Chris’s flat had never felt more claustrophobic. Another sleepless night had triggered a constant sickly motion behind his eyes, and his entire living room was lit with images of Freya that seemed to carousel around him. She was on his TV, which Vicky’s sisters were glued to; on Di’s phone, supplementing the TV; on the front page of the Surrey Comet, from which Jane was loudly reading extracts. The whole street could probably hear her penetrating voice, including the Harlows two floors above.
“‘Following last night’s discovery,’” Jane said, her chewing gum moving around in her mouth, “‘the search for Freya Harlow, missing since Thursday evening, has reached a critical point. Police are appealing again for anyone with information—’” She broke off and stared at Chris. “Hey, are you okay? You’re green.”
He was trying to breathe through a tide of sickness. “Fine,” he croaked.
His eyes floated to Vicky, who had said hardly a word all morning. She was sitting by the window, gazing up at the street, where reporters had now started to gather, attracted by the increased urgency of the case. She had been on shift last night but hadn’t gone to bed since; she’d kept frowning at Chris, asking why he wasn’t at work. He didn’t want to tell her he’d had three more cancellations in the last twenty-four hours. And that they’d actually come as a relief.
He wished he could stand up and go to her, touch her wrist and feel the grounding thump of her pulse, with no un-Vickyish bracelet in the way. But he was trapped on his sofa with one of her sisters at either side. Why were they even here on a Monday at midday? Didn’t they have anything else to do with their lunch hours? Jane was chain-chewing gum, texting news links to her workmates and her on/off boyfriend; Di was bossily shushing them all, even though they were silent, as Detective Ford came on the TV wearing her sharpest suit.
“Tests are being done but the jacket is thought to be Freya Harlow’s,” Ford said, her face grave. “And regrettably the stains are thought to be blood.”
Chris let his chin sink toward his chest, lower and lower, until the doorbell made him freeze.
“I’ll get it.” With another pitch of his stomach, he flapped to free himself from the sister-in-law sandwich. He dashed across to the kitchen to take a subtle peek out of the other front window, and his fears were confirmed.
Except he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d intended. The two PCs in uniform had seen him. Chris went back into the hall, kicking shut the door to the living room to stop Vicky and her sisters getting wind of the situation. He took a second to try to pull himself together, but his brain and body refused to sync.
“Mr. Watson, we need you to accompany us to the police station.”
Chris’s voice was thick but his words came out oddly formal: “In what capacity?”
“We need to re-interview you, on the record, about Freya Harlow’s disappearance.”
Chris couldn’t move. His T-shirt sucked against his back. Then he heard a door swing open behind. He’d given Vicky and her sisters enough time to wonder what was happening, and now they were spilling into the hall, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn and see their expressions.
“What’s going on?” This was Di, of course, taking charge.
“Chris?” Jane sounded giddy.
Vicky said nothing.
Chris stepped toward the police officers. He wanted to say something to his family, something reassuring but appropriate: Just doing my bit for the investigation. But he didn’t trust himself not to misjudge it.
He prepared to walk up the steps onto the unforgiving stage of the street. Maybe it would have turned into an amphitheater, with high stands full of neighbors baying for his blood. He glanced back at Vicky and her sisters and realized what an idiot he’d been not to make that reassuring comment. His silence had hushed them all, too, even Jane. They were watching as if something momentous was happening, and Vicky was holding on to the edge of the hall table looking utterly lost.