‘They’re not all like Jack,’ says Ada gently.
Her words are a wash of cold water, sobering. ‘I know,’ I say, though I’m not sure I do.
‘Josh isn’t Jack,’ she says. ‘He’s one of the good ones. Trust me.’ And I suppose I should; Ada recognised Jack’s intent before anyone else did. ‘You don’t need a man to make you happy, or to make anyone else happy for that matter,’ she offers. ‘But don’t close yourself off to love because you’re scared.’
My smile has all the strength of milky tea.
‘Look …’ She tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear. ‘Love is always a risk; it’s giving another person the power to destroy you and hoping they choose not to, but when it goes right …’ I don’t even think she’s aware that as she says this, her gaze drifts towards Christopher. ‘When it goes right, it’s like falling through stars.’
For a while, the party moves around me, and I sit on the edge, drinking it all in. Then I pick up a copy of One Small Mistake and slip into the children’s section around the corner, settling down on a huge floor cushion. I just need a minute to myself.
I’m still haunted by nightmares of what happened. But like the bruises, they’ve faded. People want me to hate Jack. It makes them uncomfortable to think I don’t. But he was not just a murderer. Not just my captor. It is not just black and white. It is grey because Jack was not a cartoon villain. He was a person with a past that moulded him. This is not an excuse, it is fact. So I cannot hate him. Just as I cannot undo what happened.
I still dream of him … we are children racing down the hill towards the small beach and plunging into the sea, shrieking against the slap of cold water. We are teenagers joyriding in a vintage Cadillac, his strong fingers, like tree roots in earth, lacing through mine. He is twenty-something, sketching all the places we are going to live together when we leave Crosshaven. There were always two sides to him, light and dark, and I think, over time, I can forgive them both.
I imagine him here with me now. The him I knew before the abduction, before he killed Noah, when he was confidence and challenge and that last square of dark chocolate melting on your tongue. I see him sitting crossed-legged on the cushion opposite mine, all golden curls and cheekbones, the leather and sandalwood scent of him all around.
‘We pulled it off,’ he tells me.
I hold One Small Mistake in my hands, feel the weight of it, the importance; it is the paper and binding and validation I wanted for so long. Even though I am proud of what Ada and I created together, there is a sombre current – the reality that Jack is not here to see it and never will be.
‘Life’s too long to be unhappy,’ he says.
‘Sometimes it’s too short.’
He shrugs.
‘I’m not unhappy,’ I tell him. ‘I just miss you. Miss the way we were. It’s hard. After everything, getting through each day is still hard.’
‘You’re talented, and ambitious and brave.’
I feel the sting of tears.
He smiles. ‘See you in a better world, Fray.’
‘Goodbye, Jack.’
I close my eyes, listening to the rise and fall of chatter in the next room, allowing myself only one more moment of Jack Westwood before I join them.
He promised me once, the morning after I let Margot believe I had a book deal, that I would get published, even if it killed him, even if it killed us both. We didn’t know then how right he was, and he was right about so much.
Except for one thing.
I didn’t need a love that burns. That consumes. That blisters and melts the skin from my bones. I needed this. The love I have with my family. My friends. My living, laughing, breathing sister. And maybe someday, the love I’ll have with another man. What I need now and what I’ll need always, is a love that washes over me like river water. That soothes. A love I can bathe in.
Acknowledgements
Infinite thanks to Thérèse Coen of Hardman and Swainson, agent, therapist and friend, for all the time and love and effort you’ve poured into me. I couldn’t have done this without you.
To my kind and marvellous editor, Hannah Smith, who I adored instantly. I’ll be forever grateful that you scooped up me and my story, so I didn’t have to go to the same desperate measures as Elodie. Thank you to the talented Jen Porter and everyone at Embla Books for believing in Elodie and Ada’s tale and taking it out into the wild.
Thanks to Jennifer Crichton of The Flock for showing me that the hardest stories to tell are the most powerful and freeing to write.