Two days earlier
A near sleepless night, Freya curled up beside me, the warm curve of her back pressed against my tummy and my arm stretched around her middle. I draw small comfort from the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, while I worry about what might happen if Chloe decides to share the footage she has on her phone with the rest of the world.
It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know what Connor and I did. She knows that we lied, and that’s enough. If she puts the video out there, the consequences will be catastrophic, for me, and for Connor. The integrity of the entire Born Killer project will come under question. People will jump to the wrong conclusions. They’ll think that, because we kept one secret, we must have kept others.
I lie awake into the early hours, running through all the ways my life might be about to turn upside down. At best, my reputation will be in ruins. Nobody will want to work with me, and although there have been lots of times over the last twelve months when I’ve wondered if I’ll ever feel the urge to pick up a camera again, the idea that the choice might be taken out of my hands hurts more than I could have imagined. But I suppose I can live with that, with the end of my career. If that’s all that happens to me, I’ll consider myself lucky, because there’s a risk that the video coming out could cost me a hell of a lot more than that.
When morning comes, I get Freya ready in a daze, then shower and dress in a fog of panic, repeatedly going over to the window, hoping to see Chloe walking up the driveway. But by mid-morning, there’s still no sign and she hasn’t replied to any of my messages. I’m starting to think that this is it. It’s over.
I sit on the sofa, take out my phone and brave a scroll through social media, check the usual Born Killer hashtags. There are plenty of messages: fans singing the show’s praises after their third rewatch, haters declaring it little more than a pack of lies. Connor is obviously innocent to some, obviously guilty to others. John Dalton is either the ultimate villain of the story, or the ultimate hero. Theories, memes, gifs, behind-the-scenes pictures. But no mention of any new footage. Which means Chloe hasn’t posted it, at least not yet.
I put my phone down, lean back and press the palms of my hands to my eyes. I’m exhausted. If Chloe is going to post the footage, a part of me wishes she’d just get on with it.
I suppose, if I’m being honest with myself, it might be good to have everything out in the open. I feel mad for thinking it, because the consequences could be dire, but there’s something freeing about the thought of having to face up to it all. I can’t remember what it was like to have no secrets, they are heavy things to carry around.
Perhaps it’s time to face up to what I did and take whatever punishment is coming my way. At least then I’d come out clean on the other side.
‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ a little voice says. ‘Are you sad?’
I look up and see Freya, a concerned expression on her face.
Bless her for noticing. I pull her onto my lap, give her a big hug and rub my nose against hers. She squirms and giggles and the sound of her laughter calms something inside me.
‘Nothing’s wrong, darling,’ I tell her. What else can I say? I can hardly tell her that our lives might be about to be ruined because of something Mummy did ten years before she was even born.
‘If you’re sad, you should do something that makes you happy,’ she tells me, as if it’s that simple. Oh, to be five years old again. On the other hand, perhaps she’s right. If the truth is going to come out, I should be making the most of today. I should be treasuring every last second of normality we have left.
‘Do you know what would make me happy?’ I say. She shakes her head. ‘A game of Dinosaur Golf!’
Freya gasps and her eyes go large. ‘Really? We can go? When, when?’
‘Right now! Go and get your shoes on, and ask Grandpa if he wants to come with us. Hurry, hurry!’
Fifteen minutes later the three of us are in the car, Freya in the back, strapped into her car seat, Dad sitting beside me, adjusting the headrest.
‘Does anybody need the toilet?’ I look over to Dad. ‘That’s meant for Freya, rather than you.’
‘I gathered,’ he says.
Freya assures me she doesn’t, but when she’s as excited as she is right now, there’s no telling if she’s being honest or not. I turn to her over my shoulder. ‘You’re sure? Because we won’t be able to stop until we get there.’ She nods as Dad nudges me with his elbow.
‘I thought you weren’t working today,’ he says.
‘I’m not,’ I tell him.
‘Well, I think you forgot to tell your little friend,’ he says.
I turn back to see a familiar figure, wearing a grey zip-up hoodie, walking up the drive towards us.
Chloe. She’s come back. Oh, thank God.
‘Give me a minute,’ I say. I get out of the car to go to her and we come to a stop a few feet away from each other. She eyes me warily.
‘I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ I say, keeping my voice low.
Chloe shrugs, looks down at her shabby trainers.
‘I didn’t mean to – you know … I shouldn’t have …’ I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that.
‘S’OK,’ she grunts, rubbing her left wrist with her right hand.
I want nothing more than to give her a big hug, but the events of last night have built a wall between us. Still, I have to know how bad things might get, and whether or not it’s too late.
‘Have you shown it to anyone?’ I ask.
She knows exactly what I mean. She looks away, her face set in stone, and for a moment I fear the worst, but after a few deep breaths she shakes her head, and the wave of relief nearly knocks me off my feet.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘And thank you for coming back, for giving me a chance to explain.’
If I’m going to tell Chloe the truth, and I feel like I’m going to have to if I’m going to persuade her to delete that footage, then we need room to talk, in private, ideally as soon as possible. I can hardly let Freya down now that she’s all excited, but I don’t want to risk sending Chloe away, either. I want her close, where I can keep an eye on her.
‘We’re taking Freya to Dinosaur Golf,’ I tell her. ‘You could come with us, if you like?’
Chloe considers it for a moment, then shrugs. ‘I guess.’
A few minutes later we set off, driving out of town, following the directions on the little map on the back of the leaflet Freya picked up at the petrol station days earlier.
Dad grumbles in the passenger seat, fiddles with the car stereo, while in the back Freya and Chloe play rock, paper, scissors, like they’re the best of friends. And I eye Chloe in the mirror, a little time bomb, dressed like my dead best friend, who could explode at any moment.