Page 110 of I Knew You Were Trouble

A thought enters my mind. I know his code. His phone is protected by a pattern lock type, in the shape of a square ‘G’.

I draw the pretend shape with my thumb on the covers, knowing that to do so for real would cross a line. I put on the TV, watch a Chicago weather report in silence, then get out of the bed and pace across the carpet. The idea continues to gnaw at my stomach, as I remember the covert video Meredith captured of Aidan kissing Taylor at the party in Sydney. He’d seemed like a different person back then.

It wouldn’t be right to look. Yet it’s completely me. To look. To pry. It’s my job. It’s what I do.

Picking up Aidan’s iPhone, I tap one indecisive fingernail against the top corner of the cover. Moments later, an impulsive decision made, I switch it on and connect the dots with the ‘G’ shape, the phone granting me instant access. If I don’t open Taylor’s message, Aidan won’t know that I’ve looked at anything. Instead, I navigate to the photos app.

Instant regret surges through my veins, and my jaw goes slack.

The WhatsApp photos folder contains an array of images, along with a scattering of memes and screenshots. But my eye is caught immediately by pictures of Taylor Wetherill. Though there are only a few, they stand out like an alarm begging for my attention. I move my thumb and scroll between the handful of photos. She is in a state of undress, snapping shots of herself sprawled on a large bed and wearing scant, spicy underwear.

A sick feeling rolls around in my stomach.

I purse my lips, my heartbeat increasing in tempo. I want to see their exchanges. Has there been conversation? Is he asking her for pictures? Is my boyfriend sexting a gorgeous brunette Australian pop star?

I drop the phone, covering my face. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, or what I’ve done. I get out of bed and pace in front of the window, looking out onto the Chicago skyline.

I may be in the wrong, but I still have the right to feel angry.

‘Shit,’ I curse out loud, running my fingers through my hair, knowing that the perfect little bubble we’ve been living in for the last few weeks has finally burst.

The images on Aidan’s phone mean I’m distracted by the time I sit down to interview Danny Miller. We’re in yet another hotel room, this one overlooking Lake Michigan on a clear day. Miller was late, Duncan now glowering at him from a distance whilst the baddest boy in Rebel Heart flirts up a storm with Meredith, who applies his make-up.

‘Can we just not bother to interview him? Just leave it out?’ Duncan suggests under his breath as I go through my notes.

‘Unfortunately, not,’ I respond, cringing on the inside as Meredith grins at whatever lame joke Miller has just told her. ‘Why don’t you take Mer for a coffee somewhere whilst I do this?’ I suggest. ‘Or just take her back to your hotel room,hmm?’

Duncan wavers at my suggestion, frowning again at the scene on the other side of the room. ‘Don’t wanna rush things,’ he mutters.

‘You won’t, you’ll just prove that you’re serious about her.’

‘Aye, right. I’m no good at those conversations.’

‘You don’t have to talk,’ I whisper. ‘Justshowher.’

Duncan blushes, but Meredith giggling under Miller’s gaze soon wipes any hope of a smile from his face. ‘Maybe I’ll go back alone,’ he grumbles. ‘I think you’re good to go.’

When I’m alone with Miller, I feel uneasy. Physically, Miller has a presence, a brooding appeal. He’s handsome in the way an American ‘jock’ might be, and he clearly works out more than the others. He has dark eyes and hair that sticks out in all directions but still manages to look styled.

He shifts in his chair. ‘So, Lex,’ he says, once I’ve asked him to introduce himself to the camera. ‘How does this shit work?’

‘Don’t you want to take your coat off? Are you cold?’

‘I’m perfect. I’ll keep it on.’

‘Fair enough,’ I murmur, ‘if that’s what you prefer.’

‘So, what, you ask me a bunch of questions?’

My mind is elsewhere, and I’ve not allowed enough preparation time. The pictures on Aidan’s phone linger in my psyche, as well as thoughts of my own wrongdoing. All of it weighing me down.

‘Yes. Questions. Why don’t we start with your childhood?’

He gives a loose shrug. ‘I grew up in Maryvale, on the west side of Phoenix, Arizona, with my dad and older brother. Dad wasn’t around that much. He died when I was twelve. My brother raised me mostly.’

‘Your mother left the family home, is that right?’

‘Sure, she fucked off and left us behind.’ He doesn’t flinch as he says it, though I recognise in him the same bitterness I’d felt as a child when my father walked out.

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