Fracture

‘Look,’ she said finally. ‘Carter and I are friends. Or at least, we’re trying to be. That’s it. He’s with Jules. He… cares about her.’

Across the room Sylvain set down a stack of papers. His gaze was piercing but he said nothing – he just let her talk.

‘Being friends is just kind of… hard after being… other things,’ she admitted. ‘And last night we… talked about it. It was fine.’

‘If it was fine, why aren’t you speaking to each other now?’

So he noticed that, too.

Allie flushed scarlet. ‘Like I said. It’s hard.’

Her words were flat and his eyes flashed to her searchingly but she wasn’t about to say any more. She’d been as honest as she could be – she’d never betray Carter’s trust in her.

It was time to change the subject.

‘What’s with you two anyway?’ she said, pulling another book off the shelf. ‘You used to hate each other. Now you work together. You’re almost nice to each other.’

Apparently unbothered by her question, Sylvain pulled a slim metal pin out of his pocket and began working the lock on a desk drawer. ‘After what happened to you and Jo… we talked. We decided it was time to stop fighting with each other, and to focus on Nathaniel. It has worked well.’ The lock clicked open. ‘We train together now.’

Allie nearly fell off the chair. ‘You don’t.’

‘We do.’ Seeing her disbelieving expression, he smiled. ‘He is very good – very strong. I am more agile of course but… he’s not bad.’

‘That… is amazing.’ She tried to imagine the conversation when they set aside six years of enmity. It was impossible.

Reaching the end of the bookcases, she climbed down from her chair, wiping her hands on the blue wool of her skirt. ‘There’s nothing here. Just really boring books.’

Sylvain was crouched low, trying another lock with his pick. He pointed at the door leading into the adjacent room. ‘His bedroom’s through there. Check the bedside tables.’

Allie made a face.

Zelazny’s bedroom, she thought, revolted. Gross.

With slow reluctance she moved through the doorway and felt along the walls. The switch was cold under her fingers. Light flooded the small bedroom. It was painted the same shade as the sitting room – she had to admit it was a soothing colour.

On one wall was a double bed, covered in a dark blue blanket tucked in with perfect, square corners. Not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere.

‘You could eat off this room,’ she murmured to herself.

‘What?’ Sylvain called.

‘Nothing.’

A table with two drawers, topped with a small brass lamp, sat to the right of the bed. Allie approached it as she might a viper. Steeling herself, she reached out for the top drawer, although every fibre of her being rebelled against the idea of opening it.

In her head she repeated a mantra over and over again: Please don’t let there be porn. Please don’t let there be porn. Please don’t…

It slid open silently to reveal a pair of wire-framed reading glasses, a pencil sharpened to a fine point, two books of crossword puzzles and one of sudoku.

Nothing useful but also, thank God, nothing creepy.

Just as she was about to close the drawer, two weird, pink-ish plastic lumps caught her eye. She peered at them with unconcealed disgust before realising what they were.

Earplugs.

‘Grim,’ she whispered, slamming the drawer shut.

Having found nothing vile in the first drawer, it was easier to make herself open the second. A book entitled Conflict and Resolution sat on top, and she pulled it out to see underneath.

Beneath it was a notepad and pen, a CD, a small box of tissues and a jar of ointment.

Allie refused to look too closely at the ointment.

‘There’s nothing here,’ she called out.

‘Look under the bed,’ he replied.

‘Awesome,’ she muttered.

Sighing heavily, she climbed down on to her hands and knees to peek underneath the pine bed frame. Clean as a whistle. There was nothing there but a suitcase and a cardboard box.

She pulled the suitcase out first to find it empty. Methodically, she checked all the pockets, finding nothing.

As she worked, she thought about what Sylvain had said. How easily he’d seen through her attempt at normality after what happened in the woods. And she thought with guilt about how she’d treated him since Jo’s death – as if he were a problem she didn’t have time to solve. In many ways, she’d treated him the way Carter had treated her.

The realisation made her stop in the middle of closing the suitcase. Turning, she stared over her shoulder at the open doorway behind her. Through it, she could hear the sound of Sylvain shuffling through the contents of the desk drawers. She could envision his quick, intelligent movements as he searched for signs that his mentor had helped a murderer.

The floor felt cold beneath her as she shoved the suitcase slowly back into its hiding spot.

Ever since Jo’s death, she’d tried so hard not to feel anything. But now it was as if when Carter kissed her it opened a door she’d been pressing shut with all her strength. She was flooded with confusing feelings.

Sylvain was a complicated person, and they had a messed-up history, but he’d never once stopped caring about her. Never given up on her and found someone else. Never pressured her. She’d ignored him for weeks but still he’d waited for her. Been patient with her. He had been… constant.

‘Have you found anything?’

Sylvain’s voice made Allie jump guiltily, as if he might know she was thinking about him.

‘Nothing yet.’

The only other object under the bed was a cardboard box, and she pulled it now. The lid wasn’t sealed, and it appeared well used, as if the box had been looked through many times.

It seemed to hold mostly keepsakes and records. There were some old bank statements – she studiously didn’t read those – and a few bills and letters addressed to ‘Mr August S. Zelazny’. (What’s the S for?)

A book at the bottom caught her eye and she pulled it out. It was pale blue and white. The title read ‘Your Baby Book’.

Frowning, she opened it to find a picture of a tiny red newborn, his face screwed up in protest. Above the picture was the cheery heading ‘Your first photo shoot!’

The baby’s name was filled in below it. Arnold August Zelazny. The birthdate was fifteen years ago.

Zelazny has a son? She read it again, puzzled. He’d never mentioned a child. And he was clearly not married now.

She turned the page. There was a photo of a younger, smiling Zelazny, hardly looking like himself. He had more hair, a dimple in his chin. He looked relaxed and… joyful. With him was a smiling brunette, her hair in slight disarray, as if she’d just been in bed. Between them they held the baby carefully, as if he were made of the most delicate glass.

Allie stared at the photo in dismay.

What happened? she wondered, her fingers lingering on the edge of the page. The thick paper was slick beneath her fingers – designed to last for ever.

She had a horrible suspicion that something dreadful had occurred. Babies don’t just disappear from your life.

She turned the pages to find more photos of the baby. Growing hair. Smiling with tiny teeth. Dates when he