“Shit,” she says. “Bloody, sodding shit.”
She scrabbles in her bag for a pen and piece of paper, afraid that she’ll forget the address. She’s finishing scribbling it when she hears tires squeal outside, followed by footsteps on the front steps.
“Holly?” Christopher calls through the door, his voice guarded. “Holly, are you in here?”
Tell no one.
Slowly she looks at the paper with the address, the photo she found on the mattress. She doesn’t want to do this alone. Not again. She can’t.
“Holly?” Christopher calls again. He’s in the kitchen now, coming along the hallway. His footsteps are careful, deliberate, but quick. He’ll be in the room in a second. As she turns to answer him, a spot of color near the door catches her eye. A red feather. She freezes.
Tell no one.
“Holly?”
There’s a split second left, and Holly chooses.
“I’m in here,” she calls. “I’m okay.” She leaves the feather where it is. She doesn’t want to touch it. But she puts the address and the photo in her pocket as Christopher rushes into the room.
“I’m fine,” she says again. “I think it was . . . a prank. Jack trying to get back at me.”
Somewhere outside, a rooster crows.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tell me again,” Christopher says for the umpteenth time, his voice unnaturally patient. Holly has to take a deep breath, has to will her body to be still, so she can match his tone. She exhales as forcefully as she dares.
“A prank,” she says. “A stupid prank. Jack’s been pushing for more independence for months, and he decided to take the chance while I was away to seize it.”
Even to her own ears, it sounds pathetic. How much worse must it sound to Christopher? It’s a terrible story, but the best she was able to come up with in the seconds she had. Even so, Christopher insisted on searching every corner of the dismal flat, and the only thing Holly can thank her stars for at the moment is how very small the place is. She needs to get to that address as fast as she can. But when the inside turned up nothing, Christopher moved on to the yard, where he found enough rusty cans and bottles to start his own junkyard but nothing else.
And still he wouldn’t leave. He insisted they look through the bedroom again, that she show him exactly where she found the phone, as if knowing would somehow miraculously make Jack appear. Now he stands, arms crossed, blocking the bedroom door. With his black motorcycle boots, leather jacket, and smudge of dirt under his eye from crawling about in the yard, he looks like a modern pirate. An angry, obstinate pirate. It reminds her of how little she knows him, how trusting him could be dangerous. Of who he could be, and not just in his dreams.
“And you’re sticking to that?”
Holly thinks of the way Peter used to slide into her room, the way he moved almost invisibly at night.
Tell no one.
He could be right outside eavesdropping and they’d never know.
“Yes,” she says.
Christopher studies her. “And the phone?” he demands.
“Jack knew I had his GPS feature turned on, that I’d use it to keep an eye on him. He wiped it to make a point.”
Christopher has confiscated the phone, but Holly doubts it will do him any good. Her own phone rings at that moment and she glances down, startled. It’s Jane. Holly ignores it.
“You’re hiding something,” Christopher says. “We both know that.”
Holly fidgets, the picture of the sleeping Jack and the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it like hot stones in her pocket. She concentrates on making eye contact with Christopher, on keeping her breathing slow and even.
“There’s nothing to hide,” she says, spreading her empty hands.
He snorts. “Please. You call me up in a panic, you cut short an important trip, and this morning it’s barely dawn before you’re calling me again,” he says. “And now suddenly everything is all right? I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Holly shrugs. She keeps her voice calm, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world, while in the back of her head she hears a clock ticking away the seconds. Tick. Tock. “It’s a family matter now. I don’t need your help.”
A muscle twitches over his eye. Good. Perhaps her words have hit home and he’ll wash his hands of her. Still, she’s surprised to recognize that it bothers her, this idea of Christopher walking away. She tries to shake the feeling off. He’s not even a friend, not really. How can she miss something that doesn’t exist?
Her phone buzzes again. Jane. Holly knows her mother will keep calling until she answers. But perhaps she can use this to her advantage.
“Pardon me a moment,” Holly says. “It’s my mother.” When Christopher doesn’t move, she pointedly turns her back and steps as far into the corner of the little bedroom as she can.
“I can’t stand it anymore. Have you found him?” Jane asks. “Is he safe? Holly, what is happening?”
Holly takes a deep breath. Then, “He did?” she says. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll tell Christopher. He’s here now.”
For a brief moment, Jane is silent. “You’ve found something,” she says. “Something you don’t want that private detective to know. What is it? Good or bad?”
“Yes, of course he should have told you. And I will talk with him when he gets home,” Holly says, thinking hard. “But you have to admit, it was an awfully big adventure.”
There’s no way Christopher will understand, but even so, she utters those last words as casually as she can, without the slightest hint of emphasis, and prays Jane will make the connection.
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Peter,” Jane whispers. “Are you sure?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Lucky boy,” Jane says in wonder. “Lucky, lucky boy. I must hear all about it.”
“Absolutely,” Holly says, her own voice grim. This isn’t the time or the place to dispel Jane’s fangirl crush. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. But it may be a while.”
She says the last with a glare over her shoulder at Christopher.
“Great news,” she announces, disconnecting the call. “Jack’s been in touch. It’s exactly what I thought—a stupid teenage prank.”
“Really,” Christopher says. He doesn’t move from the doorway, doesn’t uncross his arms. “Did he say where he was?”
“A friend of my mother’s. She has a castle in the countryside, and she spirited off her grandson and a bunch of his friends, including Jack.”
Christopher’s eyes narrow as he studies her. “Did you happen to catch the friend’s name?”
Holly shakes her head. “I was too relieved.”
“How convenient,” he observes. “And I suppose you have no idea where this castle is located, either.”
“Not a clue. I’m just happy to know he’s with someone my mother trusts.” The irony of that statement overwhelms her, and she swallows a hysterical laugh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back.” She crosses the room and stands directly in front of him.
Christopher looks at her for a long moment. His face isn’t angry, not anymore, but she can’t read it. He reaches out and touches her shoulder, rests his gloved hand there. The weight is heavy and warm, and suddenly her breath is coming so quickly it muddles her thinking. She can’t remember which hand is real and which is not.
“Holly,” he says, and his voice is gentle. “You can trust me.”
He means it, she thinks, and her earlier doubts vanish. Now is the time to tell him the whole truth, her opportunity to come clean. Her chance to explain what’s happening to Eden, who Peter really is. What he’s capable of.
Tell no one.
She can’t risk it. No matter how much she wants it to be different, she still has to do this alone.
So she takes a step back. Looks Christopher in the eye. Resists the urge to thumb away the smudge of dirt on his face. “I need to call the office,” she repeats.