‘You’re not fine,’ he said. ‘It’s okay to not be okay.’
Suddenly embarrassed, I pulled back and wiped my eyes. Christopher opened his mouth to say something, then Dad called my name. Over my shoulder, I saw him marching across the car park. ‘I better get him home,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for, but I owed him gratitude. On the way back home, I let Christopher’s words and all I’d achieved sink in. He was right; if I hadn’t gone to Richard’s house, he wouldn’t have dropped the charges.
I made a difference. Me.
And you know what, I’m not leaving it up to other people to find you. I won’t stop looking for you, Ellie-Bee, not until my heart stops beating.
Chapter Thirty-Three
35 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
The sound of my heart is loud in my ears as I swim towards consciousness. Finally breaking through the surface on a gasp, I am lying on my back, inhaling the powdery freshness of clean sheets. My eyes flicker open – the bright white light of day burns so I close them again. The insides of my lids are painted red. Opening my eyes and keeping them that way is a struggle; they keep sliding shut.
A gabled ceiling.
Red.
Wooden beams.
Red.
French doors – the sky.
I am in the attic room in Wisteria Cottage. I try to sit up, but I can’t. I can’t.
My arms have been pulled up over my head and secured to the iron-cast headboard behind me. Metal clinks on metal; I am handcuffed. Memories rush in on a tidal wave: the speeding car, Jack pinning me to the hard ground, his fingers between my legs as I begged him to stop, tumbling down a bank. My left temple throbs.
I test my bonds again but the metal cuts into my wrists; the pain is excruciating, and I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying out. There’s no way I can get free without help. I go from hot to cold and back again; my chest tightening to a painful degree as panic threatens to consume me.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
I look down to realise I’m wearing a clean T-shirt. There’s no mud from where I fell, just little scratches and bruises littering my legs. How long have I been unconscious for? And what did Jack do to me while I was out? Without thinking, I try to move my hands to feel between my legs – check for torn flesh, blood, pain – any sign that he has put himself inside me, but my restraints don’t allow for more than a couple of inches of movement.
He’s changed my clothes. He’s held my naked, unconscious body in his hands. He’s cleaned my skin. My stomach churns. Panic starts to snip the thread of calm I am clutching. I drag air down into my lungs, and fight to stay in control. Holding still, I mentally check myself over. I’m not sore but then, what about all those women you read about who black out, are raped, and wake up having no idea until they turn over and see an unfamiliar man beside them or, further down the line, a degrading video or photograph emerges? If Jack had raped me, would I even know?
Sweat gathers in the hollow of my back as I realise, even if he hasn’t done so already, he still could. I am half naked and chained to a bed. No one knows I am here. No one will ever know I am here because I helped him commit the perfect crime. He made sure he had a watertight alibi the day I disappeared: a busy London theatre, hundreds of people who can vouch for him, ticket stubs, CCTV. He could keep me in Wisteria or kill me and throw my body into the sea, and no one would ever suspect Jack Westwood because he is the devoted best friend who appealed for my safe return on national television.
Panic finally severing my thread of calm, I scream for help. The nearest neighbours are too far away to hear but I don’t care, I am trying to purge myself of terror. Let it out along with all the air in my lungs. The bedroom door swings open. Jack, in joggers and a clean T-shirt, doesn’t look like a kidnapper, a murderer or a rapist. Not like the thuggish red faces you see in mugshots on the evening news. Even as a child, you’re conditioned to believe villains have warts and crooked noses where heroes have white smiles and strong jaws. Jack is good-looking and golden; even without the perfect alibi, no one would suspect him.
I’ve stopped screaming. In the abrupt silence, I hear waves crashing outside, and Jack breathing hard, and myself breathing harder. He stares at me, his face pale, contorted. With worry? Or anger, maybe. For several slow-ticking seconds I don’t know what he’s going to do, whether he will climb on top of me, inside me, finish what he started. But then he softens, and approaches, arms raised, palms up, as though trying to calm a rabid animal. ‘It’s okay,’ he soothes, ‘you’re okay.’