Steph sat in her car outside her house, her windshield slowly steaming up, black skeletons of trees disappearing behind the veil. Back from her aborted mission, she was at a loss as to what to do next.
She couldn’t stop thinking about that first night, when Freya’s absence could be measured in hours rather than days, and the PCs had asked whether Steph or Paul had any enemies. Paul’s conscience had clearly tortured and driven him ever since. But Steph had refused to join the dots between her own secrets and the protective sphere she’d tried to hold around her family, like a spell. If they did somehow connect, the picture they would form was everything she’d ever feared.
There was something to grasp onto now, though. A sign that she had to join those dots, face the unthinkable. She seized her phone and scrolled to a number she’d called “Work 2” in her contacts. Her finger froze on the screen as she was hit by the same doubts she’d had while driving along the motorway just now. Attacking this head-on seemed too risky. There were risks to every plan she thought of: risks to Freya and Paul, to herself, her whole existence.
Risks if she was wrong, risks if she was right.
Minutes later, she was pounding on Emma’s door. She knew she was knocking too loudly, that it was getting late, but they were far beyond neighborly etiquette. And Steph was beyond worrying what Emma thought of her, even beyond worrying whether she was completely trustworthy. She had nowhere else to turn.
Her neighbor peered out into the hall. “Steph?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
Emma blinked and beckoned her in.
Steph didn’t waste any time. Adrenaline was flying around her body. She thrust forward a piece of paper. “Take this to the police.”
Emma looked startled. “What?”
Steph swallowed. “It—it’s an address. Urge them to watch the place, keep their eyes on it. But don’t mention any connection with me.”
Emma blinked several more times. “I don’t know if I—”
“Please!” Steph interrupted before she could restrain herself. She’d hoped to keep her emotions in check, but now she sensed her desperation was striking a chord. Her neighbor stared at her for a long moment. Steph could hear that creaking sound again, the turning wheel, this time a haunting soundtrack.
“Can’t you give it to them yourself?” Emma said in a low voice.
“No . . . no.”
“They’ll ask me a load of questions.”
“Call the tip-line anonymously,” Steph said. “Just be sure they take it seriously. Say you saw a teenage girl in a navy Puffa jacket going into that house. I can’t risk them recognizing my voice.”
There was another pause. The wheel continued to rattle. Steph couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from and it was starting to get to her now, like it might actually be cogs inside her head. She rubbed the ends of Freya’s scarf, her comfort blanket. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to,” she said.
“What are you afraid of, Steph? Is it Paul?”
“What?”
“Are you scared of him?”
“No, of course not! I love him, that’s why I . . . why I can’t . . .”
“I want to help, but you have to tell me the whole story.”
“I’m not having an affair. It’s not that.” Steph felt another volley of fear. She stepped closer to grab her neighbor’s hand. Emma tensed but didn’t pull away. Her fingers felt as small-boned as Freya’s used to, in the days when Steph would grip her hand to cross the road or walk through the park. Even as a little girl, Freya had resisted Steph’s overprotectiveness. Perhaps she’d always sensed her mum’s subconscious fears, running deeper than regular parental anxiety.
Steph tried one last appeal, pushing the address into Emma’s palm. “Please. I know you understand what I’m going through. This could save my daughter.”