‘You want to talk about the case?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. There’s this new band playing at Alamo Square and I’ve read amazing things about them. My . . . uh . . . friend Lizzie suddenly can’t make it, so I have an extra ticket.’ She flushes at the white lie, but knows Lizzie would support it.
There is muffled conversation on the other end of the phone, and the sound of Simon furiously clicking his pen. ‘That sounds really nice. I’ve almost finished my shift. I can come straight from the station, and pick you up on the way?’
‘Perfect, but I’m not, like, asking you out or anything!’ she blurts out. ‘I just don’t want to waste the ticket.’
Ugh, why did she say that! It makes it even more embarrassing.
*
The golden light catches the pastel Painted Ladies on Steiner Street, Isla’s favorite homes in all of San Francisco. The band grinds through its sound check. She and Simon settle on her Indian block-printed picnic blanket, another impulse buy from Anthropologie that she hasn’t yet had a chance to use. She thought it would feel awkward sitting with him in a setting so far-removed from work, but it feels like a continuation of their usual easy relationship.
‘Thanks for this, Isla,’ says Simon, passing her a bottle of cider. ‘I’ve been so tied up with Nicole’s case, it feels good to get out.’
‘Tell me about it. Any new leads?’
‘None that I can talk about yet,’ he says quickly. ‘But, let’s not talk shop tonight. Why would we want to with a sunset like this?’
‘Oh look, the band’s about to start playing.’
A trio of dewy-faced men with mussed-up hair and neon yellow bomber jackets strum distractedly at their guitars. The lead singer grabs the mic, and begins to croon in high-pitched falsetto.
Simon coughs. ‘So, where did you hear about these guys again?’
‘I read about them on Pitchfork.com. They were listed as one of the acts to watch in 2018.’
‘They’re awful!’ he laughs.
‘I know, right? Appalling!’ Isla snorts. ‘How can this whole crowd pretend to like it? We’re getting too old for this, Simon.’
But even though the music is terrible, the fading light is perfect and the cider is warming. They stray into one of those meandering conversations where the content fades, but the feeling lingers. If it wasn’t starting to get late, and if a chill wasn’t creeping into the air, Isla could spend many more hours talking to him. Simon looks over at her mid-laugh, and though they are just friends, and though she sometimes feels damaged beyond repair, tonight feels just right. For a moment, everything is wonderful.
Chapter 70
Freya
Four years before
‘Run, Freya, run!’ Kate screams, wild and breathless.
Her legs are shaking, her feet clumsily pushing in front of the other. She has an awful feeling she can’t go on for much longer.
‘Faster! For fuck’s sake!’
They should have never taken the shortcut through the park. But it was late and they were exhausted after five hours of teetering on spiked high heels, serving cocktails and smiling for tips. It was a tough gig, one that Freya did for the money and Kate endured to prove to her rich father that she could make an honest living. The arches of Freya’s feet had gone into spasm, and her legs were numb from the rapid succession of tequilas she and Kate had thrown back at the end of their shift. Every mile was agony, so they took a risk. Freya had her key in her hand, sharp side facing out. They felt prepared for anything.
The park was well lit but eerie. They walked fast, quietly exchanging stories about the evening, self-consciously pulling down their short skirts. Freya despised the dirty pick-up lines and seedy glances, but the tips were better than a week of waitressing. They had both made over $100 that evening, and Freya was already imagining the sewing paraphernalia she was going to spend the money on.
Outside the blue glow of the club, Freya was too aware of her bare thighs prickling in the cold air. Just a few more blocks and they would be safe and sound, wrapped up in blankets and eating grilled cheese sandwiches.
The men came out of nowhere. Freya felt their cold hands on her, before registering their balaclava-clad faces. Pushing, pulling, tugging her to the ground. Her whole body froze as hands groped under the hem of her skirt.
An animal-like scream in the distance, which only after a few seconds Freya realized was her own. ‘Help! Somebody help!’
She bucked and twisted as she wrestled one hand free and pulled out her wallet. ‘Here! Take this! And my watch, please, just let me go.’ A fair trade, a few material possessions for her dignity, her life. Miraculously, it worked.
‘Freya, no!’ Kate cried, a fierce rage on her face. They both knew it was the only money she had.
The attacker’s grip loosened as he moved to grab the wallet where she’d tossed it to the side and she used his momentum to push him off her and broke free.
‘Fuck this shit. Freya, run, now!’ Kate screamed, the other attacker still holding her pinned from behind, as she kicked at him with her heel.
‘What?’
‘RUN! And don’t look back.’
Shock, fear, and something primal made her turn and run. Kate was always the stronger one, the leader. She had to have a plan.
Shouts echoed through the trees. What the fuck are they doing to her? She remembered her phone in her pocket and dialed 911 with a shaking finger.
‘Excuse me, hi, we have an emergency. We were attacked in the park, my friend is still there . . . yes, sorry, I will slow down . . .’
As she spoke, the shouting ceased. The park fell silent. She heard the staggered sound of the men fumbling out the park, the one giving a final shout, ‘You crazy fucking bitch!’
Then, footsteps behind her.
‘Hang up the phone!’ Kate said, breathing heavily. There was mud all over her face and her skirt was torn.
‘But?’
‘It’s fine, I took care of it.’ The words sounded so casual, even though there were tears streaming down her face.
‘Kate –’ she suddenly felt very ill – ‘what did you do?’
She glanced down at Kate’s hands then, white-cold fingers gripping her shoes. Those treacherous cheap patent black stilettos that looked more like torture devices. The heel of one was covered in blood.
‘I fought back.’
Chapter 71
Freya
The night of the murder
The street before her winds and tumbles. Freya laughs hysterically as she trips up the stairs and struggles with the keys into her apartment. How much champagne did she have to drink, one bottle, two? The tartness of scallion lingers on her tongue from the tray of cold snacks on the boardroom table. She felt hungrier than she had in a long time and had polished off a plate to herself.
She barely makes it to the bathroom before she is sick. Scenes flash behind her eyes. Jay grabbing her waist and pulling her to him, a dance-off, her strangled karaoke rendition of Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’. She thought she could handle her alcohol, but she was wrong.
She thrashes under the covers, exhausted but unable to go to sleep. The light of the occasional car driving by dances on the ceiling. She hurls herself towards her phone, sends Jay a dirty message saying all the things she wants to do to him. It’s not her, she’s playing a role, but maybe it’s a woman she wants to be one day, a woman she is becoming. Something about tonight – the thrill of the deadline, the wanting in Jay’s eyes – makes her feel bold, powerful.
She gets up and goes to the kitchen. Maybe a glass of water will help the mania crawling under her skin.
Kate appears by her side, rubbing her eyes. ‘Christ, you sure know how to make a racket when you’re tipsy.’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit wound up.’
The positive mood that overcame her has been replaced by a dark, uneasy sense that she went too far tonight, and revealed too much of herself. The reality of Nicole’s hatred f
or her feels unbearable and immovable. She has a hopeless sense that no matter how much time and training Julian invests in her, she will never go far in the company with Nicole constantly tripping her up.
She tells Kate about Nicole’s antics, the computer screen, the advert, the sick, provocative words. It felt so logical at the time, the only solution to get her revenge. It has been an excruciatingly hard few months. Her breakdown, inevitable.
Kate nods, quietly. ‘I understand why you did it. Nicole deserves payback.’
Suddenly, Freya can’t quite breathe. ‘But if someone shows up at her house, and Nicole finds out I was involved, my future at Atypical is over! Even if I’m not fired, she will make my life a living hell.’
They stand in silence, listening to Freya loudly gulp the last of her water. Kate looks deep in thought. Out of the two of them, she is always the calmest.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she says, grabbing Freya’s cellphone. ‘I have an idea.’
Chapter 72
Freya
Twenty days after the murder
Pregnant. The word has looped in her mind the past few days, the secret scorching her tongue. No word could be more definitive. The everyday early evening sounds play out in the next room. Hattie is swearing because she put too much smoked paprika in the chili con carne and she can hear Kate blustering through the door. The smell wafting through the room makes her sick with hunger. It’s the type of scene that Freya assumed would play out, undisturbed, for many years to come.
Her hands are shaky, her thoughts unhinged as they churn over the information. She had a plan for her life, a sequence of events that she had followed diligently up until this point. Study, do well, get a great job. She worked hard and wanted to reap the benefits. She has always believed that the world opens up to the hard workers, not necessarily the ones blessed with talent. Sure, she wanted love, in whatever form that took, but she imagined settling down in her mid-thirties. She dreamed of being a company director by then, with the money and reputation to take time off. She had always tried to do everything in her power not to repeat her mother’s past.
Pregnant, with the child of a cheat, and a man who has been accused of murder, and who has subsequently been released. Pregnant, while someone out there knows where she lives, and has begun to follow her. Is the man who tried to push her into her own house and attack her, the same one who has her new number? And how exactly did he get it? There are only two people who she knows that are smart enough to install a tracking device on a cellphone, Jay or Julian. Jay keeps on begging her for a meeting, so it can’t be him, so could it be Julian? Lately she has noticed a darker side to him, one that makes her nervous.
She terrorizes herself by reading research studies on the cost of motherhood on a woman’s career. Her mind runs the sums. As good as her current salary is, she wouldn’t be able to pay for daycare, rent and support a child on her own.
The feeling of arriving before your time never goes away. You never quite feel welcome. You never exhale and settle into your skin. There is an urgency pushing you forward, a desperation to prove yourself worthy of your place. All she has ever wanted is to feel truly accepted. That was Freya’s burden to bear. While she has always wanted a child, she hoped she would have figured out more of her own life before that child came.
Her phone flashes. It’s another message from an unknown number.
I’m standing on the sidewalk looking at your apartment. There are condoms in my pocket – and a knife.
‘Fuck. Off!’ she screams, throwing the phone across her bedroom. She buries her head in her pillow, screaming continuously, the screams catching in her throat, becoming sobs.
All three of her friends burst into the room. Jasmin grips her fighting body, with arms that are much stronger than they let on.
‘Freya honey, what’s wrong? Talk to us, please!’
How did she get here? Will her testimony help convict the man she loved and future father of her child? Does she keep this baby and risk a life of never quite giving it enough, or does she make it all go away?
She first shows her friends the message. ‘It’s another message. The guy is outside right now. I think it’s the same one from yesterday.’
Kate pulls out her phone. ‘We’re calling the police, right now.’ She shouts out the window. ‘You hear that! I’m calling the fucking cops!’
Freya looks at the worried faces of her friends. ‘Someone out there knows what I did.’
Hattie, ever the practical one, asks, ‘Could someone have read Nicole’s advert online and copied it?’
‘But how would they have guessed that Jay and I were behind it? And the other day, when the cop went online he couldn’t find the thing. I didn’t delete it, and I don’t think Jay did either. He wasn’t nearly as worried as I was.’
Freya starts crying again.
‘Her death wasn’t your fault,’ says Jasmin, gently.
‘How do you know that?’
She gives her a hug. ‘Because I know you’re a good soul, Freya. You’ve just got tangled in a really awful, complicated situation.’
Hattie says calmly, ‘Do you want us to come with you when you submit these messages to the police tonight? You have enough evidence to show that this advert is a risk to your safety.’
Freya runs her hands over her belly, still flat, still innocent. Dries her eyes.
‘There’s something else . . .’ The friends look down in the direction of her hands.
Hattie’s eyes widen. ‘No!’
Jasmin holds her hand, ‘Oh, Freya . . . is it Jay’s?’
‘Of course it’s Jay’s!’
Smoke wafts around them. The chilli is burning. Nobody stands up to turn it off, nobody moves.
‘Fuck. Fuck!’ Kate says, her voice now cold.
Freya sighs. ‘The last thing I need is you saying I told you so.’
‘We’ll fix it, OK? I’ll take time off work and we can go to the clinic together.’
Freya can’t imagine waking up, getting dressed and filling in a form at an abortion clinic. There is still time, she assures herself, she doesn’t need to make a decision just yet.
Her friends trickle out of the room and she lies on the bed with her new, exhausted body. A mother. A target.
Her phone flashes again. Who is it now? But it’s only that journalist Isla, asking her for coffee again.
Freya manages a smile, despite herself. This is just what she needs. A new friend, an ally, someone more qualified to get to the bottom of this constant assault of attention. Maybe if they work together, one aspect of her life will start to make sense.
*
A cold panic grips Freya as she enters the station.
‘Hi there, Freya, isn’t it?’
She recognizes the burly cop’s face instantly. ‘Detective Cohen? We spoke the last time I came in?’
He reads between the lines. ‘It feels like I’m always here,’ he laughs. ‘How can I help you this evening?’
His assured presence calms her. She shouldn’t have worried.
‘I’m going to start at the beginning,’ she says.
Freya hands over her phone, and flips through the screenshots of each message.
He looks at her, confused.
‘You don’t know any of these guys?’
Freya shakes her head. She watches his face for a reaction.
‘Bastards,’ he mumbles under his breath, ‘they don’t understand the word no. Can you email all of these to me so I can print them and get them on file? We’ll open a new statement.’
Freya then pulls up the new crop of messages. ‘These latest messages have become threatening. The number is hidden, but I think it’s the same person. There’s a man, too, who keeps appearing outside my house.’
‘That’s harassment, pure and simple. Can you describe him to me?’
‘Tall, mousey-brown hair, caucasian and quite thin. The last time, he arrived and left on a bike.’
‘And the nature of
his threats?’
‘Physical. Sexual. Like the men in the messages before, he seems to think I asked for it.’
‘I’m going to organize an officer to patrol the area around your apartment until we get to the bottom of this.’
I’m outside your door, when are you going to let me in?
I can see you through the window. Great ass you got, even better than the pictures.
I see you left your window open for me. I’m going to climb inside while you are sleeping.
Her hands travel to her belly.
‘Please, I have no idea what he is going to do next.’
Chapter 73
Isla
Twenty days after the murder
If Isla has one thing going for her, it’s persistence. From the time she was a little girl, her mother used to grip her shoulders and say, ‘Us Davis women are not quitters.’ It helped her conquer her Attention Deficit Disorder enough to excel in English at school, and, when things got really dark after the incident, it kept her going to the end of her journalism degree. Sometimes, when nothing seems to be working, you just need to push a little harder.
Isla searches Julian’s name online again. Seven pages in, and still nothing. Ten pages, twelve. Amid the chorus of praise, she finds one odd note, buried deep. She would have missed it if she hadn’t obsessively visited every single page that featured Julian’s name. It appears on a poorly designed personal blog with a stock-standard header and type that reads a bit too big. The site is called, ‘My Startup Life’. The article, is titled, ‘Why I am filing a sexual harassment charge against Atypical, and Julian Cox.’
The article begins with a paragraph that makes Isla shiver: ‘I have no vested interest in reporting a sexual harassment incident. If anything, this could ruin my promising career. But I have made peace with the consequences. My peace of mind is far more important.’
The story is emotional and jumps around. Isla can feel the heat rising from the words. They are taut, muscular, sweat-stained, ready to fight. This was a woman who had decided to stand her ground. In between the ranting phrases, a story starts to take shape. The young woman, Jess, started out at Atypical as an intern. Atypical was the ideal company, and Julian was the dream boss. He was a bit physical sometimes, a bit of a hugger, but there was nothing she could put her finger on at first. After a few months of working there, Julian invited her into his office at the end of a long day to discuss career opportunities. He offered to give her a massage, which she turned down. He said he had trained in tantric massage, and she refused again. Finally, he suggested that, if they were to have sex that night, her career would benefit in return. When she said no, he harassed her over text message repeatedly, and with slurring phone calls in the middle of the night.
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