MARCUS IS STANDING in the doorway, perfectly groomed and unhurried, despite the disorder in his house. He’s smiling at me pleasantly. I remember that smile from the night when we were stranded in Coldharbour Bog, when he rescued us and welcomed us in for a whiskey at his fireside. I remind myself how kind he was then, and I push away the thoughts I was starting to think. With him actually standing there, my suspicions seem like crazy fabrications. There’s something about his presence—his easy smile, the scent of his cologne—that immediately makes me feel calmer. I’ve been overwrought, emotional—I know that.
“Marcus. I’m so glad we’ve found you.”
I know it will all be all right now. Marcus will take over—he’ll know where to look for Gemma. Marcus, who knows how the world works, who wears his life like it’s tailored just for him.
He inclines his head a little.
“Grace,” he says. “And Sylvie. Well. It’s nice, as ever, to see you. Though you could have come in by a rather more orthodox route.”
I feel my face go red.
“I did ring the bell, but nobody answered,” I tell him. “The thing is—Deirdre phoned this morning, and Gemma’s disappeared. I came here looking for her. I was wondering if she was here or whether you’d maybe seen her?”
I’m aware of Sylvie pressing against me, as though she wants to melt into my body.
Marcus doesn’t answer my question.
“Technically, it’s trespass, of course,” he says. His smile is amused, flirtatious. “But I’ll overlook that—as it’s you.”
Hs eyes are on me, taking me in.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I tell him. “But I didn’t know what else to do. We were looking for Gemma. I thought that she might be here, or that I could find you and ask you . . .” I know I’m babbling on—I’m nervous, embarrassed. “And here you are,” I say lightly. Trying to sound at ease, like him.
“Yes. Here I am,” he says.
“I’m sorry about the trespassing thing,” I say again. Though I’m rather unnerved that he seems to mind. “You know how it is, in the heat of the moment. It happens so quickly, you do things you shouldn’t have done.”
He still has that slightly flirtatious smile.
“You certainly do. In the heat of the moment,” he says.
Sylvie seems to be messing about, trying to get my attention, deliberately shaking my hand. Then I look down and see that she’s trembling, her entire body quivering. I wish she wouldn’t.
“What I thought—if Gemma isn’t here—you might know places she goes to, places where we might find her,” I say. “D’you know what might have happened?”
“So you’ve come here to ask about Gemma,” he says.
It’s rather odd, the way he puts it—pushing my question away. There’s a sudden little movement at the edges of my mind, a scurry of alarm, or fear. But I tell myself that nothing bad can have happened, that all must be as it should be. He’s so relaxed, so unconcerned.
“Deirdre’s out of her mind with worry,” I tell him.
“Well, yes, she would be. Deirdre does worry,” he says.
I wish he’d answer my question.
“I was wondering when you last saw Gemma,” I say. I hear the shrill note in my voice. I know I sound too emphatic. “Deirdre did mention—I mean, I know that Gemma comes here sometimes . . .”
His eyes are still on my face.
“And, well—her scarf’s here,” I tell him. “We saw it, it’s here on the floor . . .” I’m bending to pick it up. “Look . . .”
He raises one hand in a slight, controlled gesture that stops me in my tracks and chills me.
“Yes,” he says. “Her scarf’s here.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows a little. “No, you don’t understand, do you, Grace?”
There’s a cold edge to his voice now. My heart lurches off. I hold Sylvie close against me.
With a small, cool part of my mind, I’m working out how to push past him—whether he would let us go. His body fills the doorway. He looks quite relaxed, but he’s a fit man, and he’s so much bigger than me.
“Your coming here like this was unfortunate, really,” he says. “You can see that now, can’t you? For you, certainly. Maybe for me . . . Still, I guess the jury’s out on that.”
I take a step toward him, holding Sylvie tightly.
“I think we ought to go,” I tell him.
Again, he raises his hand in that little chilling movement.
“I’m sorry the way it’s all turned out,” he tells me. There’s a tinge of regret in his voice. “Believe me, I’ve nothing against you. Not as people. You seem perfectly pleasant, both of you.” He shrugs. “But there we are.” He laughs briefly, like something has just occurred to him, something he finds amusing. “We’ll blame it on the heat of the moment,” he says.
He turns, pulls out the key that was in the lock of the door. He steps briskly out onto the landing. He slams the door shut, and I hear the click as he locks the door behind him.