‘Oh my god,’ I breathe. Then louder, ‘Jack! Jack!’
The car door is pulled open and I scramble out. I’m shaking so hard my legs buckle beneath me. He pulls me close and I cling to him, hardly able to believe it.
‘You’re hurt,’ he says, a bite of anger in his voice. ‘Let me see.’
He takes my arm and gently peels the blood-soaked bandage away.
‘We need to call the police.’
I’m sobbing, relief-wracked and sobbing.
He focuses on my injury. ‘I need to clean this.’
‘I can’t believe you came. I can’t believe …’ I trail off, relief slipping into confusion. ‘Wait … how did you find me?’
‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’
He won’t meet my gaze. ‘How did you find me, Jack?’
He refuses to answer. Tears gone, I jerk away from him. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat. ‘Was it you? Did you—’
‘No.’ He moves towards me, but I shrink away because I’m confused and terrified and my entire world is spiralling. ‘Jesus, Elodie. I’d never hurt you. Not ever. You think I’d do that?’
He’s appalled I’d so much as consider it. I’m a little appalled myself because this is Jack. He’s always been good to me. But I need to know. ‘How did you find me, Jack?’
‘He wasn’t supposed to hurt you.’
Realisation slides icily down my spine. ‘You arranged this.’
He doesn’t deny it.
‘Oh my god.’ I spin away from him, pressing my palms against the car to steady myself.
‘Elodie—’
‘No,’ I shriek, whirling on him. ‘How could you do that to me? I was petrified. I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘Don’t be dramatic.’
‘Dramatic?’ I am incandescent. ‘Someone broke into my fucking house and attacked me! Who was it, Jack?’ I shove him in the chest as hard as I can. ‘Who the fuck was he?’
‘Does it matter?’
My palm itches to slap him.
‘A friend,’ he offers.
‘My stalker?’
‘Someone who owed me a favour. Elodie—’
‘Take me home.’
‘Listen—’
But I don’t. I push past him and start marching barefoot through the woods. All the little stones and sharp twigs cut into my feet, but I keep going. I am too angry. Too fucking angry.
‘Elodie!’ He swings into my path. ‘I did this for you. For all the reasons we talked about. You don’t have a job, or money, you’re going to lose your house and everyone you’re close to when they find out you’ve lied. How’re you going to tell Florence the book she wants you to dedicate to her dead son doesn’t exist?’
Without an answer to his question, I ask him one of my own. ‘How does this solve anything?’
‘Harriers want true crime; give them true crime. Everyone thinks you’ve been abducted; you can hide out at Wisteria for a while.’
The absurdity of his proposal renders me speechless.
‘It’s empty. Remote. When you reappear, you’ll have something to write about. Another pretty blonde with a story to tell. When we pull this off, you won’t just have Harriers making an offer, all the big publishers will.’
I laugh because there’s no way he means what he’s saying.
‘Remember when we were kids, we found that shack in Marley Wood near Wisteria? When you’re ready to be found, you’ll move there; it’s close enough to the cottage that you can get there easily, but far enough away that it won’t raise suspicion.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘After a night in the shack, you’ll head to the dual carriageway and wait for a passer-by to stop. You’ll tell the police you were kept there.’
‘You’re going to frame this friend who you paid to attack me?’
‘He wasn’t meant to hurt you.’ He sighs. ‘You’ll say you don’t know who took you. He wore a mask. You didn’t see his face. It’s just a few days. Let the media run your story, then make a reappearance and write the book. All your problems will be solved.’
He thinks he’s handing me a golden apple of opportunity, but it’s riddled with maggots. It’s rotten. I shake my head. ‘The police are going to figure out you’re behind this.’
‘Before you went missing, I left town and posted about it online. No one can connect me to your disappearance because I wasn’t even in the same postcode when it happened. Then today, I left London, hopped on a train back to Crosshaven, got off halfway and rented a car to come and get you.’