Across the road Zoe met Clara’s frightened gaze and shrugged. Clara scrabbled for her phone. “Zoe,” she said when her friend picked up. “She’s onto us. I’m sure of it. Let’s give up—it’s too dangerous. Don’t follow her. I’m sure she knows what’s going on.”
But even as she replied, Zoe turned and continued following Hannah down the street. “No way, I’m not giving up now. Fuck knows what all that was about, but I’m certain she didn’t look at me once. I’m going to keep following her. I’ll speak to you soon.” And with that, she hung up.
Swearing loudly, Clara watched as they both disappeared from sight, before searching for Mac’s number.
He picked up on the first ring. “Clara? Thank God. Are you okay? Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.”
Quickly she told them what had happened. “I don’t know what to do! Zoe thinks Hannah didn’t see her, but what the fuck was she doing? Why the hell was she staring after me like that? The expression on her face was just— Oh God, I’m really worried. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. I think you should call Zoe, Mac, and tell her to back off. I—”
But Rose’s voice cut through her garbled words. “No! Don’t call it off! Please, Clara. Please let Zoe find out where she lives.”
She closed her eyes. The desperation in Rose’s voice was tangible. She heard Tom speak next. “Mum’s right,” he said. “It’s our only chance.”
She released a long, pent-up breath. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Okay. I’m on my way back now. I’ll see you soon.”
—
When she returned to Mac’s flat, the air was thick with tension as she took a seat among them in the kitchen, four pairs of eyes fastened upon her face, and quickly described to them what had happened, recounting every single word and gesture, careful not to leave anything out, beginning from the moment Hannah had appeared in front of her and ending with the strange shock of turning to find her standing motionless in the street, staring back at her.
When she’d finished, an anxious silence hung in the air, and they sat staring at Clara’s phone, which she’d placed on the center of the table, waiting for Zoe’s call. “Christ, when will she ring?” Clara asked shakily.
“Surely she should have phoned by now?” Rose asked.
“Not necessarily,” said Mac. He looked at Clara and tried to give her a reassuring smile, adding, “I’m sure it’ll be soon.”
It was half past eight—an hour and a half since Clara had left Zoe to follow after Hannah—when the phone finally rang. Clara leaped on it, putting it on speaker. “Zo?” she said. “Oh, thank God, are you okay?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said, her voice breathless and exhilarated above the noise of traffic in the background. “I’m fine. I’m on my way back now.”
Clara closed her eyes, relief washing over her. “What happened? Where did you follow her to?”
“To her flat, I think. At least I assume it’s where she lives. Acton, to be exact, northwest London. I followed her to Liverpool Street tube, then got on the Central line, and I was about to give up because by the time we got there, the carriage had really thinned out. But I don’t think she had a clue I was following her. She didn’t look at me once. She got off at Acton and the streets there were fairly busy. Luckily she lives not too far from the station and there was a noisy gang of drunk lads who walked between us almost the whole way, so I think I was safe.”
Tom cleared his throat and, raising his voice, asked, “What does her place look like?”
“Total dump. Massive old Victorian building, about five floors, a flat on each one, I’d guess. She let herself in; then a light went on in a ground-floor window, so I’m pretty sure that’s hers. I went around the back of the building and there’s this sort of car-parking area, and a back door, too, which again I think must be hers. I’ve got the address for you. I’ll text it.”
When Clara hung up, they all stared at one another wide-eyed. “Fuck,” said Tom.
“So what do we do now?” asked Mac nervously.
“We wait,” said Oliver. “We wait until the middle of the night, when she’s least expecting us, and then we go round there.”
“But then what?” said Tom. “She’s not just going to answer the door and welcome us in, is she?”
“No,” said Clara quietly. “No, she’s not.”
THIRTY-ONE
LONDON, 2017
It was two a.m. when they set off for Acton, the five of them in Tom’s car. Clara looked out at the dark, mostly empty suburban streets. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, despite the fact that Tom had turned the heating up full. In the trapped tension of the car, they listened to the satnav’s incongruously dulcet tones, guiding them ever nearer to whatever it was that was waiting for them at their journey’s end.
She put her cold hands in her jacket pockets and, feeling something sharp, withdrew her fingers with a start. Before they’d left, Mac had pulled Tom and her aside. “I think you should take these,” he’d said, and when she looked down, she’d seen two small kitchen knives in his hand.
She’d backed away. “No! Are you crazy? I don’t—”
But Mac had pleaded with her. “We don’t know what she’s going to do when we get there. She’s crazy, dangerous. Just hide it in your pocket. Please, Clara, just in case, okay?”
She’d glanced
