Page 92 of Breaking the Dark

“Burners?”

“Yes, they have the burners. I don’t know. He’s a good boy, but he has some bad friends.”

“When did you last see Malcolm?”

“Oh, last night.”

“What time?”

“Around—” She stops. “Actually, no, it was yesterday morning. By the time he got home last night I was asleep.”

“Did you hear him come in?”

“Yes. I mean, I think so. But he’s always so quiet when he gets in. And I am a deep sleeper.”

“Is his bed slept in?”

Mrs. Powder laughs softly. “How would I know? It’s never made. Sunup, sundown, Malcolm’s bed always looks the same.”

“Well, listen, Mrs. Powder, Brenda, if you hear from him, please will you ask him to call me, as soon as possible?”

“Jessica. Are you worried about him?”

“Oh. Gosh, no. I’m sure he’s fine. I just got back from the UK and wanted a, er, debrief, that’s all. Get him to call me.”

“Of course, Jessica. Of course I will. And you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Malcolm told me about the woman in England, the one who took you hostage.”

Jessica chooses not to correct Mrs. Powder’s misinterpretation of the events, preferring it in many ways to the more accurate description of what happened to her. “Yeah, that was bad. Malcolm got me out of a rough spot. He’s a great boy.”

“Yes. He really is a great boy. I’m so very blessed to have a boy like him. Not all mothers are as lucky.”

Jessica feels her stomach flip and churn at the sweetness of Malcolm’s mother’s pride, followed by a rush of nausea at the possibility that something bad has already happened to Malcolm.

But she has a feeling she knows where Fox might have taken him.

THIRTY-SIX

JESSICA PULLS ON her beanie as she exits the subway and heads toward the Upside Down bar. Outside, she cups her hands to the windows and peers through a gap in the sheets of old newspaper taped to the glass. Nothing. An empty room with the usual debris of an abandoned space in the city. She scootches around the back of the building and tries to lift the window, but it’s been locked from the inside. Beneath her feet is a manhole cover. She turns to check that nobody is looking, then lifts it off as easily as a milk jug cap and puts it to one side. She shines the light of her phone flashlight down the hole but sees nothing, just a damp tunnel leading into Manhattan’s sewage system. She replaces the lid, then stands straight, rubbing grime from the knees of her jeans.

She begins weighing up her options. Should she smash a window? Smash a wall? But no, it’s clear that Malcolm is not here. And then she realizes that she is close to Luke’s street, in fact only a few blocks away. It’s nearly three p.m. Would he be home? She hasn’t spoken to him for days. She still feels shy about Luke, what with not having told him about being pregnant with his child and all. But she could do with a debrief, a breather, a couch to sit on, a glass of water, a friendly face, a moment to take stock, away from the clamor and havoc of the Manhattan rush hour. And she really, really needs to use the bathroom. She thinks of the last time she turned up unannounced and the red-hot humiliation of finding Luke with another woman, and she sends him a message:

I’m close by and need to use your can. You home?

He replies immediately.

Here and waiting.

“Shit, Jessica, you look like hell.”

“Why, thank you.”

“No. Seriously. Are you okay?”

“Well, no, not really. I’m jet-lagged, my body thinks it’s bedtime. And I’ve just walked”—she glances at the app on her phone—“twelve thousand steps since I woke up. My assistant has gone missing. My case is imploding. I’ve had my head messed with by some kind of super-powered witch. And all I’ve had to eat today is healthy food and decaf coffee. Oh, and according to Cassandra Webb, if I can’t get to the bottom of this case, it’s possible that a lot of teenagers could be injured. Or worse.”

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