“Tink’s gotten sloppy over the years. My apologies,” he says. “I’ll see to it myself. That’s the best way, after all. Don’t go away now, promise?” He smiles that same wicked smile.
“Where’s Jack?” she says again.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Not here. But must we really jump right into it?” He looks at her face and sighs. “Fine. Have a look, if you like. I’ll fetch the tea.”
Holly doesn’t hesitate.
As she searches the cottage though, she hears a clattering, followed by the sound of crying. When she runs into the living room to look for Jack, Tinker Bell is seated as she was before, only now a black-and-blue mark is blossoming on her arm. “Where are Jack and Eden?” Holly hisses in a low voice. But Tink closes her eyes and feigns sleep.
A scream of frustration rises in Holly’s throat, but she bites it back. She doesn’t have the time. Peter has such a short attention span—she can’t take the risk that he’ll grow bored and disappear. She hurtles through each room, searching under beds, in cabinets and closets, but there’s no sign. She even runs outside to the red Range Rover, but it’s empty.
Defeated, she returns to the garden. Peter is stacking sugar cubes and flicking them into his teacup one by one.
“Give me my son,” she demands. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“You could,” Peter agrees. He pours cream into his cup, stirs it. It’s a thick, sugary sludge. “Or that private detective you seem so fond of. The one with the missing hand.” At her start of surprise, he smiles. “I’ll bet he could help. Bet he thinks he’s a hero. Sanctimonious ass. Of course, while he’s searching, sleepy Jack might doze off again. He’s having such pleasant dreams too—this time, he might not want to wake up. Tea?”
He holds up the teapot and gestures to the seat next to him. Holly slumps into it. Peter pats her hand and she wills herself not to flinch. He pours a cup of tea and puts it in front of her. “Cheers,” he says. He takes a sip, then puts the cup down with exaggerated care on the table.
“What do you want?” Her voice is surprisingly steady.
He answers with a question. “Don’t you love youth? How fresh and innocent it is. How sweet it smells. Like springtime. Of course the young have no idea what this world is like.” He tilts his head back, blows a stream of cigarette smoke across the table and into her face. “I do though. I’ve been scrabbling out here for years.”
She’s certain now that he blames her for his fall from grace. “I’m sorry,” she tries to say. But the words stick, come out forced.
Peter shakes his head. “Don’t be. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else.” He leans forward, runs a finger down her arm. “But you were so delicious.”
Her skin crawls and she pulls away, bile rising to the back of her throat. He’s watching her so intently, the same way she remembers from those nights in the nursery. Does it hurt?
He’s playing with her, poking at her wounds to see how much she bleeds. If she wants to find Jack, she has to stay in control, has to get him talking and hope he’ll let something slip. So she blurts out the question that’s been at the forefront of her mind all these years.
“Why me, that night in the nursery? Why not my mother? Or Wendy?”
Peter casts that still-magnetic gaze on her again, studies her face as if weighing what to say. Then he shrugs.
“Wendy had too many daddy issues. You should look into that particular bit of family history sometime.” He pitches his voice high, mimicking a teenage girl. “？‘Have a thimble, Peter.’？” He takes a sip of tea. “Stupid twat. Besides, she always had her brothers with her. Until she didn’t. That’s when she called me.”
Holly thinks of Wendy’s photos in the attic, of the man with his face cut out. “And my mother?”
“Jane?” he says, surprised. He starts to say more, then looks at her the way a cat looks at a canary and shakes his head instead. “Why did I choose you? Because you thought you had no one. Not really. And so you were just like me.”
His words hit like a blow. Despite her resolve to stay in control, to not let him hurt her, Holly has to catch her breath. She is nothing like him. Nothing. She has Jack, she has Eden, she has the company. She’s built a life.
But beneath the anger that’s sustaining her is an icy wash of fear. Barry’s voice rings in her ears. How could you not tell me you had a daughter? I mean, Jesus, we’re like family. And Christopher. You can trust me. And even further, before that, the night Peter came through her window. She’d had Jack, but she’d wished she hadn’t—had wished he would die so she could die too.