as the kettle boils. What does his private world look like? Will she ever be privy to it? By the way he lightly touches her hand, she hopes that she will, soon.
The Pact Page 8