She describes to Elliot how to package it, promises to send him a link to a checklist he can use.
“It’s . . . human blood?” he says, as if he’s just realizing this.
She wonders again if she’s making a mistake. “Yes. It’s . . . it’s a type of genetic study I’m working on. A personal one. And Elliot?”
“Yes?”
“I’d really appreciate if you’d take care of the whole thing yourself. It’s a private situation, and I’d prefer not to let anyone else know.”
“Of course,” he says again. She has to trust that he means it.
When they hang up, she calculates how long it will take him. She’s told him not to start the process until the morning, when he can mail it out promptly. A day to process and package, another two days in transit . . . She figures it will be here by the end of the week, if she’s lucky. Which lately she is not.
* * *
In the meantime, she needs to keep Jack healthy. She spends the next few days alternately working and mother-henning him. She feeds him all the iron-rich foods she can, requesting steamed spinach, liver and onions, even kidney pie, on the theory that it can’t hurt. Nan looks at her as if she’s crazy and Jane declares herself revolted, but Holly doesn’t care. She practically forces Jack to eat, until she catches Jane smuggling in fish and chips one day after lunch.
“You’re not helping,” Holly growls when she discovers the subterfuge.
“Believe me, I am,” Jane says, snagging an errant chip that’s dropped onto the counter. Despite her alabaster skin, chips have always been her weakness. “You want him to eat, don’t you? The poor boy is going to waste away on whatever foolish diet you’ve concocted. And Nan is truly going to quit if you keep making her cook these revolting messes.”
“There are other housekeepers in London, you know,” Holly says. But it’s half-hearted.
“I do know,” Jane says, dousing the errant chip in vinegar. “I’ve tried most of them. And I’m not losing this one.”
* * *
Holly is settling into the office when her mobile rings. She glances at it and does a quick time calculation, expecting Barry or perhaps Elliot. But it’s Christopher.
“Please tell me you have good news,” she says.
“That depends,” he answers. “I haven’t found your Peter yet. So I decided to approach it from a different angle. I talked with Maria.”
It takes Holly a moment to process what he’s saying. And then it hits her. She has to sit down.
“You went to Cornwall? But how did you . . .” She trails off.
“I told you. I like to know as much as I can about my clients. Turns out, I learned a lot.”
“You have no business investigating me,” Holly snaps. “You took my money and you’re supposed to be doing what I say, and that’s helping me find my daughter. What about looking for Peter? That’s what you said you were going to do.” She can hear the hysteria in her voice. She fights to control it, to stay calm and discover what he knows. She was stupid not to have expected this.
“Peter wasn’t panning out, if you’ll excuse the pun,” Christopher says, and Holly feels that familiar urge to throttle him. “I don’t have enough to go on. So I decided to pull on the other end—to see why, rather than how, your daughter might leave. And that took me to Cornwall. Now I know what you were doing. But what I don’t understand is why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stalls.
He sighs. “We can play that game if you want. But it won’t work. Before my accident, people used to say I was typical Irish, a mix of charm and temper both. Well, these days I’m down an arm and short on charm. But I’ve picked up plenty of rage, especially when it comes to the safety of children. I need to know what you were doing with that kid. And trust me, you won’t like what happens if you stonewall.”
“If you must know, I was trying to cure my daughter.” It’s the truth. Part of it, at least.
“It might have been useful to mention she’d been in a coma for years,” he says. “Somehow you happened to omit that tiny detail in our conversations. It certainly explains why you have no photos of her with her eyes open.”
Holly struggles to think, decides that the best way to get information is to give some. “Fine. As I mentioned when we met, Eden has a rare genetic disease—it causes her to grow too fast. When she was young, she had an accident. She fell and hit her head. The doctors think her body couldn’t heal and sustain that rate of growth, so she essentially went into a type of hibernation. Over the years I’ve tried everything to wake her up.”