Page 35 of I Would Die for You

“What you got for me tonight, missy?” Larry says, holding out his hand.

Nicole reaches into the bag that’s hooked over her shoulder and pulls out a foil-wrapped parcel. “You got lucky: the kitchen put too many sausages on and were about to throw them out.”

She says the same thing every night; the pair of them have an unspoken agreement to pretend that she doesn’t pay for the food she takes away, even though they both know that she does.

“That’ll keep the dragon at bay,” he says, referencing the heroin he’s always chasing.

“Well, try and hold him off for as long as you can,” says Nicole, knowing that in an hour or so Larry will be barely conscious, having satiated himself with foodandthe potent drug.

“Which way are you heading?” Ben asks as they stand in the middle of the alley, each of them pondering their next move.

“The opposite way as you,” says Nicole.

“Wow,” says Ben, smirking and shaking his head. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

She considers him, deep in thought as she taps her fingers on the outer edge of the card he’s given her.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, her head cocked to the side and her eyes narrowed. “How come you’re playing a sell-out Wembley Arena one week and in this shitty bar on the wrong side of town the next?”

He chews his lip, contemplating the answer. “Because I guess, sometimes, what you thought you wanted doesn’t make you quite as happy as what you once had.”

17

CALIFORNIA, 2011

Brad and I have barely spoken these past two days, the unanswered questions festering between us, working their way under the impervious surface of trust and honesty our relationship was previously based on. While I can’t help but blame myself for the turmoil that my family is being put through, I have to question why Brad would have lied to me about what he did last Wednesday night. And who he was with.

Evacould, of course, have been mistaken. It might not have been Brad she saw; he might not have been with another woman. It might all be a misunderstanding. But try as I might, I can’t get past the possibility that itwashim, and he was with the very person I’m trying so desperately hard to protect us from.

The doorbell rings and I’m unusually jumpy, nervous of who it might be. But as much as I don’t want to answer it, hearing Brad’s footsteps cross the landing above me forces me to rush to get there before he does.

“Hank!” My heart goes into my mouth, wondering what news he has, and I instinctively step out onto the porch and pull the door to behind me.

“We’ve got the CCTV from school,” he says. “I thought you and Brad might want to take a look.”

I suck in a breath. As much as I want to see the person who upended our world, there’s a part of me that would rather not know.

“Of course,” I say, reluctantly opening the door and calling Brad down.

In the living room, Hank puts his laptop on the coffee table and lifts the lid. “It’s not the best picture. It’s a little grainy, but you might be able to recognize something about her,” he says.

I chance a glance at Brad and notice that he looks even more nervous than I do as the familiar corridor outside Hannah’s classroom appears on the screen. I thought I’d have to squint to recognize anyone, so I’m taken aback by the clear picture of Freya’s mom as she picks up her daughter’s swimming bag from her peg and forces a smile at the woman behind her.

Hank hits the pause button on his keyboard. “There!” he says, pointing at the face on the screen with a stubby finger. “That’s her!”

I peer in for a closer look and am comforted by the fact that I have never seen her before. With her long, dark-brown hair and indistinct features, she could be any number of people I pass on the street, but she isn’t the woman who came to my house, which is as much of a relief as it is concerning.

But when I look to Brad, I’m sure I see a flicker of recognition cross his face. I chastise myself for looking too hard, trying to find something that isn’t there.

“Have either of you seen her before?” asks Hank.

I look to Brad expectantly, waiting for him to reveal his hand. But all he offers is a half-hearted shake of the head.

“Me neither,” I say.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife once Hank leaves, disappointedly empty-handed.

“I think we need to talk,” says Brad.

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