She glosses over Eden’s childhood, simply says she has a genetic disease that aged her, that Holly hasn’t been able to find a cure. She ends with the other accident, the bookend to the first, where what had been taken from Jack was miraculously returned. She describes how he ran to her when she came home from her hospital vigil.
“The best I’ve been able to discover, Eden’s blood has a protein that promotes healing,” she finishes. “It works like an antibody, binding to damaged cells and repairing them. But it couldn’t heal her. Only other people.” She stares down at her hands. “And there’s one last thing. I’ve seen Eden. Just today—this morning,” she says to forestall the angry comment she can tell he’s about to make. “She wouldn’t come home with me, and I don’t know where she’s staying. But it’s not with Peter. She’s terrified of him.”
“Is she okay?”
Holly starts to speak, stops, waits for the pool of tears that is always just behind her eyes these days to settle into stillness. “I think so,” she says.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. And it makes it even more important to find Peter before he finds her. Could he have found a way to use this . . . this protein, to create a drug?”
“It’s possible.” She thinks of the euphoria she’s experienced the times she’s tested Eden’s blood on herself, the flush of well-being she sees in Jack each time she administers it to him. “But he must be using it in conjunction with something else. The protein on its own couldn’t hurt anyone.” Holly doesn’t mention that Peter must have another source besides Eden for the protein. She’s sure Christopher has thought of that.
There’s nothing else she can say. They sit in silence for a long time, both of them looking out over the water in the twilight.
At last Christopher kick-starts the bike, wheels it into traffic. Holly doesn’t say a word. She sits erect the whole way back, touching him as little as possible. He drops her at the door.
“What will you do next?” she asks, but it’s a detached interest, as if she’s watching someone else’s life play out on a screen.
“I don’t know, exactly, beyond the fact that I’m going to find this Peter. There’s something about him that nags at me . . .” He trails off. “About all of this, even you. It’s too familiar. Like we’ve met. Like we’ve all done this before.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “I told you I have crazy dreams. Maybe it was there. But dream or not, this Peter is real. And somehow he has access to these boys. He could be a coach. A therapist. A teacher. I’m going to figure it out, and then he’s going to pay. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“It’s a good start,” she says. “You’ll find him.” He stares at her. “I mean it.” There’s nothing she can say that will change his mind, so why bother? She’s negotiated enough deals to know when she has a chance and when she doesn’t, and right now she has nothing to offer that he wants. Nothing that she can tell him that will help.
She takes off her helmet, hands it back.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He nods but doesn’t answer. Still, he waits while she walks up the steps. At the top, it occurs to her that there is one last thing she wants to know.
“Christopher,” she calls. When he looks up, she asks, “What did you do in the war?”
He looks surprised, then smiles grimly. “Interrogator. I wasn’t even supposed to be on the road that day. I was filling in for a mate. Officer in charge told me to shag off, but the rules said one was supposed to be present, so off I went.”
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs. “When my mate came to visit me in hospital, he was gutted. Turned out he hadn’t even been sick after all. He’d been off having fun and games with some of the local women. But I told him it could have been worse. The way I see it, the ones who feel sorry for themselves don’t survive. Not with any kind of life to speak of. So I could whinge, or I could get on and make the most of what I still had.” He raises his right hand—the one with the prosthetic—in a mock salute. “So that’s what I did.”
“Me too,” Holly says quietly, but Christopher doesn’t hear. He’s already riding away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
And because it wouldn’t be Holly’s life if everything didn’t go to shit at the same time, within days of her ride with Christopher, Barry is demanding that she come back to work. He hints at first, texting about how much the office misses her. When Holly doesn’t bite, he follows up with a call to her cell, which she ignores.
At last he calls her on her mother’s home phone—a number that’s unlisted, although it might as well not be, given how many people seem able to find it. When Jane, with an eye roll, passes the phone to Holly, Barry doesn’t mince words.
“You need to come back,” he says. “You’re the head of Darling Skin Care—you need to show your face. People are starting to talk, and I can’t hold the questions off much longer.”
“This is why I never wanted to be the face of the brand in the first place,” Holly snaps.
“But you are, whether you want to be or not,” he says. “The Landers are saying that they signed the deal based on you being at the helm. They could pull out, Holly. And they’re questioning your commitment to the brand, which puts future deals in jeopardy.”
“Too bad for them. We’ll find someone else.”
Barry is quiet. “Look, I don’t understand,” he says at last. “You built this company. It’s been your baby from the beginning. I know it’s been a rough time for you, with your daughter, but you need to think about Jack, about his future. Darling Skin Care guarantees that. We need you here for the launch next week. You don’t have to stay. But you have to come.”
With a start, Holly realizes Barry still thinks Eden is dead. Of course he does. So much has happened these last few weeks that she’s somehow lost track of the lies she’s told him, and now there’s no way for her to explain what’s happened, no way to walk it back. She said those words—my daughter is dead—and now they are coming true, one way or another. When she mourns again, she’ll never be able to tell him why. Until it’s for Jack.
She’s still reeling when Barry speaks again.
“Holly?” he says, his voice gentle. “I hate to say this, but you’re not the only one with a family.”
The comment wrecks her. In all the years she’s worked with Barry, he’s never asked her for anything. She thinks of all the nights she’s seen Barry rush home to Minerva and their kids, a jaunt in his step even after a fourteen-hour day, all the times she’d felt . . . not envy, not quite, but a wistfulness at what might have been if she’d trusted him from the beginning. But she’d kept him out, kept him at a distance. And even so, he’s been her most loyal friend. Now he’s putting it all out on the line. And for once, after everything he’s done, he’s asking her to do the same. What choice does she have? She hesitates, but there’s no other answer she can give.
“I need a few days,” she tells him. “And I can’t stay long. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you,” he says simply.
* * *
She books a flight for three days out, then spends those days making a last-ditch effort to find her daughter. She stalks the atrium, following flocks of birds, diving down back alleys at the glimpse of a blonde head. When the atrium turns up nothing, she works outward in an ever-widening spiral, searching streets over a two-mile radius. Something jogs at the back of her memory, something Jane once said. The starlings landed on Big Ben. A murmuration. They stopped time.
Tinker Bell had summoned starlings. Why would they congregate there?