I nearly let it go to voicemail out of pure cowardice, then remember that this is my one sensible adult in a world of lunatics (me included), so I answer. “Hi.”
I can’t stalk and talk, so I make the sensible decision to pause behind a tree and pick up the phone.
“Where are you?” he says without hello, cop-voice engaged. Calm, clipped, carrying. The voice that makes you find a seatbelt even if you’re on a sofa.
“Uh… out,” I say, like I’m a teenager and he’s caught me vaping.
“Can you come by tonight?” he asks. “I’ve got updates. Would rather do this face-to-face.”
“Updates?” My chest tightens. “On… which part of my terrible life?”
“Chris.” He pauses. “And some things that might intersect with… other things.” It’s the vaguest I’ve ever heard him be. “Half seven?”
“Yeah. Yes. I’ll be there.” I hesitate.
This would be the moment to say, “By the way, your husband and James just had a surprise cliff-side summit meeting.” But the words get stuck behind my teeth. The idea of hurling that into a phone call feels wrong, like defusing a bomb by text. “Thanks, Craig.”
“Tom—” he begins, then changes tack. “Just… keep your head down for the rest of today, alright?”
“Absolutely,” I lie, while stalking a man through shrubbery. We hang up.
I pocket the phone and peek out from the tree. James is way off into the distance now from the path, too far to catch up without breaking into an unsubtle run. I make the decision to end my Jessica Fletcher cosplay and head back to my car.
It’s a long trek back. I didn’t realise how far we’d come, so I up the pace. I have a memory stick full of potentially incriminating videos that need to be reviewed, plus the knowledge that James and Phil are heated acquaintances to stew over.
I need to formulate a plan of how I’m going to tackle this with Craig.
Ultimately, I need wine.
Eventually I reach my car, a few streets down from James and Pete’s place. As I fiddle with my keys, a recognisable voice comes from behind.
“Tom.”
My heart does a Broadway leap into my throat. I spin.
Daniel is standing two paces away, like he’s been conjured by the word “red flag.” He’s in a dark coat, hair too neat, that lawyerly cleanliness that looks like you could wipe a verdict off his cheek.
“Daniel, what are you doing here?” I fire back.
He ignores my question.
“How do you know Emma Christianson?” he asks.
The shock propels me into petulance. “How doyouknow Emma Christianson?”
A flicker of annoyance. He steps closer, lowering his voice like we’re co-conspirators. “Don’t be cute. She’s trouble.”
“You’re trouble,” I say, which is not the slam-dunk I want it to be, but my hands are shaking and my mouth is a different person with different goals. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” he says, with the ease of a man who has never found the truth helpful. “I was walking. I saw you. I wanted to talk.”
“I’ve told you not to follow me, Daniel.” I’m struggling to interact and unlock my car in the moment.
“We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” The door unlocks and I rip the door open and jump inside.
“You can’t trust Emma,” he says firmly, as I slam the door.
