She sighs and accepts the helmet. If she’s lucky, they’ll wreck and she’ll be put out of her misery.
She puts the helmet on but struggles with the snap under her chin. Christopher comes closer, so close they’re almost touching. Then he reaches over and deftly fastens it with one hand.
Holly doesn’t like being this near to him. It makes her aware of things other than how miserable she is, and she doesn’t want to be aware of anything else. But Christopher doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs off his jacket, slides it over her shoulders. The jacket is heavy and smells of leather, of gasoline. It hangs on her, but its weight and warmth are comforting.
She doesn’t want to be comforted.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks abruptly.
“Consider it a kidnapping. Go with it.” He swings a leg over the bike, puts on his own helmet, pats the seat behind him. “Don’t think. Just do it.”
So she does. It’s a relief, for once, to be told what to do, to shut her brain off and let someone else take the lead. She sits as straight as she can on the bike. But the evening is growing cool, and she’s so tired. At last she succumbs and rests her head against his back. He’s a very good driver. She watches the street through half-closed eyes as he weaves in and out of traffic. She wonders, briefly, what he did in the war, what it was like for him coming back. And then she realizes with a start that, for a moment, she’s forgotten to feel afraid or despondent. Oddly enough, she feels safe.
They wind up near the Thames. He stops the bike so they have a view of the river. They don’t talk, simply watch the boats go past. It’s one of those quintessential English summer nights that seem to go on and on. The sun is starting its descent, but the sky is still bright, the air heavy and liquid. She’s taken her helmet off, but her head is still on his shoulder. She doesn’t move. She’s surprised to find that she doesn’t want to.
For years after Robert died, she couldn’t bear to look at couples in love. A woman leaning her head against a man’s shoulder, a husband leaning in for a kiss, was enough to make her incandescent with rage. Why them and not her? Eventually the rage turned to sadness. Now she finds she can watch couples without envy. Leaning against Christopher, she can almost imagine being a part of one again.
It’s Christopher who breaks the spell.
“A boy died today,” he says. He doesn’t turn around to look at her.
She sits up stiffly, leans away, but Christopher keeps talking, easily, conversationally, as if he hasn’t noticed.
“If we catch him, the dealer will go away for a very long time. Maybe forever.”
Forever is a very long time, Holly thinks, and has to bite her lip to keep the hysterical laughter in.
“I couldn’t find the connection,” Christopher muses. “I know there’s a link between this drug and your company. I know we are looking for the same man. But what I couldn’t figure out is how your daughter fits into all of this. And then I remembered Maria and what she called her: the angel of miracles. So tell me, Holly Darling, what’s so special about your daughter’s blood? And before you lie to me again, understand I’m going to find this Peter. And I don’t really care at this point how I do it.”
He looks at her. “The kid who died? He was your son’s age. He played football, had a right good foot. Not good enough to go pro, probably, but enough to play through university. His mother hasn’t gotten out of bed since it happened. His father punched a hole through the wall so hard he broke his hand.”
Holly shivers. She thinks of Eden, her face at the atrium, the terror in her eyes. And Jack. An hour ago, she herself couldn’t get out of bed, the fear of losing them weighing her down so heavily. But both of her children are, at this exact moment, still breathing. Unlike the child of this other poor mother.
She’d like to lay her head back down and weep. She’d like to steal Christopher’s bike, to ride off somewhere where every decision, every word she says, doesn’t decide who lives and who dies. Someplace far away. Or maybe someplace long ago, back when it was easier to tell truth. Instead she calculates, deciding what she can keep safe and what she has to give up. It’s like entering the cage with a panther—so long as there’s something else to eat, you may be safe. But eventually the food supply is going to run out and then he’s looking at you. She thinks of all the things she’s done wrong, all the things she could answer for.
“Tell me what you know. Last chance,” he says.