Zeb didn’t speak as she ushered him inside. He looked dazed by the transformed atmosphere of the street, the police and press, everything he’d been cut off from at his dad’s rural house. Even inside their flat, he offered one-word responses to Emma’s questions and her garbled updates about their missing neighbor. She chose not to notice that he had no luggage. Surely her boy was back and everything was going to be all right.
She began making him a cup of tea, hoping he still liked it strong with half a sugar: It felt too awful to have to check.
“How could you, Mum?”
The spoon wavered in her hand. “What?”
“The last text you sent me. Accusing Dad of all sorts.”
She dropped the spoon into the mug with a sinking feeling. At the height of her panic, tipped over the edge by the latest revolting delivery, she’d tapped out a desperate text to Zeb, a stream of reasons he had to come home. And she’d still left out the things she needed to ask him about Freya. Now he was in front of her and she couldn’t put them off any longer.
“You seriously think he put raw egg through the door? And dog shit?”
“I—”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
Because clearly he’s angry that I never told him about you. And he knows how to rattle me. He observed it firsthand for a long time.
“Is this another attempt to make me stop seeing him?”
“No—”
“I want him in my life, Mum! He’s my dad! The last few weeks have been so great, getting to know him at last. I honestly can’t believe you never let me have this before.”
He looked so sincere, it crushed her heart. She’d never realized, or never wanted to acknowledge, how much he’d lacked a dad. She’d believed she was enough, and the realization that she wasn’t had seemed to carve cracks into every part of her life. Alien Girl couldn’t raise a son, run a business, wear peacock-feather earrings, and stick up two fingers to her schooldays. How stupid to think she could.
“Has he been nice to you?” she couldn’t help asking.
Zeb stared at her as if she was mad. “Of course he has. I don’t know why you hate him so much. He only says good things about you.”
Emma turned cold. “He’s talked about me?”
“You think we act like you don’t exist? He says he wishes you and him could be mates.”
Emma recoiled from the idea, and Zeb must have seen it in her face.
“Seriously, Mum, what’s your problem with him?”
“I . . .” Every time she started to explain, the words curled up. She was afraid it would sound like trivial school nonsense, rather than a period of her life that had affected and changed her so profoundly. “I just don’t trust him.”
“You don’t even know him!” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “I know him now. And you trust me, don’t you?”
His question made something tighten inside her. It suddenly felt like the worst part of all of this, that the answer was no longer, Of course I do. Always. Unreservedly.
“You’ve only known him a few weeks,” she said.
“Long enough! I feel like I’ve known him all my life. Except I haven’t, of course. You made sure of that.”
“If you’d known him all your life maybe you wouldn’t have such a high opinion of him.”
“Don’t you think people change?” Zeb raised his voice. “Is it one strike and you’re out with you?”
“That’s not fair.”
“In your text you said you were going to tell the police on him!”
“Well, I was scared!”
As she flung it out there, she realized how true it was. The last few days, and even the weeks before that, had been underscored by fear. She thought of her conversation with the police officer, left unfinished when she’d spotted Zeb, and wondered whether they would follow it up. Whether she wanted them to, now she’d seen how furious Zeb was.
Her admission seemed to stall him, though. No matter how angry, she was heartened to see that the idea of her being frightened bothered him. She took the opportunity to step closer, brush his arm. He no longer smelled of aftershave but of something DIY-related, like WD-40.
“I don’t want us to fall out,” she said. “Especially with everything that’s been happening to our neighbors.” She watched his face as she said this, pained again that she felt the need to. He was looking at the floor. “You’re so precious to me, Zeb. But it’s just been so . . . disturbing. Things through the post. Silent phone calls—”
“The calls were me.”
She withdrew. “What?”
Zeb squared his shoulders, but his cheeks had reddened and he couldn’t meet her eye. “I’ve been calling you.”
Her heart began to thump. “And . . . hanging up?”
He pressed his fist to his Adam’s apple, rubbing the stubbly skin there.
“I just wanted to talk,” he said gruffly.
“You can talk to me anytime, Zeb.”
“Not about Dad. We’ve never been able to talk about him. Even the Freya thing. It’s been on my mind, but . . .” He scratched harder, at his chin now.
Emma found herself looking at the home phone, goose bumps mottling her arms as she remembered how she’d felt each time it had rung. Late at night. Early in the morning. Soft breathing down the line. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“I bottled it every time. Always ended up tongue-tied. So I’d wait a few seconds, hoping I could get my shit together, then start panicking about the silence and eventually hang up.”
“But . . .” She struggled to take it in. “The number was always withheld.”
“Must be a setting on Dad’s phone. There’s pretty much no mobile signal out there, so I usually used the landline in his office. I didn’t want to talk to you over Skype—it’s too awkward. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”
Emma pulled back her hair and flattened it beneath her palms. She was trying to stay calm. Trying not to shout, Well, you did scare me. For God’s sake, I’ve barely slept.
Gilbert had woken. She could see Zeb frowning at the snuffly noises coming from inside the cupboard, trying to work out what they were. He hadn’t even met her sad little attempt to make the place feel less empty. Probably thought she’d acquired a rat problem.
“What about the other stuff?” she asked.
He exhaled through his nostrils.
“I have no idea. I’m just certain it wasn’t Dad. He wouldn’t do that. Please, can you drop your campaign against him?”
She clasped his hand. “I was only ever trying to protect you.” Even as she said it, she wondered how true it was. Had she been protecting Zeb or herself? She couldn’t help thinking of Steph again: Who was she protecting with her secrets?
Zeb let her hold his hand for a moment, looking down at her, so tall and grown-up yet still with that potent teenage angst. Then he slid his arm free and turned toward the door.
“You’re not going?” she said in alarm.
His head was dipped as if he was already prepared for the flashing cameras. “I’ve said what I needed to.”
“Wait, Zeb! I have to ask you something!”
He paused, turning back. He was twisting the cuffs of his hoodie around his thumbs, a habit he’d had since he was young.
“Did you and Freya meet up more than once?”
His eyebrows lowered as he seemed to absorb her question. Then he shrugged, and released his cuffs, adjusting his hoodie with a tug of the hem. “Yeah, actually.”
Emma breathed slowly in and out.
“We became mates, sort of. Used to meet up sometimes. It was no big deal.” There was a slight catch in his voice, and he glanced up at the ceiling.
“Why did you say you’d only spent that one evening together?”
Another shrug. “I wanted to keep things simple, I s’pose. I didn’t think it mattered. I told you all the important stuff, all the stuff that might help . . .” She saw his throat move as he swallowed. She wanted to step closer again but she didn’t dare. It was all she could do to keep her voice even.
“So you don’t know any more than you said?”
“No, of course not! Why do you have to be so suspicious?”
“I’m only asking.”
“First Dad, now you’re starting on me!”
Suddenly Emma felt herself snap. When would he stop demonizing her? Idolizing Robin at the expense of everything else?
“You’re not going back to your dad’s,” she said. “You’re going to stay here and help the police.”
“No, I’m not.” He turned again to go. “I’ve done what I can. I’m going home.”
“This is your home.” She rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “I’ve had enough of this, Zeb!”
He shook her off. As she glimpsed his face, she recognized the signs that he was about to cry.
“Zeb—”
He slammed out of the flat. Emma started to chase him but stopped in her doorway, imagining the cameras springing into action outside, capturing their altercation—maybe Steph looking down from above. The questions that would follow while Emma’s legs were still trembling.
So she watched from her living-room window, as she had on so many occasions recently, but this time it was to see her son weaving a path through the journalists, pausing at one of the posters of Freya, glancing back toward the house before he was gone.