Di had finally left, with a semi-threatening shout of “Speak soon, Chris!” along the hall. Vicky had gone for a lie-down without another word. Chris had slipped away and was driving through a flurry of wind and rain toward Freya’s school.
He wouldn’t linger there, of course. He just needed to start at that location so he could retrace the route they’d taken three days before, checking for CCTV cameras that might have picked them up that afternoon. The escalating rain made it difficult. His wipers shrieked each time they swept across the glass—he’d been meaning to get some new blades for weeks. He used to take an embarrassing amount of pride in maintaining his and Vicky’s modest cars. It was the one thing he was good at, and he’d especially liked doing it for her. She’d always rolled her eyes when he’d lectured about oil levels and preventing clutch wear, but she’d liked it really, he could tell. These days it was harder to please or amuse her, harder even to know whether she was happy or sad.
A heaviness dragged at his body as he recalled how she’d looked at him after the police had left. He’d once believed she loved him unconditionally, that they were fundamentally the same person. Now that naïve theory was being put to the test in ways he’d never imagined.
His phone started to ring. Di’s name appeared on the hands-free display. Alarm spiked through him—did speak soon have to mean this soon? He fumbled with the controls.
“Hi, Chris.” Di’s voice sounded different coming through the speakers.
“Di,” Chris said. “Everything all right?”
There was a pause. He kept one eye on the passing streets, his fingers beating a nervous tempo on the wheel.
“Well . . .” Di said. “Actually, I was going to ask you the same question.”
He swallowed. “What?”
“I mean . . . is everything okay with you and Vic?”
His shoulders tensed. “I don’t—”
“Money-wise.”
After the initial surprise of her question, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. If Di had asked him about their finances a few months back, he would have gone straight on the defensive. Even now, he answered abruptly: “Why would you ask that?”
“Well . . . I saw you in your office today. Going through your accounts. You looked very . . . anxious.”
Of course she couldn’t just not mention it. Always had to stick her nose in. “I was looking for something,” he said. “Something I needed for my tax return.”
“You can tell me if there’s a problem. Gav and I would like to help.”
“You’ve told Gavin about this?”
“Erm . . .”
“Did you mention it to Vicky?”
“No, no, I wanted to speak to you first.”
Chris gritted his teeth. “Di, Vicky and I are doing fine. I do take care of her, you know, despite what you and Jane might think.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I have to go. I’m in the car . . .” He talked over her as she tried to cut in once more. “I’ll see you at lunch next week. Or, no doubt, before.” The last part came out more nastily than he’d intended.
As he disconnected the call, his wipers let out a particularly high-pitched squeal. Chris realized he was lathered in sweat. Who the hell did Di think she was? He was furious with himself, too, for not being more discreet, for letting his panic overwhelm him.
His heart was galloping now. Alarmingly fast. His whole body was alive with the feeling that somebody else was in the car. Freya was in the passenger seat, watching him drive, her gaze drawing goose bumps to the surface of his skin. She was in the back, leering over his shoulder, her breath in his ear, then on the wet hood staring into his eyes through the windshield. She had things in her hands, sparkly trinkets that seemed to swell in size, and she was wearing Vicky’s bracelet, Vicky’s new blood-crimson lipstick . . .
He could hear her voice crystal clear. He saw her laughing, tossing her hair, making him laugh, too, with her surprisingly sharp humor. But then cold, as if a switch had been flicked, or angry, gesturing with both long-fingered hands off the wheel. Chris pulled over and curled in on himself, gasping for breath as the wipers continued to scream.
I can’t stand this.
Reaching for his phone, he went to the number he should have deleted, and jabbed at the call button.
It rang and rang.
Pick up, pick up, pick up.
Of course there’d be no answer. It was reckless to try, but he needed . . . He didn’t even know what. He just knew he was almost at his limit. Flinging his phone onto the passenger seat, he twisted his rearview mirror toward him and stared into his own red-rimmed eyes.
Pull. Yourself. Together.
His phone beeped with a message and he leaned over to read it. My parents won’t let me have lessons with you anymore. I’m sorry. Jess.
Chris sat back and closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell heavily. A feeling of numbness began to steamroller over him.
He jumped alert when he heard, then spotted, a group of police officers emerging from the park entrance across the road. They all wore gloves and held clipboards, German shepherds trotting beside them, sniffing the damp air. Was this one of the search teams who were combing the area for Freya? Not wanting to provoke any questions, Chris started his car and moved quickly on.
He looped back toward the street he wished they’d never moved into, back toward his wife, who’d started to eye him with as much suspicion as all the others.
He couldn’t think of anything else to do.