She was alone at last. George and the other police officers had gone, though their search continued and a helicopter still droned in Kingston’s night sky. Even the journalists had dispersed for now. Heather and Brian were driving around rechecking places where Freya or Paul might be. Clutching at straws, really, and Steph shared their desperation but she hadn’t joined them. She had her own leads to follow.
Her bare toes cut a route through the empty flat, into her own room and to her wardrobe. Her tailored dresses and silk shirts were like ghosts from a previous normality in which she’d worn makeup and gone out for date nights with Paul. She reached beneath the swish of hems, grasped the edge of a dusty shoebox, and slid it out from its long-term hiding place. There was another box concealed inside; she cradled the second on her knee, running her finger across the dried-out brown tape sealing it closed.
It seemed heavy in her lap. Almost hot with the memories it contained. She had to confront them now. Had to know whether she had done this to her daughter, her family.
Steph emptied the box onto the bed, its contents cascading out. The crumple of a newspaper article. The patent shine of a red ball. The photos that were aged and grainy, in contrast to the framed family portrait that smiled from the wall above.
Stretching up, she unhooked the newer photo. It left a square of bright wallpaper behind it, unspoiled by sun. She remembered the day it had been taken: Freya’s fifteenth birthday. They’d let her get her ears pierced, then gone out for burgers afterward. In the photo, her newly adorned lobes were pink and puffy, but she was beaming, a tall banana milkshake in front of her. Steph’s favorite flavor, too, as a child.
She laid the picture on the bed among the other things, as though trying to slot her newer life into the old, trying to understand how the two might have collided. She envisaged more things in the gaps: the banknotes with her drawings on them; the silver pillbox; the snaps of Freya and Zeb.
An image of Freya’s bloodstained jacket cast a shadow over everything else. Where was it now? In a lab, with samples being scraped from the sleeves that were a fraction too short for Freya’s long arms?
And where was Freya without it? Why would it be buried unless—
Steph caught herself, stamping out the thought before it could crush her. As she stuffed all the items back inside the shoebox, tears poured down her face. How could it have come to this? At what moment, precisely, could she have diverted the chain of events that had led her here? Because she was sure there must have been a moment. Perhaps several. A different choice or choices that might have kept all her loved ones safe.
She jumped off the bed, clutching the box, and left her flat in a daze. At the top of the stairs she paused and turned back inside. Swerving into the kitchen, she tried not to think too hard about what she was doing: opening a drawer, groping for a sharp knife, holding it at her side as she hurried back through the flat, the box still under her other arm. Just in case, said a voice in her head, steadier than she really felt. She pulled on Paul’s wax jacket and dropped the knife into one of its deep front pockets, where she could forget it was there, unless she needed it.
As she was stumbling down the stairs, she heard their letterbox clatter open, then snap closed. Reaching the hallway, she saw that a piece of paper had been shoved through. She stood staring at it, nerves stirring. The door to Emma’s flat opened and her neighbor appeared.
“I heard something . . .”
Steph pointed at the note. Both women hesitated, as if unsure who should investigate it. Emma plucked it from the letterbox and Steph stood beside her, eyes zigzagging over the block capitals.
MOTHER OF THE YEAR?
TRY LIAR OF THE DECADE.
INNOCENT VICTIM?
NOBODY BUT YOURSELF TO BLAME.
Steph made a guttural noise in her throat. The shoebox slipped from beneath her elbow and its contents scattered, the red ball bouncing against her foot. It was the truth of the words that cut so deep. And it was the person who must’ve written them, the message Steph could no longer deny, not even the tiniest amount. She looked at Emma, who had turned pale, too, and didn’t even appear to have noticed the things Steph had dropped. She just seemed lost in her own reaction to the note.
Steph was about to start scooping up the items when it hit her. The note had been hand-posted. Its deliverer had been there only moments ago. Steph thrust open the exterior door and they spilled out into the sharpness of the evening.
“Hey!” Emma shouted.
Steph looked to where Emma was gesturing and saw the silhouette of a figure down the far end of the street, wearing a baseball cap and a hooded jacket. Then suddenly they were running, chasing, and the person was bolting away, swerving trees and charging across roads. Steph felt Emma’s arms knocking against hers, heard the other woman panting almost in unison with herself. When Emma stumbled, Steph flung out a hand to steady her. When Steph ran out of breath, Emma clasped her wrist and pulled her on.
It seemed to be a man. That was all Steph could make out. Her head was pulsing, her lungs screaming, so there was barely any room to process what was happening and who specifically the man might be. She just knew he must have been sent to threaten her . . . even summon her. And she had to get to him.
Driven by a blast of emotion, she pulled ahead of her neighbor. Then she heard Emma cry out as if she’d tripped. The man must have heard too: He glanced briefly over his shoulder, but still Steph didn’t fully glimpse his face.
“No,” Emma was saying from behind her. “No . . .”
Steph staggered to a breathless halt. Emma was lying on the pavement clutching her leg, but that didn’t seem the main cause of her distress. She was gesturing toward the disappearing figure, shaking her head and sobbing.