“Something really bad happened last night at the sleepover, Katie. Are you sure Jason doesn’t know more than he’s telling the police?” I wish she wouldn’t keep turning away. I want her to look me in the eye; I’m convinced then I’ll be able to tell if she’s genuinely blind to her son’s faults or lying to cover them up. But she keeps her back resolutely turned on me.
“I said this to them, and I’ll say it to you. Nick was there when Jason went to sleep, and gone by the time he woke up. That’s it.” She pours herself more wine, red this time.
“That’s it? But didn’t Jason tell you—” I break off as Katie finally turns around. Even though it’s after ten, she’s still dressed in her work clothes. Her fitted taupe suit is as elegant as ever, but not even the over-heavy makeup smothering her fair, lightly freckled skin can conceal its sallowness, or the purple shadows under her eyes.
“What?” she snaps, pulling out a high-backed cream leather chair and slumping down at the kitchen table. Red wine sloshes onto the glossy white floor tiles.
“Nothing. You just look a bit . . . tired, that’s all.” I know Katie would hate me to notice that she isn’t looking her best, and despite our falling-out, I’m upset to see it. A guilty conscience can be very draining, I reflect acidly, reminding myself that while Katie is worried about Jason, she hasn’t shown the slightest concern about Nick.
“Gee, thanks.” She waves her glass; a trickle of wine spills over the rim, staining the cuff peeping out from the sleeve of her jacket. A silver charm bracelet jangles on her wrist.
It looks exactly like the one Craig gave me for our third and last wedding anniversary, I notice. Katie always admired it, as she admired Craig. So much so that when push came to shove, she happily switched her loyalty to him. Coming here was a mistake, I realize.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” I say quietly. “Maybe Jason could call me when he wakes up?”
“He’s got to work in the morning.”
“Work? I mean, he’s fourteen. What kind of work?”
“Oh, just a casual, part-time thing. He helps out at a friend’s boatyard down at Eel Pie Island. Nathan thought it would be good for him. Toughen him up. You know.”
“Right. Well, I’ve got to do a press conference in the morning, anyway. The police think a media appeal could help find Nick,” I say deliberately, hoping to prick her conscience. “Maybe I could grab Jason after that.”
“Maybe. Look, I know Jason feels awful about Nick. He’d never hurt him.”
“I never said he did.” I raise my eyebrows at her, suspecting that might be a revealing slip on her part. “But maybe Nick thought he might?”
“Nonsense. Jase has really looked out for Nick since he started secondary school. Who do you think got him into the book group thingy?”
“Adrian,” I say, even as my heart sinks at the news that Nick needed watching over.
“I don’t think so. Adrian’s sweet and everything. But he’s very young for his age. Jase has actually got quite a paternal streak. He always looks out for younger kids.”
I stare crossly at her; I can’t think of anyone less paternal than Jason. “Is that why he gate-crashed a sleepover with three twelve-year-olds?”
“He didn’t. I asked him to go. Nathan and I . . . needed to talk.” Katie flicks a glance at the kitchen door then gives me a wry look. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s not here. I know how you feel about him. Lucky for you, he flew back out to the Gulf late last night.”
“Are you sure about that?” It suddenly strikes me that her jittery manner might have less to do with guilt about Nick and more about Craig—and a relationship between them that her husband is beginning to suspect. I eye the charm bracelet again, wondering if I’ve hit on the explanation for its similarity to mine: because Craig bought Katie the exact same one. And maybe Nathan knows it.
“Of course I’m sure. He left about midnight. I went in to work as usual this morning. Then the police phoned and I came home. I’ve spent all afternoon answering their questions. Jase, too. He really is devastated about Nick, you know.” Her voice softens, her touch gentle as she leans toward me and takes hold of my hand. “For what it’s worth, Iz, so am I.”
I feel a rush of tears. Once, Katie and I were as close as sisters. Then she sided with Craig, and I couldn’t forgive her for it. I always knew she had a soft spot for my husband. I honestly never felt threatened by her: she was my best friend. And, until the day he left, I had absolute faith in Craig. In hindsight, I wonder if I was blinded both by the optimism of a new marriage and by the complacency of an old friendship. At the very least, I should have guessed Katie would take Craig’s side over mine. After all, she did more or less pick him for me . . .
* * *
“Him. He’s the one.”
“Mr. Suited and Booted? I don’t think so. He writes beautifully, though. I’ll give him that.” I studied the letter clipped to the photo of a handsome thirtysomething man with dark hair and intense gray eyes. “See, that’s the point about dating ads in actual newspapers. I get to analyze their handwriting. How much can you tell about a person from text speak?”
“Sure. Because serial killers all have bad grammar. Come on, Iz. Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. Everyone meets online these days. You’ve been off the market too long.”
“Huh. I know you’re a real estate agent, Katie, but I’m not one of your property listings.” I stood up and reached for a takeaway menu on the kitchen bulletin board. We’d spent the whole evening sifting through responses to my ad, and I was tired, hungry, and beginning to regret placing it in the first place. The prospect of dating again after being single for eight years terrified me; Katie seemed more excited by the idea than I was.
“Sorry. I just want you to be happy, hon. You and Nick.”
“You’re not getting any commission out of this, you know,” I teased her.
“Shame. I’d do a much better sales job on you.”
“Charming.”
She grabbed the local paper and prodded my ad. “See, this doesn’t exactly shout hot property. More slightly run-down semi with good potential but in need of some updating.”
“Cheers! I take it you won’t be wanting me to get you a discount on your next holiday. Anyway, semidetached? What the heck?”
“Alex,” she said bluntly. “You’ve never got over him.”
“He was Nick’s father. What do you expect?” I turned away to study the pizza menu—Nick’s favorite. The reminder that I was doing this partly for him weighed heavily on me. I was tired of sitting through school parents’ evenings alone, being fobbed off by teachers who sympathized a lot but seemed to do little. Maybe Katie was right; maybe having a man around would be good for both Nick and me.
“Well, I say this guy has perfect stepdad written all over him. Look at that chiseled jaw. Those piercing eyes.”
“All the better to find fault with me. Sun-dried tomato and olives, or shall we blow the diet and go for a cheese feast?” I deliberately waggled the menu.
“Rubbish. There’s something a bit Cary Grant about him, don’t you think?” She sighed. “Whereas Nathan seems to be morphing into Bruce fucking Willis.”
“He works in banking, Katie. I was hoping for a little more . . . Oh, I don’t know. Passion? ‘Craig Brookes, city underwriter,’” I read out loud. “Could he sound more dull?”
“He might have hidden depths. You know what they say. Still waters run deep. Besides, dull—I mean serious, responsible—might be just what you need right now. Nick, too. You’ve had to cope with so much. Do you good to have someone to share the load. And think of the dinner parties we can have,” she added, grinning to lighten the mood. “He can keep Nathan in check.”
“Poor guy.” I gave up resisting and sat down at the kitchen table again, taking the photo from her. “You’ve got him washing the car and carving the Sunday roast before I’ve even met him.”
“But you’re going to, right?” Katie topped up my wineglass, chinking her o
wn against it. “Here’s to meeting the man of my dreams. I mean yours,” she said with a laugh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For three years, that’s exactly what Craig was, I reflect: an affectionate partner for me and a rock for Nick. Where I ranted and raged about the seemingly never-ending bullying, Craig calmly removed Nick from situations where it might occur—and made it clear to the head teacher that he’d “take immediate action” if they didn’t address it. He never needed to raise his voice; he just had this quiet way of enforcing his position by making others doubt their own.
And he made me feel safe; I felt confident Nick was safe. It seemed like we finally had the perfect family . . . until a year ago when, in the space of one nightmarish day, Craig bafflingly turned from mild-mannered husband to a critical stranger who accused me of being a bad mum. I know he tried to apologize, and to explain, this afternoon, but it feels like too little, too late. The damage has been done; it can’t be undone.
I wonder if the same applies to my friendship with Katie; I wonder if there is a correlation I’ve never recognized between Craig leaving and Katie turning her back on me—if Nick running away that morning gave them both an excuse to shun me and be together. Only things haven’t panned out as they hoped: Nathan refuses to let Katie go, and I won’t let Craig share custody of Nick. Especially if he only requested it with a view to making another perfect family: with Katie and Jason. A second son to replace the one she lost . . .
If I wasn’t so frantic with worry about Nick, I would challenge them both about it. As it is, all I feel when I think about them having an affair is that they’re welcome to each other. But they will never get their hands on my son. If I ever get him back.
“Do you ever wish you could turn back time?” I ask Katie softly, sitting next to her at the kitchen table, as I have so many hundreds of times before. “Do things differently. Ask different questions.”
“Sorry?” She turns toward me but doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“We think we know someone, but actually we only know what they tell us. And when they tell us nothing, we fill in the blanks for ourselves. With whatever we want to believe. About our husbands. Friends. Our children. And then something really bad happens, and we discover we got it all wrong. They’re not who we thought they were at all. But by then it’s too late to fix it, to turn back time and do it all again—only this time knowing the truth.”
“Izzy, you’re not making any sense.”
I take out my cell phone and load up the Internet. “Maybe this will help. There’s something I want to show you. A website.”
* * *
Even though I barely touched the wine Katie kept trying to foist on me, no doubt to make herself feel better about drinking alone, I drive home at a snail’s pace an hour later, not so much worried about the trace of alcohol in my bloodstream as the tears running down my face, making the already poor visibility on the snowy roads a hundred times worse.
The website had vanished. First the Facebook photos, now this. It feels as though the universe is gradually erasing every last atom of my son. And I don’t get it. How could I have been watching videos of kids performing crazy stunts one minute, and the next everything has gone? I’d hoped to show Katie she was being gullible about her son’s true character. Instead, I was the one who appeared deluded.
Without being able to show her Jason’s website, I knew it looked like I was making it up simply to put all the blame for Nick’s disappearance on him. And when I begged her to let him explain for himself, she threatened to call Craig. It felt like a deliberate slap to the face; it also reinforced my suspicion about them having an affair. In the end, I had to leave—before we got into a battle I simply didn’t have the energy to fight.
I had intended to go and see Beth and Ayesha as well, but by the time I left Katie’s house it was way too late. In any case, if I couldn’t even get Jason to talk to me, there didn’t seem much point trying to speak to Adrian or Samir. Their silence is driving me crazy, though. It’s one thing having their friends’ backs when it comes to cheating on a test or playing hooky from school for a morning. But Nick isn’t just cutting class; he’s dropped off the face of the earth.
I’m back to square one, I reflect, banging my hands on the steering wheel in frustration as I turn into my road. All I can do is wait for morning and pray that DS Clarke is right: that the TV appeal will either lure Nick out from wherever he’s hiding or prompt whoever is holding him to come clean.
Steering the Mini into my driveway, I stamp on the brake as the headlights illuminate a trail of rubbish across the front yard. “Oh, great. Not again.” I sit staring at the mess for a moment, then slam out of the car. My son is missing; my former best friend is probably in love with my ex-husband. I don’t know who to trust or where to turn. A fox scavenging through my recycling for the second time in two weeks is the last thing I should care about.
Picking my way through cereal boxes, juice cartons, and old newspapers, I cast a wary eye around to see if the fox is still here. Sensing something moving at the side of the house, I follow the shuffling noise. “Mr. Thompson? Is that you?”
A quick glance next door confirms that all the windows are dark. It must be after eleven, and my neighbor is in his seventies. He’s probably in bed by now, not putting out his rubbish—or cleaning up a mess left by foxes. I notice his recycling bin hasn’t been touched, in any case. “Just mine, then. Fabulous.”
I hear the same shuffling again and head cautiously toward the pathway between our houses, treading carefully so as not to spook the animal but determined to see it off. As I reach the side gate, I hear a noise on the other side. Crunching. A scraping noise, somehow familiar. I heard it earlier, from upstairs in my study, I realize—and it doesn’t sound like anything on four legs. It sounds like footsteps . . . boots treading along the icy path?
“Nick? Nick?” I call out hopefully. I wait a few seconds, but there’s no reply, and when the shuffling noise comes again, fear courses through me.
Glancing around for something to defend myself with, I grab a loose brick from the garden wall. “I’m calling the police!” I dig into my bag with my other hand, rooting for my phone, straining to make out whether the noises are moving closer or further away.
A loud crash makes me jump, my body’s momentum carrying me toward the tall wooden gate. In a panic, I turn the handle and push. The gate won’t budge: there must be a buildup of snow on the other side, I realize. I push harder, and as it finally gives way, I tumble into the dark alley.
“Stop!” I call out, even though the thought of a physical confrontation terrifies me. But ever since Nick disappeared, normal rules don’t seem to apply. I would never normally chase after an intruder, yet without a second thought I leap over a broken window box, scrabbling as I become tangled in overhanging branches of winter-brittle wisteria. By the time I’ve torn my way through it, there’s no sign of anyone. The backyard is empty.
“Damn.” It’s pointless trying to attempt further pursuit, I realize. Stupid and probably dangerous. I wait a few moments more, imagining shapes in the darkness, then hurry to check the downstairs windows, looking for any sign of a forced entry. Nothing has been disturbed, only the broken window box—which suddenly reminds me of the cracked flowerpot outside the living room . . .
Shrinking against the side of the house, my heart thumps as I allow the fear I realize I’ve been suppressing for hours to surface: Is someone watching me?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My legs are shaky as I finally force myself to push away from the wall and dash around to the front of the house, fumbling with my keys as I fly across the litter-strewn yard. I all but throw myself into the hallway, double-locking the front door behind me.
Spotting Marzipan’s orange eyes in the dark, I leave the lights off and follow her into the kitchen, hiding in the darkness as I peer out through the kitchen window. There’s still no sign of anyone, but I catch a faint sound of laughter; a chorus of rauco
us young voices.
“God. Here I go again. Letting myself get carried away. I need to knock this paranoia on the head,” I tell Marzipan. “I bet it was just teenagers messing about.” That must be it, I tell myself firmly, feeling a lot calmer now that I’m safely inside the house. It’s Saturday night, after all; some kids will be out late.
Not Nick, though; I never let him go out alone in the evenings. “Was it you, darling?” I close my eyes and wish again for the impossible: the sound of my son’s voice answering me, telling me: Everything’s cool, Mum.
Feeling a little tearful, I set down food for Marzipan and drift through to the living room, deciding to call DS Clarke anyway. She said I could at any time, and I want to tell her about Jason’s website, as well as mentioning a possible intruder—and also ask if she thinks I’m being ridiculous imagining it might be Nick loitering out there . . .
Before I can take out my phone, the landline rings. “Hello?” I pour all my hope into the handset, waiting for the magic word to bubble to the surface: Mum. A crackle on the line teases me; I plummet heart-first into the long pause. “Is that you, Nick? Nick?”
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“Oh! Mr. Newton. Sean.” I immediately recognize his huskily melodic voice. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t asleep. I . . . what time is it?” I hurry to the window and peel open a chink in the heavy velvet curtains. A black sky glowers back at me; it must be close to midnight. I slide down onto the sofa, sinking tiredly into the cushions.
“Damn. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late. I guess I lost track of time. I hope you don’t mind me calling. I’ve just been sitting here worrying about Nick. And you. How are you doing? Have the boys said any more about last night?”
“Nothing,” I say bitterly. “They’ve still said nothing.”
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