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.

54.

CHRIS

“Can I make a phone call?”

“Excuse me—please. Can I have my phone call?”

“Don’t walk away! I’m entitled to a call!”

Chris had no idea how long he’d been in custody. Inside the police station it was neither night nor day. He’d been charged with theft and perverting the course of justice. The Freya Harlow investigation was ongoing, they told him, so he wouldn’t be released on bail yet.

He’d been locked in a cell with a man who was trying to pull off his own toenails. Chris felt he was inhaling human waste with every breath. Each time an officer appeared on the other side of the bars, he asked if he could make a call.

Finally, someone came to fetch him and led him to the phone.

Chris dialed the hospital—he was fairly sure Vicky would be back on shift now—and was put through to her ward.

“Chris?” She sounded frantic when she came on the line. “Are you still at the police station? What’s going on?”

Chris imagined her standing beside a reception desk in her uniform, her dark fringe pinned back from her face, her fingers scrunching the blunt edges of her hair. Yearning swelled behind his ribs. “I’m still at the police station,” he said.

“And?”

“I’m being questioned about Freya’s disappearance. And I’ve been charged with . . . theft.”

“Theft?”

Chris was conscious of the custody officer, watching and listening. He had to choose his words carefully.