“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He orders and the waitress leaves. He turns to Holly again, takes a sip of his beer, then puts it down.
“With a missing kid, why not go straight to the police? Why come to me?”
“My family is well-known,” she says, happy to be back on comfortable ground. “The Darling family has been stalked by the media for years. The police would mean publicity—lots of it.”
“You mean like with Mad Michael?” he says, humming a few bars of the ditty. Holly grimaces. Michael, Wendy’s baby brother. Brilliant, quiet, and by all accounts kind in a way his siblings were not. Until the accident, which no one could explain—a sensible boy falling from the third-floor window of his house. After, he developed a penchant for misadventures large and public—disrobing in Hyde Park, waving wooden swords, claiming he could fly. It all culminated in a popular 1920s ditty, written when he tried to jump from his old nursery window naked, arms flapping as he crowed at the sky.
“I detest that song,” Holly says through gritted teeth. “But yes. Great-Uncle Michael, and other, more recent events. I’ve experienced it firsthand, and it was miserable. I have a son as well as my daughter, and I’d like to spare them both that.”
“Right,” he says, all levity gone. He looks her up and down, as if it’s his turn to assess her. “I read the newspaper coverage. The car crash was tragic. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She’s startled and takes a sip of her tea to cover it. People never mention the crash to her. But there’s something in his face. The semi-smirk he’s worn since she sat down has disappeared, but it’s more than that. It’s as if he somehow understands what she’s lost.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Your daughter was born after, I take it? There’s no talk of her in the newspapers.”
Her hackles go up again, even though it’s rational—expected, even, given his profession—that he would have researched her before their meeting.
“You’ve been busy,” she says.
He shrugs. “It’s my job. How old is your daughter?”
She hesitates, sees him notice. “Eden’s biological age is thirteen, but she looks considerably older,” she says. “She was born with a rare disorder that ages her prematurely. It’s one of the reasons we’ve kept her life so private all these years.”
The we is deliberate, as if someone else has sanctioned Holly’s decisions. If Christopher catches it, he doesn’t follow up on it.
“Has she been in contact with her father?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then why would he be interested now?”
Holly thinks of all the uses Peter could make of Eden and shivers. “We’ve kept her very sheltered because of her health problems,” Holly says. “She’s been . . . bedridden for the past few years. I don’t think she’d be able to run away on her own. Her father is the logical person to facilitate something like this. And, to be honest, he might find it amusing to know I’m worried. Let’s just say he’s never really grown up.”
He asks more questions. About Peter, about what he looks like and what he does for a living, and she tap-dances around both of those. She invents a fake name, says she doesn’t know his occupation.
“He had a certain glow. Charisma. Like a movie star,” is what she tells Christopher.
Christopher also asks about Eden. Again Holly skirts the truth. She can’t simply say, Actually, I haven’t spoken to my daughter in years. She’s been in a coma all this time, and now she’s vanished, whether under her own power or someone else’s I have no idea. Nor can she share that for all of those years, she’s been taking large vials of Eden’s blood every month.
After a few moments he changes course. “Tell me about your business. Darling Skin Care?”
She looks at him, surprised. “You’re interested in skin care?”
He gestures to his face. “Can’t you tell?”
He’s still far too handsome, but now she sees the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin looks weather-beaten, as if he’s spent too much time outside, the trace of a scar along one cheek. She looks at him uncertainly, and he laughs.
“Sorry. That was a joke,” he says. “I never accept a client without knowing as much as I can about them. How long have you been in the business?”
“About ten years,” she says. “I was a scientist before that. I started in London, then moved to New York for the market.” What she doesn’t say is that New York’s other attraction was that Jack would be far, far away from Peter.
“Darling Skin Care didn’t start to go big until a few years ago,” she continues. “And now we’re poised to go even bigger with a new cosmetics partnership. If it goes well, we’re going to be a worldwide brand.”
“I’d imagine you’d be that already, just based on your name,” he says. “I mean, there’s the book, the movies, the merchandise, and, yes, that unfortunate song. There can’t be that many people left who haven’t heard of you.”
Holly takes a sip of her tea, lets it cool on her tongue before swallowing. “My name got me in the door,” she says evenly. “But it’s my effort—not the Darling name—that’s put us on the map. And it’s my product that will keep us there.”
“Right then,” he says, and the amusement in his voice makes her want to throttle him. Until she realizes he’s provoking her just to see what she’ll divulge.
After a pause, he seems to come to some sort of internal decision. “I’m happy to work with you to find your daughter and her father. Going forward, I’ll need to get a picture of both of them, and hear as much as you can tell me about your ex. That may mean talking to others around you, including your son.”
Holly shakes her head. “That’s not possible. I told you, I want to spare him this.” She also doesn’t mention that photos of Peter don’t exist.
“You told me you wanted to spare him the police,” he corrects.
“Same thing.”
“Not quite,” he says, and there’s something in those dark eyes that makes her shiver. She has a fleeting thought that hiring Christopher Cooke, no matter how highly he comes recommended, is a bad idea. But she needs him. She’s had no luck finding Eden on her own.
“There’s also the matter of my fee,” he says. He names a retainer that is ridiculously high, even by Holly’s standards.
“For that price, I expect results,” she says coolly.
“For that price, you’ll receive them. I hope they’ll be what you want.”
She looks sharply at him, but he’s smiling, a wide-open, friendly smile. She lets the remark go and scribbles her mobile number on her napkin. She pushes it across the table to him.
“That’s my private line. Text me your bank address, and I’ll send you your first installment. I trust that’s acceptable?”
He smiles again. “For now.”
And once again, there’s more meaning than she cares to parse behind those words. She prays she’s not making a mistake. Either way, it’s time to go. She stands, pushing in her chair. He starts to rise as well, but she gestures at him not to get up. “Please, don’t bother,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
Out of the corner of her eye she can see the waitress hurrying across the room, bearing a tray of food. “Enjoy your meal,” Holly says, turning to go. At the last second, she remembers her umbrella. She steps back to retrieve it from its spot along the wall, then realizes the waitress will trap her in the corner if she isn’t quick. She reaches for it, but in her haste knocks it toward the floor. Cooke sweeps out an arm to pin it against the wall.
Only then does she see that where his hand should be, there’s a shining metal hook.
Her eyes widen. Her face, usually a cool mask, wears a look of shock. Perhaps horror. But she can’t help it.