He’d pulled over down a deserted lane and called The Woman. It’s gone wrong, he’d told her, in a voice he’d never heard himself use before. Very wrong. She’d asked him where he was and told him to stay put. When she’d arrived in an old Fiesta half an hour later, he’d still been in shock. He hadn’t yelled at her, like he had in his head a hundred times since. Hadn’t asked who the fuck she was. She’d been wearing a hat and scarf so he couldn’t see her whole face, only watery green eyes. When she’d caught sight of Freya she’d let out a low, pained moan, and chanted softly to herself as she’d felt for a pulse, inspected the head wound, gestured for Chris to help her move Freya into her car. Seconds later she’d been gone, leaving Chris to fall to his knees at the side of the road.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stayed there, kneeling, in denial. How long it took him to emerge from the fog and realize that Freya’s jacket was still on his passenger seat, that there was blood everywhere, that he had to deal with these awful, awful facts, and then return to his house where Freya’s parents also lived.

“I’m so sorry,” he said out loud, feeling as if he were breaking into tiny pieces, disintegrating all over the desk. He was no longer sure whether he was apologizing to Freya or the Harlows or Vicky or himself. All the lives he’d destroyed.

The only crumb of hope was that Vicky would recover. That her life could still be good. Chris would set her free, and Di and Jane would look after her, and eventually, hopefully, she would forget she had ever known him.

67.

STEPH

Steph stared at her husband as they knelt next to her semiconscious cousin. His face was covered with bruises. And it looked like it was in collapse, like his muscles had forgotten what to do. Was he in shock? Was she? The popping in her ears, the sense that the air she was breathing was getting thicker.

She dared to glance at Becca and saw her eyelids starting to twitch, her chest rising: signs of recovery that Steph had often watched for in the past.

“Where is Freya?” she whispered to her, leaning in close. “You still haven’t told me.” The idea struck her, with an inward scream of pain, that what was left to find might be her body.

“No,” she cried softly, to herself now, pulling back from Becca and lurching to her feet.

“Steph?” Paul stood up too.