The Sleepover

by Samantha King

“I’m pretty lucky with my neighbors, actually. Most will have been at work, though. Mr. Thompson next door is retired and recently widowed. I don’t see much of him. Sally on the other side works away in the week. Ouch.” I flinch as she dabs my forehead. Thankfully the cut will be covered by my bangs. I don’t want Nick worrying about me.

  “Sorry. I’m trying to be gentle. I bet it hurts.”

  “I’m fine. Couple of aspirin and I’ll be good to go.” The bump on my head is nothing compared to the wound on Nick’s; the malicious graffiti only reminds me of the bullying taunts he has suffered. Sticks and stones may break my bones, I hear in my head.

  “Here. Take these.” DS Clarke reaches over to the coffee table, then hands me a glass of water and two tablets. “You’ll have a nasty bruise. No lasting damage, though. Wish I could say the same for your car. It’s going to be out of action for a bit, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s fine. Craig can drive me to the hospital.”

  “Or Sergeant Rogers. He’ll also take you and Nick to the cottage. The officer who’s been standing guard outside Nick’s room,” she reminds me when I look blankly at her. “He’s going to be providing you with ongoing security. No arguments, Izzy.” She gives me a steady look. “I meant what I said. You can’t stay here now. You mentioned someone might have been hanging around in your yard. Maybe tailing your car. Whoever threw that brick—”

  “I know but . . . a brick?”

  “From your own garden wall, by the looks of it,” she confirms.

  “How ironic.” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up. “I wonder if it’s the same one I grabbed on Saturday night. This wasn’t just kids messing about, though, was it?”

  “I think we can safely say this wasn’t a prank, Izzy. It’s strictly personal.”

  “Do you think it was one of those reporters?”

  DS Clarke shakes her head. “That would be a serious breach of professionalism. Highly unlikely. It is possible someone’s been tailgating the news, though. Following Nick’s story. Seen your face on TV. Decided to express their own ignorant judgment.”

  “Yes.” I close my eyes, trying to stop seeing the offensive scrawl. “I’ve got to wash it off.” I make to stand up from the sofa, but DS Clarke stops me.

  “I’m really sorry, Izzy. I’m afraid we need to leave it all there for now. I’ve taken a few snaps on my phone, but we’ll need to photograph everything properly for evidence. Not just as an act of vandalism. We can’t rule out a connection with what’s happened to Nick.”

  “You’re next.” I look at her in horror. “It’s a warning, isn’t it?”

  “A threat,” DS Clarke corrects me. “Whether it’s a hollow one or not, we can’t take that risk. You’re not safe here now, Izzy. Nor is Nick.”

  * * *

  “The police are right. I know you’re disappointed, but I can’t take the risk of leaving you here, either.” Craig’s voice is muffled as he pulls two dusty backpacks down from the loft.

  “I know. I know. I just . . . I so wanted Nick to be back in his own space.”

  “The cottage is ready. I can take all the food I bought there instead. I’m really sorry I took so long getting it. If I’d gone to the local shops, I might have been here in time to—”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say quickly, able to acknowledge that now I’ve calmed down. “But I appreciate that you want to look after Nick.”

  “And you.”

  “What, bitch mother?” I remember Sean Newton saying that’s the worst thing about bullying: that even when it stops, it never leaves you. I should call him, I think. He texted me to say how happy he is that Nick’s recovering; I owe him a proper thank-you for his support.

  “Don’t let it get in your head. DS Clarke was right. It’s probably some crazy person. But though I hate to say I told you so, there’s no chance of anything like this happening at the cottage. They won’t be able to find you there.”

  I give him a dubious look. “Maybe.” Two clicks on Google and you can find anyone these days, I remember DS Clarke also saying.

  “Definitely. The cottage isn’t listed in your name, only mine. Unless someone physically follows you there . . .” Craig sighs, then rests a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Throw a few things into these bags. I’ll take you back to the hospital, we can collect Nick, then I’ll drop you both off. I know you want some time alone with him. I won’t hang around.” He pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

  I hesitate, tempted to give in. Then I think of Nick, the need to keep things as familiar as possible. When he went to the sleepover, Craig and I were separated— and Nick has no memory of anything since. I’ve yet to tell him about Jason’s death; somehow, I need to break it to him that he’s at the center of an attempted-murder investigation. It’s all too much.

  “Actually, it would be great if you could take our things straight to the cottage,” I say slowly. “But I won’t need a lift to the hospital. DS Clarke said Sergeant Rogers will come and get me. He’s going to be watching over us.”

  “Perfect.” Craig smiles.

  “Let’s hope so.” I touch the bandage on my forehead. The pain is gone, and so is the graffiti now, documented and then scrubbed away by the police. But fear remains.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “All ready?” Craig hovers in the kitchen doorway half an hour later, watching me shove playing cards and a book into Nick’s backpack.

  “Almost.” I straighten up, contemplating the tins of cat food I’ve also bagged up. “I was just wondering how you’d feel if I pack a slightly grumpy cat. I think Nick could do with the comfort. Maybe she’ll help nudge his memory, too.”

  “Good thinking. Is her crate still in here?” He opens the kitchen utility closet. “As soon as Sergeant Rogers arrives, Marzipan and I will make tracks. I’ll drop everything at the cottage so it’s ready and waiting for you. Then I’ll head home and leave you to it.”

  “He’ll be here soon. Why don’t you go now, Craig? No point hanging around.”

  “If you’re sure? Looks like I’ll have my hands full anyway.” He nods at the backpacks I’ve propped against the kitchen dresser, next to where Nick’s schoolbag still sits.

  “Sorry. I tried to pack light.” Hopefully we’ll be home in a couple of days, if the investigation continues with the intensity DS Clarke assured me it would.

  “No problem. I guess that just leaves one last thing.” Craig’s gray eyes fix intently on my face for a moment, then he reaches into his pocket and hands over a set of keys.

  “Ah. Yes. Of course.” I smile, hiding my small sigh of relief. “I’ll call you,” I say as he picks up the backpacks, his only reply a curt nod as he makes for the kitchen door.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I’m pacing the hall, starting to wonder if Sergeant Rogers has forgotten about me, when the doorbell rings. At last. I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Surely whoever vandalized my house and car wouldn’t be stupid enough to return to the scene of their crime so soon? Even so, my hand freezes halfway to the front door.

  “Katie!” I stare at her in shock as I finally steel myself to open it.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I had to see you.” She looks anxious and exhausted. “The police told me you thought that Jason . . . that he made Nick—”

  “Oh, Katie. I’m so sorry. Please. Come in. Let’s talk.”

  “I can’t stay long. Nathan and I are on our way to the coast. Just to get away from . . . everything. Christ, how long is it since I’ve been here?” she says, looking around as she follows me into the kitchen.

  “A year,” I tell her over my shoulder, heading for the kettle and flicking it on.

  As I reach into the cupboard for mugs, I think back to that time. Nick was in the hospital then, too—the only difference being the severity of his injuries, and the fact that it was school bullies rather than a would-be killer who put him there.

  “Just a year. It feels l
ike a lifetime. Jason’s lifetime.” Katie slumps down on a chair.

  “Why did he do it? Do you have any idea?” I gaze sadly at her as I carry our coffees to the table. Normally so chic, she looks fragile in jeans and a black sweater that hangs off her slender frame. Grief and bewilderment are etched in lines that weren’t there a week ago.

  “Who? Do what? Oh, you mean Jason.” For a second, she seems confused, and it occurs to me that she might have been prescribed antidepressants to help cope with the pain.

  “I’m so sorry, Katie. Your boy. The police said he didn’t leave a note?”

  “Nothing. I’ve looked everywhere.” She downs her coffee in one go, as if she hasn’t had any for days, and I remember not being able to eat or drink after Nick went missing.

  “That’s so hard. You must be going out of your mind wondering.”

  “Nathan said I’m driving him mad. He can talk. He won’t leave me alone for a second. In fact, I should go.” She jerks out of her chair. “Don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “Have the army given him compassionate leave?” I stand up, too, following her back into the hall.

  “He lost his job, Izzy. A while back.” She rubs her hands tiredly over her face. “He’s been filling time teaching fitness at local schools, but he was fired from the army. That’s why he was home on Friday. And why he had to fly back out to the Gulf late that night—to sort out whatever mess he’d left out there. God knows what he did, but the army booted him out.”

  “What?” I stare at her in surprise until the penny drops. “Ah. So that’s why you were so frazzled when I came to see you the night after Nick disappeared.”

  “Yes. Nathan and I had just had a raging argument on the phone. I was in a terrible place. Drunk. Angry. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I didn’t mean to. I genuinely thought Nick had just run off in a huff. I felt awful when I realized he wasn’t coming back. I hope you got my text.”

  “I did.” It was the reason I went to her house the following day, and found Nick’s phone—deepening my suspicions about Jason, I reflect sadly.

  “I wanted to say more. Ask you to come over. There were things I wanted to say to you in person. But the family liaison officer arrived, and . . .” She draws in a breath so deep it seems to make her whole body quiver. “I heard you ringing the doorbell. I just couldn’t—”

  “I know. The police told me Matt Haynes was with you.” I pause, knowing we’re both remembering that awful moment. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  “Oh, stuff. Guilt. Not just for being so awful to you last Saturday night.” She sinks down onto the bottom stair. “I also wanted—I want—to say sorry about this last year. For always telling you I was fine when I wasn’t. For not being your friend. For not supporting you when Nick got beaten up. I still feel awful about it. I mean, so Nick walked to school by himself. Big fucking deal! I gave Jason a key to the front door when he was nine.”

  “Really?” I study her face in surprise. “That’s not what you said at the time.”

  She screws up her nose. “I guess I felt I owed it to Craig to agree with him. He’s been so kind to me. He knows Nathan’s jealous of him. I think he felt guilty about that. Maybe in a funny sort of way he wanted to make up for it. He was amazing with Jase, too.” Her eyes fill up again. “Giving him lifts, taking him swimming. Pizza afterward if I had to work late.”

  “Craig did all that?” I remember him once offering to show Jason around his office; I had no idea his help went so much further. No wonder Jason texted him when Nick went missing. I sit down next to Katie, realizing how much I’ve missed her.

  “I really am sorry I haven’t talked to you about this before, Iz.” She leans against my shoulder. “I’ve had so much on my plate with Nathan. I’ve let the house go, my work slide. And I knew you hated me. I didn’t blame you. I deserved it.”

  I recall my surprise at the air of neglect in her house. I know Katie’s marriage has been on shaky ground for years; it finally seems to be crumbling, and it must have been tough for her to accept. I realize, too, how hard she must have found it to contradict Craig when he blamed me for Nick getting beaten up. He clearly seems to have become something of a rock for her—and Jason, too. I guess it’s to his credit; I just wish I’d known.

  “I never hated you. But I was angry with Jason.” I won’t lie to Katie; there have been too many misunderstandings between us already. “I did think he’d done something bad. I’m so sorry I misjudged him. He had his whole life ahead of him. It’s unfathomable.”

  “Teenage boys are hard enough to figure out when they’re alive.” She wraps her arms around herself. “When they’re dead . . .”

  “Have the police told you any more? It was definitely . . . ? They’re sure he took his own life?” I know the detectives were investigating the connection between Jason’s death and Nick’s attempted murder. It suddenly strikes me that the so-called Suspect A may have been guilty of both. “Oh God. I’m sorry.” I stare at Katie’s stricken face. “I shouldn’t . . .”

  “No. You’re right. I’ve thought that, too.” She turns to me, grabbing my arm. “I can’t believe Jason would take his own life, either. That’s what’s driving me mad. I keep searching through his stuff, looking for something, a clue . . . anything.”

  I remember doing exactly the same in Nick’s room. “I just don’t get why anyone would want to hurt Nick—or Jason.”

  “Bullies don’t need a reason to be cruel. You know that as well as I do. Nathan’s a prime example. He’s convinced I’m having an affair with Craig. I never have, Iz. Honestly. Oh, I know I flirt too much. But I’d never do that to you. Nor would Craig.”

  I try to meet her pleading gaze, but I can’t help my eyes going to the silver charm bracelet on her wrist, pulling my thoughts back to when Craig gave an identical one to me. It was the evening after our third wedding anniversary, and Katie had come around with a celebratory bottle of champagne. Craig was working late; Nick and Jason were playing upstairs. Nathan had been posted abroad again, and Katie wasn’t happy about it . . .

  * * *

  “He’s just never here, you know?” Katie kicked off her tan leather loafers and tucked her feet up on the chesterfield. Even with her long red hair falling loose around her shoulders, and dressed, for once, in casual chinos and a V-neck sweater, she still managed to look elegant.

  “Craig works long hours, too. But at least I know he’s somewhere in London. It must be tough not even knowing what country Nathan’s in.”

  “His movements are ‘classified.’” She rolled her eyes as she mimed quotation marks. “Sorry. It’s your anniversary. Here’s to husbands!” She raised her glass, but didn’t take a sip. “Sorry,” she apologized again, wiping her eyes. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just?”

  “Well, sometimes I wish he could be more like Craig, you know? I try so hard to keep the house nice. Nathan wouldn’t care if we lived in a tent in the woods. He’s never taken Jase to the theater. He doesn’t even own a suit, for God’s sake. Sorry, here I go again. I didn’t come here to moan. We should be celebrating. Is that your present from Craig?”

  “Yes. The first part, anyway.” Still worrying about Katie, I fiddled with the bracelet. “The second part is dinner and, um, tickets to the ballet. Tomorrow night. With Nick.”

  “Wow. You see? I know dating ads are a lucky dip. But you really struck gold.”

  “I think you can take some of the credit for that.” I smiled, knowing I’d never have met Craig in the first place if Katie hadn’t encouraged me. I wouldn’t lie to myself that I’d married him for entirely romantic reasons, and much as I, too, admired Craig’s sophistication and mild-mannered charm, his inscrutability was sometimes frustrating, and he could be infuriatingly wedded to his own opinion. Still, he was also kind and generous; hidden behind a mask of companionship, love had crept up on me, and now I couldn’t imagine life without him. Or Katie. I raised my glass to her. “Forget about husband
s. Here’s to best friends!”

  * * *

  “Sorry. Do you mind that I bought one the same?” Katie’s touch on my arm pulls me back to the present. “I know that bracelet was a special gift to you from Craig. I just liked it so much, when I saw this one I . . . You didn’t think—you weren’t worried that Craig and I . . . ?”

  “No,” I lie. Katie has more than enough to deal with.

  “Good.” She squeezes my hand then sighs. “I’m glad. I know I haven’t been the best of friends, but I’m not a cheat. Not that Nathan believes me. He thinks Jason killed himself because of me.” Her voice is raw. “Because I was going to break up our family.”

  “Oh, Katie, no.” I turn to look at her in horror. I’m not really surprised that Nathan has accused her of being unfaithful, but I’m appalled he would use that to blame her for Jason giving up on life. Being a mother comes before being a wife; I know Katie believes that, too.

  “I never had any intention of leaving Nathan. Oh, I probably should have. He can be a bastard. But I married him. I’m not a quitter. Nor was Jason.”

  “It’s not quitting to walk away from unhappiness,” I say softly.

  “Maybe. See, I always knew you were stronger than me.” She pulls a wry smile; it dissolves into tears a second later. “Jase was, too. Nathan knocked him down. He got right back up. The only thing that really got to him was seeing others hurt. I know that’s hard to believe.” She sighs again. “He was tough on the outside. But it was only skin deep.”

  “He was your son,” I say, hugging her. “You knew him better than anyone.”

  “I think maybe . . .” She slumps, her body seeming to fold in on itself. “It’s possible he killed himself because he was ashamed. About Nick. He truly was devastated, Iz. And terrified. He literally hid under his duvet all Saturday, he was so scared.”

  “Scared of the police?” I frown, remembering Jason squaring up to DCI Maxwell.

  “More likely of Nathan. Of being punished for bringing disgrace on him. Oh, the irony. Nathan was the one dismissed under a cloud. I blame him for Jason coming up with the stupid dare in the first place. All his stories about secret missions. It was all crap. He had a desk job even before he was fired. In his head, he felt like a wimp. He overcompensated with his fists. And Jase saw way too much.”