“So,” Jamie said, “whatever has happened to Charlotte, we can assume Hyland’s mob have at least some of her electronic equipment. Either they stole it after she left or when they took her.”
“Yes. But whatever data she has, she’ll have stored it carefully. If they’re trying to discover what dirt she has on Hyland, they won’t find it without her...cooperation.”
“Are you worried they’ll find information about you?”
“We haven’t been in touch for nearly two years, and I don’t think there’s much they don’t already know. But the problem with my friendship with Charlotte is that so much of it could be traceable to anyone with the right access—and you wouldn’t need her equipment. It’s all text messages and emails and social media and direct messaging and gaming. Our enemies could know everything up until the point I went into hiding and went offline. And if that were the case, they’d also know I don’t have a lot of other friends—real friends. So if they were going to choose someone to send that postcard to lure me out...” She twisted the ends of her scarf. “This is doing my head in.”
“Let’s cycle through the possibilities. We can assume she was alive three days ago, going by the selfie. We don’t think it’s a suicide but we do think she wrote the note, so either she ran or they captured her.”
“Or she’s working with them or they’ve killed her. And it’s possible she didn’t write the noteorthe postcard.”
“What does your gut tell you?” he said, checking his driver’s mirrors.
She looked behind them. Nothing but a truck they’d passed a few minutes ago. “I am a little hungry but I can wait.”
“I mean, what does your instinct tell you, about what’s happened to Charlotte?”
“Oh, you meant it metaphorically. Sorry, my brain’s not really... I don’t do the whole ‘instinct’ thing—unless you count paranoia. I’m more interested in facts and logic. Instinct leads to silly decisions.”
“I disagree. I think instinct is our sixth sense. Decisions made by instinct, adrenaline—they’re usually pretty sound.”
“Not for me, believe me. I can’t put together a coherent sentence unless I’ve had five minutes alone in a room to compose it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That right there was a lovely sentence.”
“Only because you’re...easy to talk to.”When you’re not promising to kiss me.“Anyway, my instinct would always have me running and hiding, which is usually not the best way to deal with a problem.” Except now. Now would be a great time to run and hide—if it weren’t for Charlotte and Tess. “I admire people who can think on their feet, react quickly. Maybe that’s why you have an instinct for these things and I don’t.”
“Your instinct got you out of that place in Italy, didn’t it?”
“Not at all. That was planning and forethought. They tripped an alarm system I’d set up. If I’d left it to instinct, I’d be in the cell next to Tess right now—or worse.”
He checked his mirrors again, which made her compulsively check behind, her nape prickling.
“But your instinct had you install those alarms,” he said.
“No. That was logic and fear and thinking it through and too much time on my hands.”
“Maybe you silence your instinct, you over-rationalize it. Our brains know a lot more than they let on to us. They pick up on nuances our conscious thoughts miss. We fool ourselves that sophisticated thought is superior—we’re raised to believe the word of people wearing white coats over our own experience in our bodies. You know what I always found as a doctor? Occasionally a diagnosis would come out of the blue but ninety percent of people who claimed to be shocked could pinpoint when their symptoms began. They’d noticed something but they hadn’t wanted it to be true, or they didn’t want to make a fuss or appear silly, so they ignored their instinct. I’m always telling people to give themselves more credit.” He made a ticking noise. “I mean, I used to tell people...”
She stared at his profile. Was that...regret? His five o’clock shadow—or whatever o’clock it was—was flecked with blond and white, and his brown hair was blonder near the temples. If he grew it, would he get a tousled, sun-kissed look? She could see him on a Mediterranean beach, blue water reflected in blue eyes. Holding a surfboard. Wet. A wetsuit stripped to the waist, just that tiny bit too low on his hips—
“You want to go and sit in a quiet room for five minutes and think about that, don’t you?”
She snapped her gaze to the front. He was making intelligent conversation about psychology and she was imagining him half-naked on a beach. She shut her eyes tight and forced a hurried mental rewind. Instinct. He was talking about instinct.
“It’s just...” she said. “I don’t think my instinct will help us figure out what’s become of Charlotte.”
“Okay, so let’s try something. Without thinking about it, answer this question straightaway. Is Charlotte alive?”
“How can the speed at which I answer produce a more accurate result?”
“Humor me. Is Charlotte alive?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“No, don’t think. Don’t weigh up the pros and cons. Just answer—is Charlotte alive?”
“This is stup—”
