He was now sharing his custody cell with a brutal gang of memories. They wouldn’t allow him any peace. Knew all his weaknesses and wanted to see how fast they could break him. Was this what prison would be like? Peopled not just by angry criminals, but by all the thoughts he could no longer distract himself from?
Vicky was in here, the younger Vicky who’d first admitted to him, I have a bit of a habit . . . of taking things that aren’t mine. The fear and challenge in her face: Does this change your feelings for me?
And Freya, on her first ever driving lesson, asking if they could have Radio 5 Live on because Arsenal was playing Spurs.
Steph, when they’d returned, hovering outside her house and laughing at herself as she admitted she’d been fretting the whole hour. But she looks happy. And your car’s in one piece! And I clearly can’t do this every time—
“Watson.”
The appearance of the custody officer made the memories scatter, like prison bullies caught out. Chris knew they’d return the second he was alone again. And they’d be crueler next time.
“Follow me,” the officer said.
“Where to?”
He was answered only by a glare. They were all treating him with distaste since his confession. Chris felt as if everything about himself had been removed, just like his belongings relinquished into that small box at the police station Reception, and all that remained was the label murderer. He would be treated accordingly—deservedly—from now on, by everybody who already knew him and everyone he had yet to meet.
The officer led him back toward the interview rooms. As he walked along the corridor, something caught Chris’s eye and made his heart stop. He stopped walking too. The custody officer urged him on with an impatient bark.
Chris shuffled onward but looked back over his shoulder, wondering if it had really been her, disappearing into one of the other interview suites. He’d never seen her whole face but he felt he’d know her anywhere: the unbrushed waist-length hair; the thin arms that had managed to lift Freya’s upper body while he had gripped her legs.
The Woman.
His mind wheeled as he sat down again opposite Ford and Johnson. He could hardly take in what they were saying to him. All he could think was They found her? Does that mean they found Freya’s body too? Flashes of her rolled-back eyes and the fountain of blood from her head.
“You’ve confessed to the murder of Freya Harlow,” Ford was saying.
Chris nodded. There it was again. Murderer.
He’d been a son, a schoolboy, a smoker, a dropout, a boyfriend, a driving instructor, a husband, an ex-smoker, a homeowner, a business owner. Now a murderer.
“Freya Harlow has been found alive at the home of Rebecca Fielding.”
Chris’s head ricocheted back. “What did you say?”
“Freya is in hospital being treated for a serious head wound and a resulting infection.”
“She . . . what?”
“She’s alive.”
But she was so still. Heavy and cold. The Woman took her away. She was dead.
“Is this a . . . trick?” he asked.
“No.”
“She was dead.” He felt his mouth contort, his eyes get wet.
“Well, she isn’t,” Johnson said bluntly. “Rebecca Fielding took her back to her house after you parted ways and she regained consciousness. Fielding locked her in a room and, according to her, tried to care for her as best she could until she’d decided what to do. Did you have any contact with her during this time?”
Chris was kneading his cheeks. The Woman had a name. Rebecca Fielding. It didn’t matter. It did. The room was revolving. “I called her a couple of times but she didn’t answer. I thought . . .”
“We know what you thought. But Freya Harlow is not dead.”
The words seemed to penetrate at last.
“You’ve still committed multiple crimes,” Johnson reminded him unnecessarily.
But he hadn’t killed a teenage girl. Hadn’t cut her life short and turned the light out on her parents.
Maybe he didn’t deserve this redemption, but he strained breathlessly toward it.
He should have known that Freya Harlow, with all her talents, her tricks, all her energy and anger, would bring herself back to life.