My mouth drops open. “Fraud?”
“Fraud.”
“In a real prison?”
“Yes, a real prison.”
I think of Emma in the café, stirring sugar like she’s keeping time for her own orchestra. I think of Daniel’s warning—She’s a liar and a fraud—and hate that, for once, he might not be entirely wrong.
“And that’s not all,” Craig continues. “A handful of previous for things that suggest she’s more improvisational than truthful. Plus, she’s recently been charged with arson.”
“Arson?” I can’t believe this.
“Yeah, and she’s having her day in court over that soon. On top of that, let’s just say she’s known for being very… elastic with reality. And she antagonised the investigating team. Turned up unannounced. Made allegations she couldn’t support. The quickest way to make the police stop listening is to lie flamboyantly.”
“She told me she thinks Chris found something out about James,” I say. “That he was scared.”
Craig’s mouth flattens. “Lots of people are scared of men like James.”
“I know,” I say, softer.
“I’m not dismissing your instincts, Tom. But Emma’s version can’t be our only map.”
I nod and swallow more wine, which is a terrible strategy because it greases my tongue. “I, um… ran into Daniel. He knew Emma. Or at least, he knew of her.”
Craig’s eyebrows do a small theatre. “And how would Daniel know Emma?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is true and also feels like a lie because it implies I haven’t been building a conspiracy cork board in my mind. “He told me not to trust her. Called her a fraud. Literally.”
His eyes narrow. “So, Daniel followed you again?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Warned me off Emma, but then I ran.”
“I hope you put him in his place.”
“When he said Emma was trouble, I said, ‘No, you’re trouble.’”
“Jesus…” Craig puts his head in his hands.
“I can’t do unexpected conflict, you know this.” I push couscous around. “He’s definitely being persistent.”
“Stalkerish,” Craig translates.
“But that said, he was right. About Emma, I mean.”
Craig scoffs. “Maybe, but that doesn’t excuse him from being a monster. You know he’s just trying to manipulate you, use this to get to you.”
“I know, I know.” And I do.
Craig leans back, his voice edging from friend to officer. “Tom, listen to me properly for a second. You need to startlogging this stuff. Every time he shows up, every message, every weird call—write it down. Keep screenshots. It builds a pattern. If he turns up again, call it in. You don’t wait for him to escalate.”
“Craig…”
“I’m serious. I could flag it quietly if you want. A harassment notice, informal—just a warning to back off. If he ignores that, it becomes official. You’d have grounds for a restraining order if it kept going.”
“I’m not ready to be someone with a restraining order mug,” I joke, weakly.
“Then start by being someone with a diary,” Craig shoots back. “You’ve got history with him. That matters legally. He’s already been violent with you once before.”
