“He’s not my friend,” Holly snaps back, as sullen as any teenager. She catches herself, in part because Christopher’s smile is so wide it threatens to split his face. “Mother, this is Mr. Cooke. He’s . . . he’s working on a project. A special one. For me.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Jane says, extending her hand, and for a moment Holly thinks Christopher is going to kiss it to annoy her further. But he shakes it gently. There’s no sign on Jane’s face that she notices anything unusual about his grip. “Christopher, please. The pleasure’s mine,” he says. Truly, he’s insufferable.
Jane turns to Holly. “Surely you don’t wish to discuss business out here,” she says. “Why don’t you bring Mr. Cooke . . . Christopher . . . into the library? I’ll have Nan make tea.”
Holly hesitates. She doesn’t want Christopher in the house. There’s too much that can go wrong. Including, she now realizes, the fact that she still has Jack’s injection clutched in her left hand. For now, it’s partially hidden behind the door, but once Christopher steps into the hall, it will be in plain sight. She doesn’t particularly want to leave him alone with Jane, either, but that seems the lesser of two evils.
“I’ll tell Nan,” she says quickly. “Would you mind showing him in?” And without waiting for her mother to respond, she dashes down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Please tell me you’re not leaving that in here,” Nan says as Holly stows the syringe in the back of the refrigerator.
“I need tea in the library,” Holly says, ignoring her. “Something quick.” She pauses to reflect. “And not too delicious. For two.”
And then she dashes out again.
Just before the library door, she slows her pace, brushes back her hair, and takes a deep breath. No matter what Christopher has said—or not said—to her mother, or what Jane may have revealed, there’s no advantage in looking worried. She makes herself count to ten, then ten again, and then she opens the door.
The scene that greets her is far too cozy for her liking. Jane and Christopher are bent over Jane’s prized first edition of Peter Pan, Jane pointing to an illustration.
“. . . utter nonsense,” she’s saying, frowning for emphasis. “Mr. Barrie—Sir James Barrie, of course, is the proper way to refer to him—certainly took his fair share of liberties, particularly with the descriptions of the Darling family.”
Before Jane can elaborate on what those liberties might be, or anything else, Holly interrupts.
“Mr. Cooke and I have quite a bit of business to discuss,” she says firmly. “Thank you for entertaining him, Mother, but I’d hate to keep you from your luncheon.”
“Oh, no trouble at all,” Jane says breezily. “It’s with the Worths, and you know how boring they can be. Mr. Cooke is much more interesting.”
“I’m sure. Well, I’ve asked Nan to bring tea. Perhaps you could see what’s keeping her?” Jane and Holly both know that Nan’s barely had enough time to put the kettle on, but still, Jane is gracious. She flashes a smile at Christopher. “Of course,” she says, and sails from the room.
As soon as the door is shut behind her, Holly rounds on Christopher.
“What are you doing here?” she demands. But she can guess. He’s discovered something and wants to see her face, gauge her reaction, when he tells her.
“I told you I like to know more about my clients.”
He moves about the room, picking up books and setting them down, flipping through pages, asking her random questions about photos and mementos on the walls as she tries to bring him to his point, whatever it may be. When he picks up the sketch of the Darling siblings, he’s thoughtful, turning it over in his hands.
“The famous Darling children,” he murmurs, a perplexed look in his eyes. “Amazing how familiar they seem.” He looks as if he’s going to say more, but there’s a knock at the door. Holly turns away, grateful for the interruption, as Jane enters with the tea tray.
“I’ll put this down and you can serve yourselves,” Jane says, setting it on the table. Holly breathes a sigh of relief. It’s possible she’ll escape this unscathed.
“Thank you,” Christopher says. He raises a hand—the right one, still clothed in the glove—in mock salute. “Not all my clients’ mothers are so accommodating to a private detective,” he says.
“Client?” Jane raises an eyebrow. Clearly Holly’s hopes are about to be dashed. “Whatever are you working on?”
“Later,” Holly hisses. But it’s too late. Jane has already turned to Christopher, who is helping himself to a biscuit. “Are you searching for Eden?” She pauses. “Or . . . her father?”
There’s a sound outside the door, which Holly realizes has been left ajar. She looks at her mother.
“Don’t look at me,” Jane says defensively. “I was carrying the tea tray. If you wanted it closed for privacy, you should have checked.”
Holly crosses the room, pushes the door open the rest of the way. She knows what she’s going to find, but she’s hoping with all her heart she’s mistaken.
She’s not. It’s Jack, and he’s ashen.
“Jack, sweetheart,” she says, reaching out for him. He ignores her, looks straight at Christopher.
“You’re a private detective? You’re looking for Eden?”
Christopher shoots a quick glance at Holly, who is paralyzed. “That’s right, mate. Any thoughts as to where she could be?”
Jack doesn’t answer. Holly holds her breath, waiting for the explosion. Yet she’s still stunned by its ferocity when it comes.
“You mean she’s alive? All this time, she’s been alive?”
“Jack . . . ,” she tries. But he’s having none of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me she’s alive?” he demands. “What else haven’t you told me?”
All the secrets she’s been keeping come crashing down on her. They pin her to the spot, make it impossible to breathe. Her mind is racing, looking for solutions, but she can’t get any words out. Meanwhile Christopher is looking on avidly. If he’d wanted a reaction, Holly thinks grimly, this must exceed his wildest dreams. At least Jack seems to have missed the whole different-father bit.
“Christopher, you need to leave,” she manages. “We’ll discuss whether you’re still employed later. Right now, just go.”
“I need a word with you first,” he says.
But Jack won’t be put off. “You told me she was dead! I thought she died in Cornwall!”
Holly doesn’t refute him, doesn’t say that she never said those exact words. It’s not going to help. Jack won’t stop. He’s shouting at her: questions about where Eden is and what’s happened, and the more agitated he gets, the worse he looks. His lips are developing a bluish tint, and that pale, unhealthy color is returning to his skin.
“Jack,” she says, “we’ll talk about it, all right? I promise. But please, let’s go upstairs.”
She moves toward him, and he recoils. “Don’t touch me!”
He looks like he’s verging on collapse, but still he won’t let her near him. Finally she turns to Jane for help. It’s her mother who is able to wrangle him up the stairs with a practiced ease, as if she moves recalcitrant teens every day. Holly starts to follow, but Jane shakes her head.
“Best if I do it for now,” she says, and Holly is left behind.
Christopher moves closer to her. “Is he okay?” The worry in his voice sounds real, but it’s too little, too late.
“No, thanks to you. My son . . . I told you. He’s not well. You need to leave. Now.”
“Not until I talk to you.”
She sees now why Barry warned her that Christopher was dangerous. For all his slenderness, there’s something inherently menacing about the way he’s standing. The tension in his muscles, the intensity of his gaze . . . he reminds her of a television special she once saw on super-predators. Something fast, and ruthless, that would strike before you even saw it coming. She thinks of the drug dealer in Barry’s story and swallows.
“Fine. But outside.” She can’t bear for Jack to overhear anything else.