Jane’s face is white. “But why would she lie to me—to everyone—for so many years? Why not tell the truth?”
“You told me yourself how Barrie’s story changed her life. The money and the fame, they made her independent. Maybe, in her own way, she was trying to protect you. Give you the same things,” Holly offers.
Jane gives a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps. But that wasn’t Mother’s style. More likely she was afraid the true story would get out and she’d be blamed, despised by all her wealthy friends. Either way, it explains quite a bit regarding her terror of the press.”
For the first time, Holly sees Jane not as her own glamorous, sophisticated mother, but as she must have been years ago. A lonely, neglected child, jealous of the uncle who required so much attention, needy for the notice of the beautiful, always preoccupied Wendy. No wonder she’d been so hungry for the romantic stories Wendy spun.
“She probably did the best she could,” Holly says, and she means it. After all, according to Peter, Wendy had had her problems too. Problems large enough that Peter and his home seemed like paradise in comparison.
“Perhaps,” Jane murmurs again. And then her posture becomes even more ramrod straight. She withdraws her arm from Holly’s shoulder and turns to face her. It’s as if, at last, she’s let the stories go. As if she’s seeing the real world for the first time.
“I’ve been foolish,” she says. “So very, very foolish. That’s not an excuse. It’s an apology. What can I do to make it right?”
Holly wants her mother’s arm back around her shoulder, wants to lean into her warmth. Instead she shakes her head. “I don’t know how anyone can help.”
“I still want to hear everything. Every last detail about Peter,” Jane says. She smiles grimly at Holly’s surprised expression. “No, darling, not for the old reasons. There’s nothing Peter could do or say now that would entice me to spend a second in his company.”
She gets up from the couch and pours herself a small drink. Then she turns back to Holly. “But of all the people in the world, I may still be the one who knows the most about him. I’ve certainly studied him enough. I want every detail of what you saw so I can help you take the bastard down, as they say. Which reminds me.” She glances at the window. “That man—Christopher—was on his motorbike in front of the house all afternoon. He’s called as well. I didn’t answer. I assume you gave him the slip out the back garden for a reason?”
At Holly’s expression Jane arches an eyebrow. “You underestimate me. I learned long ago that if you wish to keep your loved ones close, you need to let them leave.”
Holly doesn’t know what to say to this. Instead she pulls out her phone. Six missed calls from Jane and three from Christopher. She crosses to the window and peers around the heavy curtain.
“Wherever he is, he’s not there now,” Jane says, joining her. “Why not enlist his aid?”
Holly tells her about the message on Jack’s phone. How Peter has moved him somewhere else, and what will happen if Holly tells Christopher or the police. She tries to keep her voice from trembling, but fails.
“Could Peter be reasoned with? Bribed somehow?” Jane asks, leading Holly back to the couch.
“Maybe once. Not anymore. Something’s happened to him. He looks like a man, but . . .” Holly hesitates, trying to find the right words. “It’s as if he’s a three-year-old, a giant toddler bashing about. And his memory is going, even worse than the stories. He may be more ancient than we can guess. He’s terrified and angry and desperate enough, I think, to do anything.”
“And what he really wants is Eden?”
“What he really wants is Eden’s blood. I don’t think he cares much how he gets it.”
“Did you offer him . . .” Jane hesitates.
“I only have the one vial. It would transform him for a time, certainly, but it’s not enough to last,” Holly says. “Still, I thought of it. But if Jack is hurt or sick, it could mean the difference between life and death.”
“What about the cream?”
“He knew all about my ‘potions and lotions,’ as he called them,” Holly says grimly. “Apparently he’s been making his own concoction for years, mixing the blood of teenage boys with Tink’s own pixie dust. In Jack, the serum repairs damage from the crash. Peter’s using it to repair deterioration at the cellular level—to make himself younger. But it’s failing now, and I don’t see how my formula would be any different. For a full transformation, he needs Eden’s blood itself. And given the dreadful shape he’s in, lots of it.”