THIRTY-THREE
LONDON, 2017
It was her final day of giving evidence, and as Clara walked from the courts, she turned to take one last look at the large white stone building she hoped never to step foot in again, and felt a euphoric surge of relief. It was early September, warm still, and breezy, the trees that lined the wide, bus-congested thoroughfare showering their first leaves upon the sun-dappled pavement. She pulled out her phone and, seeing that there were two missed calls from Luke, halted her step and stared down at it for a moment.
Since being discharged from hospital, Luke had been living at the Willows while he recovered from his ordeal. She had made the journey to Suffolk to see him only once, when they’d walked across the fields behind his parents’ home, finally able to talk alone for the first time since they’d found him in Hannah’s flat. As they’d walked, she’d stolen little glances, and she saw how he was altered by what he’d been through. It wasn’t just the scars that were still visible on his arms; she noticed that his eyes, once so full of complacent good humor, belonged to someone more uncertain now. The easy smile that had once perpetually hovered around his mouth was long gone. She’d been conscious of his hand swinging by his side, painfully aware that once it would have snatched up hers without a moment’s thought.
He told her that he’d met Hannah one night in a pub. “I was at the bar and she was standing next to me. She looked kind of lost, so I smiled at her, made some small talk, and she said she’d been stood up by her friend. So I bought her a drink.”
“Right,” Clara said, keeping her gaze focused on the horizon as they trudged through a meadow full of cowslip. She had been determined that there would be no recriminations while she listened to his story, but now hurt and bitterness rose up inside her and she had to swallow hard to control it.
Glancing at her, Luke’s eyes widened. “No, nothing like that, Clara, I swear! But . . . I don’t know—there was something about her. . . . I can’t explain it. It was like I knew her somehow, like I’d always known her. She was interesting. We talked about music and art and stuff; she’d been to the same festivals and gigs I’d been to, liked the same films, even been to the same exhibition I’d gone to the week before. Everything that came out of her mouth, all her opinions, were spot-on. I was . . . drawn to her, I guess. The conversation just flowed between us—she seemed so switched on, so interesting. You know what I’m like—I love meeting people, talking to new people. We hit it off, that’s all.”
She nodded stiffly. “So what happened next?”
“We said good-bye, and I put her out of my mind. I thought it had been nothing more than a pleasant evening. I certainly never thought I’d see her again. But as I was leaving work a month or so afterward, she pulled up beside me in this van. She called out my name and seemed surprised to see me, asked where I was going, and when I said I was on my way home, she told me she was heading east herself and to get in, that she’d give me a lift.”
“And so you got in,” Clara said.
He glanced at her. “Believe me, I have regretted it every minute of every day since. I was fucking stupid. It was pure impulse, spur-of-the-moment.” He shrugged. “I just thought, fuck it, why not?”
“Christ, Luke!”
“I know. I know. She had a bottle of that whisky I like on the passenger seat, and I was really surprised, because not many people know about it, and it’s my favorite. But anyway, when I mentioned how much I liked it, she asked if I wanted a bit, and it had been a long day, so I took a few swigs while we chatted. . . . The next thing I knew, I woke up in a pitch-black car park in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“The Downs.”
“Right.” He stopped talking and she heard his breath catch in distress. “My wrists and ankles were bound. She had a knife. Told me to get out of the car, and when I wouldn’t, she cut me, said she’d do far worse if I didn’t do what I was told. I was still so groggy and confused. . . . She got me out of the car and there was another one parked a few feet away. She loosened the rope around my ankles just enough so I could shuffle and told me to get in it, and we started driving again.”
“And you drove back to London?” Clara frowned. “Why did she do that?”
“To confuse the police, I guess.”
Clara tried to imagine how it must have felt to have been in that car, how terrified he must have been. As if reading her thoughts, Luke said, “I was scared witless. It was surreal, waking up like that. I thought it was a joke, a prank, you know? And then she cut me, and I suddenly realized that I was in big fucking trouble, that she was completely off her head. The drive back to London, I kept drifting in and out of consciousness as she started talking about my dad, about Emily, but none of it made sense. I realized it was she who’d been sending me the e-mails and photos, and the more she talked, the more crazy I realized she was, and the more it dawned on me what deep shit I was in.
“I still thought I’d be okay, though.” He
