‘But Ada hasn’t. She wouldn’t—’
‘She’s snooping. She’s been in my office. Dumb bitch.’
Not that dumb if she’s the only person to suspect Jack was involved in my disappearance.
‘Don’t for a second think she’s sticking her oar in for your benefit,’ he parries. ‘She just wants to come out of this a fucking hero. She’s a showy bitch.’
I am guilt-stricken; I’ve called my sister showy on countless occasions. But had my opinion of Ada informed Jack’s, or has Jack’s opinion of her informed mine? ‘And how am I supposed to try, Jack? What do you want from me?’
His stare is penetrating. ‘Everything was perfect the night of the storm. The way we connected. It was the last time things between us were the way they should be.’
My head thumps and the room tilts. Sex. He wants sex. Wants me to let him put himself inside of me. This was his idea of changing my mind – blackmail. Give myself to him to save my sister or don’t and let her die.
Chapter Forty-Eight
160 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
He’s been in my house, Elodie. Jack has been in my house. I woke up yesterday morning to find my engagement ring and wedding band had been returned. He must’ve come in when I was sleeping. I feel so violated. The framed quote in his office about all being fair in love and war was a warning but this, this is a threat. He wants me to know he can enter my house at any time.
Terrified, I leapt out of bed and flew downstairs. The spare house key was missing. I called Christopher, and in a petrified rush, explained what had happened.
‘I suppose I can’t report it as a break-in since he used a key and nothing was stolen,’ I ventured.
‘It’ll be difficult, but you need to change your locks. When’s Ethan home?’
I paused, the pain of our failed marriage rippling through me, momentarily blotting out the fright of Jack having been in my bedroom. It hadn’t even been a week since Ethan left; he spent the first two nights at a hotel in London before flying to Slovenia for work. He’s still there now and I have no idea when or even if he’ll return to our home. He might just send someone for his things and that will be it. ‘Not sure,’ I hedged.
‘You shouldn’t be alone. Can you call him and find out?’
I sighed. ‘He isn’t going to be back for a long while. We’re …’ It took a moment to get the words out. ‘We’re separating.’
Silence crackled down the line. ‘I see.’
‘I haven’t told my parents.’
‘I’d ask if you’re okay but …’
‘I am.’
If we’d broken up before you went missing, I wouldn’t have coped. But with you gone, it put things into perspective. Now I have focus. Now I have to find you. ‘It was the right thing to do.’
Even though I couldn’t see Christopher, I could sense his warmth, could imagine the crease of concern between his brows. He cares about me. He’s even forgiven me for almost getting him caught inside Jack’s house.
‘Do you want me to come over?’ he asked.
‘I’d like that but I’m actually going to visit Kathryn to see what I can find.’
‘On Jack?’
‘Yes.’
Having seen Jack with the girl who looked like you, Christopher was starting to come around to the idea he was involved in your disappearance. Although he couldn’t ask the rugby club for employee records in an official capacity, he’d requested them from a friend of a friend, only to discover their records don’t go back that far, thanks to a fire that burned all their paper files years ago.
‘If Jack has her and she’s still alive, where do you think he’s keeping her? We were in his house and I’m sure she wasn’t locked up in a room somewhere.’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘We used to go to this cottage every summer with his family, but Kathryn sold it last year. He’s an architect though – maybe she’s in one of the buildings he’s working on?’
‘Let me know what you find out. In the meantime, I’ll call a locksmith.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ I told him because I needed to get used to doing things by myself, though it was good to know that although I may be single, I wasn’t really alone.
I got to Kathryn’s around ten in the morning under the pretence of needing photographs for a collage I was making for Jack’s upcoming birthday party. She welcomed me inside and told me all the photographs and other memorabilia were in Jeffrey’s study.
‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ called Kathryn, padding down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Jeffrey’s study hasn’t changed: floor-to-ceiling cherry wood panelling, large desk and leather chair, grand fireplace and high, arching windows. The floorboards beside his desk were lighter, the varnish having been scrubbed away. I remembered Kathryn knocking on Mum’s door gone midnight just days after the discovery of Jeffrey’s body, her hands red and blistered from bleach and hours spent cleaning her husband’s blood.
In preparation for my visit, Kathryn had pulled some boxes of photographs from the large cupboard behind his desk, but I walked past them and started dragging out more boxes, ones filled with paper and journals and photo albums. It didn’t take long to realise the journals were Jeffrey’s, penned in his cursive script. I flipped through, only stopping when I saw Jack’s name.
I look into Jack’s eyes and all I see is rot. He’s violent and selfish. A sociopath. He’s going to take that poor girl and burn her inside out, leaving her charred and writhing. Jack isn’t my son. He isn’t, but Kathryn thinks I’m—
I slapped the book shut as Kathryn glided into the room.
‘Tea,’ she announced.
I quickly shoved the journal back in the box and made sure my smile was pleasant before turning and taking the cup she held out to me.
‘Found what you were looking for?’ she asked.
‘No, not yet. I’ll be a while longer if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all, Ada. I’m expecting a call any minute though – you don’t mind if I leave you to it?’
I tried not to look too pleased. ‘That’s fine.’ I laid my hand on the cardboard box which sat on the desk. ‘Is this for me too?’
‘Oh, no, that’s Jack’s. His shredder broke so he asked me to run some bits through mine.’
I felt colour creep into my cheeks as I recalled kicking his shredder the day Christopher and I snuck into his house.
‘These days, you can’t just toss client information into the bin, can you?’ she remarked.
Heart racing with anticipation, I nodded and sipped my too-hot tea. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Jeffrey had written. ‘I found some journals. Were they Jeffrey’s?’
‘Yes. I could never bring myself to read them. He loved to write. Loved his luxury stationery. Pens, expensive paper. I bought him a new journal every year.’