Clara got to her feet, shock propelling her across the room to where Emily stood. Without another word she lifted the fabric and recoiled in horror. The skin on the lower half of Emily’s back was grotesquely scarred: puckered and discolored as though it had been terribly burned. “Emily,” she whispered, “what happened to you?”
But Emily jerked away. “Nothing. It’s nothing!” Her eyes widened with something close to panic. “Please, Clara, don’t—”
“When did this happen?”
It seemed to Clara that the expression in Emily’s eyes changed then, something dark and harsh and bitter transforming her into someone else entirely, so that Clara gave an involuntary shiver. “It was a long time ago, when I was sixteen,” Emily said.
“Seventeen?” Clara shook her head in confusion. “When you were still living at home? I don’t understand—”
Emily stared at her and Clara held her breath, sure that Emily was going to tell her something, and she leaned forward, again touching her arm. “Emily,” she said, “you can tell me. Who did this to you? How did it happen? If you’re still scared of whoever it was, if they’re preventing you from going home, then I’ll help you. You can stay here with me. I’ll go to the police with you. It will be all right—I promise.”
Tears spilled down Emily’s face, her eyes searching Clara’s. “I—,” she began, but at that moment Clara’s phone started to ring, startling her into silence. “Who’s that?” she asked nervously.
Inwardly Clara cursed herself for not muting her mobile before Emily arrived. She felt sure that she’d been about to tell her something. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Emily, please—”
“You should answer it,” insisted Emily, turning away.
Clara shook her head and took hold of her hand. “No, Emily. Please talk to me.”
Emily only stared at her, her expression unreadable. The phone rang off. “You should see who that was,” she said finally. “It might be important—the police, or . . .”
Knowing she was defeated, Clara nodded and went to her bag. “It was Tom,” she said in surprise when she looked at her phone. A bleep signaled a voice mail message and she put it to her ear. “Clara?” Tom’s voice was harried. “I’m in London. I need to speak to you. I tried looking for you at Mac’s, but I guess you must be at your place. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She frowned, staring down at her phone. “That was Tom. He’s on his way over. I wonder what he—”
But Emily had already snatched up her coat and was making for the door. “I have to go.”
As Clara stared at her in surprise, she scrabbled with the door handle. “Emily, calm down!” she said, going to her. “It’s all right. Let me do it, I—”
The look of panicked desperation Emily shot her stopped Clara in her tracks. “You won’t tell him, will you, Clara?” she begged. “You won’t tell Tom I was here? Please, Clara, you must promise.”
“Of course I won’t. I promise—hey, Emily, calm down. I won’t tell. . . .”
But Emily was already out of the flat and heading for the stairs, the hood of her jacket pulled up high around her face.
“Emily, wait!” Clara called, but there was no reply. She watched until she disappeared, waiting until she heard the main door slam below before she went back into her flat. She stood, a little stunned, her heart thumping, then sank onto the sofa. The expression on Emily’s face when she realized Tom was on his way had been one of pure terror. Her thoughts raced, remembering now the scene she’d witnessed at the Willows, Rose so cowed, so defeated as Tom had towered over her. Then she recalled how Mac had told her Tom had gone off the rails after Emily left, getting involved in drugs and drink and a bad crowd. And Mac had said something else too—that Rose and Oliver had become so protective of Luke they wouldn’t leave him alone in the house—not even if Tom was there. Her unease deepened. Had it, in fact, been Tom they’d been protecting Luke from?
Who had hurt Emily so badly when she was seventeen? Why was she too scared to go back to her family now? From the little Luke had told her about his sister, he had painted a picture of someone strong and single-minded, yet the woman Clara had met was someone intensely vulnerable, and clearly traumatized. Something else occurred to her. Tom had been in London the day her flat was broken into, turning up out of the blue only a few hours later, looking as though he’d barely slept. Then there was the fact Emily had treasured photos of Luke and her parents, but not one of him—had visibly flinched at the mention of his name.
She sat up straighter, her heart accelerating as she looked at her watch. Ten minutes had passed since Tom’s phone call. She suddenly realized she didn’t want to be alone with him. She needed to get out of the flat.
—
When she arrived on the Holloway Road half an hour later, she stood on the street looking up at Mac’s windows. Though she’d tried to call him on her way over, he hadn’t picked up the phone. She rang the bell now and waited, desperate to talk to him about what had taken place at her flat, but the intercom remained silent. Where was he? He knew that she was meeting Emily today; had told her he’d be waiting for her to come back and tell him all about it. So what was going on? Stepping back from the door, she looked up at his windows, before catching the eye of Mehmet, the owner of the kebab shop.
“You all right there, my darling?” he called.
She went in. “Have you seen him today?” she asked, breathing through her mouth to avoid the stench of sweating meat.
“No, my love, not since this morning.”
She nodded, fingering the keys Mac had given her when she’d first started staying with him.
