Holly smiles at them both. “I’m not sure what Jack’s grandmother has planned for tomorrow. But if we can fit it in, we will. Thanks.”
“Let me give you the address,” Nan says, scribbling it and her phone number on a piece of paper. Jack snatches it from her before Holly can.
Damn. Lacrosse is not what Jack needs right now. Holly has to shut this down. “I didn’t realize how late it was—I’m so sorry to have kept you,” she says brightly. “Have a good night. And Jack, you should probably go clean up. We’d better leave if we don’t want to be late. You know how your grandmother is about punctuality.”
He scowls at her but leaves the room. Holly sees Nan out. She’d like to tell her not to come tomorrow, but she can’t do that, not without angering Jane. So she settles for locking the door behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
Jane’s chosen a trendy Middle Eastern restaurant for dinner. There are a handful of teens present, and they sit at a separate table from the adults. Holly glances over at Jack a few times. He seems to be happily engaged. Good. Maybe she’ll get lucky and they’ll all make plans for tomorrow and lacrosse will naturally fall off his radar.
The evening passes quickly. Jane’s friends are interesting and entertaining, and despite herself, Holly enjoys their company. Several of the women use Darling Skin Care products, and they exclaim about them to Jane, who gives Holly an approving look. An unexpected warmth floods Holly, and it’s not from the wine she’s drinking.
At the end of the meal, the teens decide to see a late-night movie. The show is within walking distance, and one of the older boys offers to drive Jack home after. Holly hesitates. She’d like to say no. Thinking of Jack walking the same streets as Peter gives her chills. It’s why she left London for Cornwall, then fled to New York when Cornwall turned out to be not far enough. But she can’t come up with a plausible excuse. So she gives him some money and reminds him to stay with the group and to call if he’s going to be later than midnight.
“Let him enjoy himself,” Jane says. “You can’t keep him a baby forever.”
Oh, but I can, Holly thinks. Or at least I can keep him safe. She banishes that last day in New York, Jack’s bloody nose, from her mind. The cut from lacrosse the day before that. What will happen to him if she can’t find Eden. Or if Peter finds him first.
No.
Instead she concentrates on the nursery, on the knife under her pillow there.
I can.
“I’d like to go for a little drive, see what’s changed in the city,” she says instead to her mother. “Any chance you can get a ride home?”
Jane gives her a sharp-eyed look. “Should I be worried?”
“Of course not,” Holly says innocently. She feels a sudden, surprising solidarity with Jack. Who, if he were still in the room, would surely be laughing at her.
* * *
Holly heads back to the same section of town she’d explored on her first day. At night, the shadows make it more ominous. Bits of broken glass shine under the streetlights, and every stranger on a corner seems suspicious.
She doesn’t get out of the car, just cruises the streets. Couples stroll through the night, holding hands. A few homeless men sleep in doorways or sit on the sidewalk, cardboard boxes and knapsacks by their sides. None of these people look anything like Peter. None look like Eden.
She parks and waits under an old bridge. It’s darker here, and trash blows into the corners of the supports. She glances at her watch. She’ll give it another twenty minutes before she heads home. She turns off her headlights, lets her eyes adjust to the night.
Shadowy figures come and go, but it’s hard to see. Everyone is beautiful in the dark. Once, she’s certain she’s found him—there’s a flash of golden hair, and a boy with easy grace walks out of the darkness toward a waiting car. Her heart lurches, but when he stops under the streetlight, he’s too young. Jack’s age. Holly’s stomach roils with disgust, then anger as she watches the car drive away. If Christopher Cooke is protecting children like this, she has more understanding of his windpipe-crushing rage.
A few minutes after eleven, she calls it. She wants to be home when Jack comes in. She starts the car, puts it in gear, and is pulling away when something catches her eye. She brakes, watches the figure striding along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. It’s lithe and boyish, in a dark jacket and cap. Familiar somehow. She holds her breath, studying, trying to parse out where she knows it from. Could it be . . . and then a beam from the streetlight catches an errant lock of hair. Silver, not gold. Not Jack. Not Peter.