“Was he the age of consent?”
“Yes. She was.” Lorna sipped her drink. “But that sort of thing is frowned upon. Except I didn’t do it. We may have flirted a bit, but that’s as far as it went. Her dad, though, has been after me for weeks. Thinks I, and I quote, ‘corrupted her sexuality.’ Someone must have paid or pressured her to say it happened. But it’s the excuse they’ll need. The new administration’s been begging for a reason to let me go. I guess I’m still not very good with people.”
He pushed the papers back without reading them. She returned them to her book, and he spat out what he needed to say before he changed his mind.
“I planted evidence on a suspect so that I would have probable cause to search his car.”
“Allegedly?”
In response, Hollis downed the rest of his drink.
“Jesus. Was it worth it?”
“It saved a life.”
“Well, at least what you did could be construed as noble. I just come off as a horny lesbian wench.”
The humor was wrong for the situation, and Lorna knew it.
“Sorry. I’m shit,” she said. “Here I am thinking this would be the end of the world for me when you . . . God, you’d lose everything, Hollis. Wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t be sorry. The end of the world looks different for different people. We all have our tipping points.” He finished his drink and slid off the barstool, suddenly desperate to be on his own.
“No, you stay,” she said. “You were here first.”
“That’s all right. I’m done anyway. Enjoy your book.”
Her thumb fiddled with the spine again. “I won’t tell the others. I promise.”
“I thought you didn’t want any more secrets,” he said.
“Yours isn’t mine to tell.”
He looked at her once more, the battered book in her hand, the black jumper and blunt haircut. So much the Lorna he remembered. She was right. It was too much.
“Goodnight, Lorna.”
He left her in the study as his brain began to work. Sometimes he couldn’t control it. It attacked a mystery automatically, like an anti-virus. He needed to be alone, to give himself space to parse out these fragments of thought. Something Lorna had said tonight had set his mind off, but he didn’t know what it was or why. He was still trying to sort it out when he realized his feet weren’t carrying him all the way upstairs to his room but down the second-floor hall to Room 2. Callum’s room.
Lorna and Oliver were also staying on this floor, but Lorna remained downstairs and Hollis heard nothing from Oliver. They’d left Callum’s door open, the key dangling in the lock. Hollis closed it behind him.
It was after he’d sat in the armchair a few minutes, running through his thoughts, that he spotted it. The edge of a photograph caught in the cushion of the sofa. He slipped it free.
There they were—all six of them—seated on that very couch in their old house on Caldwell Street. So young then. So stupid. He ran his thumb over the background of the picture. Examined the image in detail. And then he knew. Whether this picture had been left accidentally or on purpose didn’t matter. It filled the gaps of his memory, the missing pieces from his evidence box.
“Shit.”
He shoved the photo in his pocket and pulled out his phone, but there was still no signal. Of course. There wouldn’t be.
Oliver
Oliver stumbled through the kitchen, desperate for something to soak up the whisky in his stomach. Fucked up. That’s what this whole situation was. People should be allowed to make mistakes, he thought. They should be allowed to move on with their lives. They should be allowed to leave this house. But with his car out of commission on the main road, the only way he was getting out of here was by hitching a ride. Or taking someone else’s. He found the dry goods in a walk-in pantry and tore open a bag of crisps. Some fell and crunched under his shoes. Ellie’s car keys. He should’ve nicked them when he had the chance. They’d been sitting right there on her desk, on a fuzzy pink keychain. The salt and vinegar burned his lips. God, she looked gorgeous. He might’ve put on a pound or two, but Ellie, he’d seen the shape of her beneath her clothes. He’d barely been able to keep his hands in his pockets. But he had some self-control. And the knowledge that he needed her on his side. It used to be so easy to win them over. A smile for Ellie, a handshake for Hollis, a wink at Maeve. Lorna, just leave her alone. Callum, though, had been a riddle. Oliver must have done something right, because why else would Callum have brought Oliver Lucozade and paracetamol after his birthday rager? Or loaned him a tenner whenever Oliver asked? But Oliver never quite figured out what Callum needed. He had been the lone child watching through the window as the other kids played together outside. With greasy fingers, Oliver pulled out his phone. No signal, but that comforted him. Maybe she’d been texting him after all and the messages weren’t coming through. Good. For once she could be the one at home worrying. After all, he hadn’t told her he was traveling to a possible dead zone. Hadn’t told her he was leaving at all. Only one person knew he was going away this weekend. Only one person knew where to find him.
Maeve
Goosebumps rose on Maeve’s naked skin as she shivered in the bathroom. Even her bra had been soaked through. That, along with the rest of her useless clothes, was piled on the floor. Lines ran down either side of her nose. The dark circles beneath her eyes were permanent thumbprints. Her hair, frizzy from the rain, at least showed no signs of gray, but only because she dyed it. When did she get so old? She couldn’t be in her forties. She hadn’t done anything yet. No job. No career. No family. Not even a dog. Nothing to drown out the memories of the awkward, gangly boy who used to hover around her like a lost puppy. She’d come up with plenty of excuses as to why they weren’t right for each other. He was too tall. Obsessed with his camera. He couldn’t play guitar and he couldn’t sing, so how would he ever propose to her by playing an original song about their love in front of strangers at the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland while a light snow fell? He’d had a stupid crush on her. That was all. She hadn’t loved him, didn’t even like him that way, no matter how many times he went out of his way to ask her how her day was or leave a note in blue under her door. Back then, it wasn’t about Callum. It was about survival. And for so many years, she never thought she’d survive them again. Yet here she was. Perhaps it was foolishness, or adrenaline, or a vitamin deficiency from living off Doritos and Fanta, but as she towel-dried her hair, she realized she didn’t fear them now.
Lorna
Lorna couldn’t make sense of the words on the page. Each sentence got jumbled up in her head, like she was trying to read in a foreign language. In the background, a single question pulsed, growing louder until it was the only thought in her head: What are you really doing here? It was harder than she thought sitting in the room next to Callum’s—the room they’d designated as his—and not think about house 215. Lorna and Callum had shared a wall there, too. She remembered the gray carpet with the brown stain and the Monty Python poster hanging above his desk. Pictures, too. Lots of pictures. Of home, of London, of family, of them. He would stick them up with Blu Tack even though Ellie had warned him it would ruin the walls and he might not get his security deposit back. Closing her eyes, she imagined she heard music from his stereo seeping through the house. Grunge, usually. Nirvana. Bush. Stone Temple Pilots. To her, the music fitted the band names—shabby, dirty—the opposite of Callum. He showered twice a day, never re-wore a piece of clothing without washing it. Kept his auburn hair clean and cut short. The only time his appearance matched his choice in music had been his death. And thinking of his death reminded her of where she was and why. She hated it here. Hated this place and hated Caldwell Street and hated them and hated everything so much. But she needed it all to end. Needed to stop hearing his voice inside her head. Needed stop the feeling that, despite the empty room, Callum was always just on the other side of the wall, waiting for her to save him.