I stop worrying about who will hear, why I’m doing this, and what’s at stake. I just sing. My voice soars with my heart. As the last notes flow freely from my mouth, and the ripple of applause bounces off the buildings, I turn to see Fitz standing next to Betsy. Fitz gives me the thumbs up. Even Jackson Black gives me the thumbs up. There’s no doubt that I’m the missing songbird.
As the choir disperse, each person gives me a hug before they rush off for their busy lives of school pick-ups, ageing parents, food to be made or consumed. I catch Fitz loitering with Terry and make my way over. They’re laughing together. She’s batting her long lashes at him, and he’s beaming. Are they an item? I hadn’t realised. So she’s genuinely not interested in Marco. I sidle up to her. She pulls back self-consciously, indulging in an overgenerous exuberance, which is maybe intended to cover up something she didn’t want me to see.
‘You were fantastic. Amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, trying to stop the colour rising from my cheeks. It’s okay to accept compliments. I have to learn to do that better. But that’s not my only concern. ‘So I’m guessing Marco’s not going to have to face any charges of impropriety,’ I say.
Fitz shakes her head, delighted, her streaked black hair falling over her face. ‘Absolutely not. In fact, after you left, they found the missing files.’
‘Oh?’
Fitz raises one eyebrow. ‘Down the back of Betsy’s desk. She must have pushed it there by accident when she thought the place had been burgled.’
‘Thought?’ I say, perplexed. I thought it most definitely had been burgled.
‘Yup. Thought. We found the CCTV footage in Marco’s bin. To be honest…’ She clutches both hands in front of her, her head slipping to one side in a childish, charming manner. ‘You didn’t need to sing. We saw you go in. But…’ She grabs my shoulder. ‘We loved your singing. It was fun because it really rubbed the whole thing in so nicely for Betsy.’ Fitz’s eyes flash with a cheeky exuberance.
‘So Marco’s off the hook.’ My body relaxes.
‘Hmm…’ Fitz points the toe of her expensive trainer into the soft boards of the dais. ‘Not completely. He took the guitars.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Honestly?’
She nods. ‘Oh yeah. It’s plain as day. I mean, he’s wearing a hoody but,’ she throws her hands up in a comic show of exasperation before lowering her voice, ‘it’s the one he always wears, so…’
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, my heart racing in my chest. So all of this was for nothing. Betsy still has dirt on Marco. A frown crosses my forehead as it hits me. ‘Fitz, where is Marco?’
CHAPTER 19
CLARA
‘You would not believe the past couple of days I’ve had,’ Minty says.
I don’t have time for this. We’re in the kitchen. It’s a mess. ‘Me too, Minty, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t keep things organised at home.’
He pulls out one of the pine kitchen chairs from under the table and sinks onto it. ‘That’s because you’re amazing.’
‘No.’ Sometimes he makes me so mad. ‘It’s because I’m organised. I don’t let one little thing like an oil change upset my universe.’
He stops rubbing his temples and gives me an odd look, as if realising for the first time that life does not actually revolve around him.
‘I could get a takeaway for us tonight?’ This is Minty’s answer to everything.
‘I don’t want a takeaway.’ I don’t want to eat. I want to get things sorted in the house and then hit the sack. I’d love to sleep, but I’ve started to worry. No one has seen any trace of Marco. Not for forty-eight hours. Then there’s the missing guitars, Betsy still on the warpath, and nothing is right.
‘I’ve got this new mate,’ Minty says, picking the oil out of his cuticles, ‘that I think would be perfect for you.’
‘Minty, no! Not after the last one. No way. And don’t do that with your hands. We eat at that table.’
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, running both of his palms down the full length of his face. ‘Ugh.’
‘I want to get back to the office. Stan said he’ll try to help me trace Marco. He knows a driver that Marco uses. I know it’s stupid; he’d contact me if he wanted to, but… I need to see him again, just once. Have you got any washing to do?’ I ask Minty.
He groans. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’m putting on a wash. Anything blue. Nothing oily.’
Minty pulls himself from the table and ambles up the stairs. ‘I don’t feel like I’ve seen much of you recently,’ he says, his voice growing thinner as he reaches the landing.
