It’s a funny thing. We now live in a massive house but honestly, because it’s all open plan, there are no secrets. Or rather, there are loads of secrets, apparently, but it’s easier to find them out now than when we lived in our small house when everyone had a door they could close. I’m guessing Dad didn’t take that into account when he picked this place.
“So, what now?”
“They said they had someone else in for questioning.”
“Who?”
“Patrick Pearson.”
“Patrick Pearson?” Dad sounds stunned.
“Yes. They haven’t arrested him, but I think it’s only a matter of time.” Mum sounds satisfied with this, vindicated.
“Shit.” Dad takes a step backward, staggers a bit, rests his hands on the kitchen counter, as though he needs something to keep him upright.
Mum snakes her arms around his back and rubs him, like she’s comforting a child. “I know, this is huge, isn’t it? DI Owens said there is a paper trail to enormous sums of money in various offshore accounts that can ultimately be linked back to our account. Well, a digital trail, I suppose.”
“How much money?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t give him the money? It’s not another one of your gifts, is it?”
“Ha-ha, Jake,” Mum says drily. “I’m serious. No, of course I didn’t give him any bloody money. I hate the man.”
Dad nods but doesn’t look at her. Mum is staring at him, trying to make eye contact, trying to read him. She used to be very good at that. She used to say she knew his every thought, then she’d joke that it wasn’t tricky as all he ever thought about was food or sport. I think he has a lot more on his mind nowadays.
“Must be hard for you to process the betrayal. It’s a massive shock,” she says.
“No, it’s not that. Well, yes, yes, obviously. But—” My dad shakes his head. He seems bewildered.
“I mean, it’s also a relief, right? Now that we’ve found out who did it, the kids are safer.” Mum sounds shrill. I can see her face side-on. She looks hard, furious. Then her face sort of collapses and she starts to cry. This is her thing. She behaves aggressive and tough just before the moment she shows her vulnerability. I think she needs to take some evening primrose or something. “I am devastated, too,” she admits. “I’ve known for months that Patrick is a vile, despicable criminal, but I never imagined he’d hurt our daughter, a child he has known since she was born. I suppose that’s self-absorbed of me. After all, he killed Toma’s child through greed and neglect, so actually planning an abduction isn’t such a jump.” WTF? Patrick killed someone? A child? Mum goes on. “The man disgusts me. You saw her, Jake. You saw the state she was in.”
“I know, I know.” Dad looks like he’s going to cry again. He’s been like an emotional wreck since I was kidnapped. They both have, but Mum tries harder to tough it out, it’s like she doesn’t want to worry me. Dad’s eyes follow me around, scarred, scared, sorrowful. I wish he wouldn’t. It’s hard enough dealing with my own crap. Dad turns to Mum and pulls her to his chest. She sort of collapses against him. I shiver. I mean, I’m home now, right? Safe. But yeah, Mum is correct—I was in a state. Totally fucked up. It was so, so beyond awful. I rub my stomach. I feel empty. Since, you know. I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. I probably didn’t. So why am I so sad? It’s a relief, right? That I didn’t have to make a decision. The doctor said I’d still be okay, you know, in the future, when I’m older and I’m with someone. So that’s good. Only it doesn’t really feel good. Not totally. I feel so, so sad. I try not to think about it too much. Probably for the best. But even though I’m not trying to remember stuff, bits keep coming back to me. Like nothing in a coherent run but flashes of sounds or smells. The memories choke me, deafen me. Like I can still feel the gag in my mouth, tearing at the side of my lips, the actual texture of the cloth, and I keep wanting to spit it out. And the smell of the damp, fuggy mattress lingers in my nostrils, makes me feel sick and faint. The perfume the woman wore hangs about near my hair. I mean, that’s not possible. Perfume doesn’t transfer from one person to another and even if it did, I’ve washed my hair, like, five times since then. But the smell won’t go away.
“I’m going to go and visit Megan,” I yell as I clatter down the stairs.
“What? No. Why would you do that?” asks Mum, breaking from Dad’s embrace and turning to me, the habitual look of perpetual worry etched into her face.
“I’ve just heard you say Patrick has been arrested.”
“Well, taken in for questioning,” Mum corrects cautiously. She doesn’t yell at me for listening in to their conversation or anything like that. Since my abduction, and the baby thing, Mum and Dad have started to treat me differently. Differently from before and differently to each other. Mum and I are closer. She seems to, I don’t know, almost respect me as another adult now. Dad seems embarrassed if anything. I guess there’s no way either of them can see me as their baby girl anymore.
“Can you imagine what she is going through? Her dad is like a proper crim.”
My dad, who is basically a hero—negotiated my release, recovered me, got me to hospital—steps up again and says to Mum, “I’ll drive her, she shouldn’t go on her own. You stay here with Logan. We won’t be long.”
Mum, who was probably going to have, like, a million objections and probably also wants to come with us—not to offer Carla any consolation, just to punch her in the face or something—looks
