Something made him flip open the glove box and check it yet again, reaching his hand to the back and patting his way around the carpeted emptiness. He sat back and fastened his seat belt but the jitters wouldn’t settle. This car used to feel like a haven. His domain, where he was in charge, the expert. He’d liked being alone in it, listening to nostalgic soft rock and swigging coffee from his travel cup, but he’d also liked the ebb and flow of students, the way he could allow them in for prescribed blocks of time. Recently, though, he’d felt trapped if he spent too long sitting there, felt like he was running out of air.

His mind returned to his conversation with Vicky, the bracelet glinting from her wrist. It was possible her sister had given it to her. Chris knew he shouldn’t ring Di and ask, but the compulsion to do so was taking root. He needed to get to his next appointment, find a distraction. He’d see Di later at the weekly lunch. Maybe he’d—

He sat bolt upright. A navy Puffa jacket was moving toward him along the street.

Seconds later his vision adjusted, but his heart still charged. Red hair, not blonde; scurrying steps, not long, athletic strides.

Jess, not Freya.

And, in fact, the coat was black rather than navy, different from Freya’s now that he saw it properly.

Jess spotted him and faltered. Struggling to recover, Chris lowered his window. She stopped but he noticed she didn’t come too close, which made him feel grubby, tainted.

“You okay?” he asked her.

She shook her head, her eyes filling.

“Sorry,” he said. “Stupid question.”

“I’ve come to talk to Steph.”

She looked younger than usual and Chris realized she was wearing no makeup. There was a childishness about the way she was standing, too, with toes pointed inward, hands clutching opposite elbows. He felt a sudden sharp twist of sorrow. “Has there been any news?” he asked.

Her chin thrust out. “I thought you’d know more than me. Judging by what the police have said.”

Chris flinched as if she’d spat through his window. Not for the first time, he wondered how much Freya had told Jess about him. Her eyes were wide with accusation, but she couldn’t seem to keep them trained on his face. Lines marred her forehead; the overall effect was more confused than confrontational.

“Jess . . . I don’t know what the police have been implying. Of course they’ll be checking out my story, testing other possibilities—that’s their job. But as far as I knew, she’d gone back to school after our lesson. I really thought she had.”

There was a silence. Recycled air blew from his dashboard heaters. Jess didn’t seem to know what to think. Her lip had started to tremble.