But it doesn’t.
Chapter 25
TOM
I drive away from the house feeling like my brain has been put through a washing machine, tumble-dried on high, then folded badly.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was nervously convincing myself that meeting James would be fine, that this would be a wholesome, grown-up step.
But above everything, all I can think about is Chris.
Chris Christianson — God, what a name — blond hair, cheekbones, the way Sam described him like a missing person on a milk carton. Which, apparently, he kind of is. I can still see his sister Emma’s Facebook page, the posts pleading for information, the hashtags, the grainy pictures of them as kids.
Two years of searching.
Two years of silence.
He was in a relationship with Pete, who’s married to a man like James, possessive, abusive and who, as Sam was very honest about, didn’t exactly click with him. There is no universe where they don’t know more than they’re saying.
I shake my head, as I pull up outside my house. Buster needs feeding, and frankly, I need the normalcy of a grumpy cat and my own sofa to lie on.
When I get home, Buster greets me with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for tax inspectors — a disdainful look, a slow tail flick, and then he stalks off to sit with his back to me.
I fill his bowl, half expecting him to call the RSPCA.
He sniffs at it, looks at me, essentially does the cat equivalent of rolling his eyes with his stare and starts to eat.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Evelyn.
Not again. I can’t keep ignoring this.
I can’t stop thinking about the blood.
Not now, I can’t deal with that right now.
I stare at it until it stops. She leaves a voicemail. I don’t listen.
I just need caffeine, so I grab my keys and leave the house.
Clifton is bustling, full of the kind of Saturday energy that feels personally offensive when you’re on the edge of an existential crisis. I grab a flat white from my local Spicer & Cole, and perch outside, trying to look like someone who has their life together.
I flick back into Facebook to Chris’s sister Emma. I scroll through her feed again. Post after post about Chris.
Missing. Vanished. Help.
I look at her friends. After a quick scroll, I find Pete. Does this mean they actually know each other? Or just Facebook friends?
What did Pete say to her about his disappearance?
I start to type a message to Emma—just a few words, nothing heavy—and then delete it.
Stupid. Too much. Not yet.
I take a sip of my coffee and look over my shoulder out the window.
And as I turn back, that’s when I see him.
