“Well then,” Jane says, “I suppose I should leave you to it.”
“I suppose so.” Holly turns away and busies herself tidying the desk.
“Holly,” Jane says. She’s lingered by the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s quite all right to feel badly. Just not too badly.” This time, those bright blue eyes look directly at Holly. “No matter how much you used, most people—myself included—would have used more.”
And with that she is gone.
* * *
After Jane leaves, Holly finishes a few emails, checks over the marketing plan for Pixie Dust one last time. There’s a problem with the vendor for the glass bottles—they’re struggling to keep up with the advance orders—and Holly could leave it to Barry but drafts a letter anyhow. She’s stalling, she knows, but the conversation with her mother has left her unsettled. She’s done the right thing—anyone who has seen Jack run across the lacrosse field will attest to that—but she can’t help but feel the wrong of it anyhow.
The work helps steady her, as it almost always does, and when she’s calm again, she pulls the vial back out of its refrigerated box. She’s readied the needle so often over the years she could do it in her sleep, but this time she’s hyperaware of the sharp metal point beneath its cap, of the rich red color of the blood as she draws it out of the vial. It’s as if she’s under some sort of spell.
She gives herself a mental shake. She doesn’t have the time for this. She needs to find Jack and get on with it. She carries the needle in its casing with her down the hall and to his room. But when she taps on the door, he’s not there. Nor is he in the library or game room.
She hurries to the kitchen, where she asks Nan if she’s seen him. “Ed’s out of school for the summer, so I think they’d planned lunch and then maybe hitting some of the shops. Ed’s dad might meet up with them, if he’s bored enough with this week’s chippie. He’s a teacher, so he’s done as well. But they should be back early.”
Holly bites her lip in frustration. Jack’s out as well, his school having finished two days ago. He’d been elated, a mood change she would have welcomed were it not for the fear his increasingly free schedule struck in her. “Why can’t I go now?” he’d raged at her when she’d forbidden him from taking off on the Tube to explore London by himself. “There’s absolutely no reason. You just don’t want me to have any fun.” He’d stomped up the stairs in a fury, slamming the door to his room behind him, and she’d counted herself grateful that he hadn’t walked out the front door. She doesn’t know how she could have stopped him.
She hates the idea of him wandering the streets. The shadowy figure of Peter is never far from her mind. I can fix that for you . . . But today Jack is with Ed, and possibly Ed’s father. He’ll be fine.
“He said he’d already talked with you,” Nan offers. “That might be why he didn’t come up to the office.” She looks at the wrapped needle in Holly’s hand with undisguised curiosity, but before she can ask about it, the doorbell rings.
The two women look at each other. “I don’t think your mother is expecting anyone,” Nan says. “Jack probably forgot his key again.” She moves toward the hall, but Holly beats her to it.
“I’ll get it,” she says. She has a few things to say to her son. She doesn’t want to leave the syringe in the kitchen with Nan, so she takes it with her as she hurries to the door. She’ll pull Jack into the hall bathroom and inject him there.
She opens the door. “Where have you . . . ,” she starts to say, but the words die on her lips. It’s not Jack at all, but Christopher Cooke, dressed in a biker kit, his helmet tucked under his arm, his prosthesis hidden by leather gloves.
“Been all your life?” He finishes her sentence for her with a cheeky grin. “I’ve asked myself that same question.”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Holly says, unable to think of a snappy comeback. He’s caught her off guard—again. Even worse, she hears footsteps behind her. She prays fervently for Nan but knows her luck’s not that good.
“Holly? Is that Jack?” her mother calls before coming into view. “I’m heading out for a late lunch and wanted to make sure you’d found him before . . . Oh, hello.” Christopher gives her his most winning smile. Jane, no slouch in her ability to recognize an attractive male, returns it.