I can’t believe it, she wants to protest, and it’s true too, except… that a little part of her can. Maybe several parts in fact. The part that knows that April had spent all year fucking Emily’s boyfriend. The part that recoiled when Hugh told her about the cruel trick with the A-level letter. And most of all, the part of her that remembers walking under the cloisters with Emily and Ryan on a cold November night, and hearing Emily hiss, If she tries any of that shit with me, I will end her.
The venom in Emily’s voice—that was real. It has stayed with Hannah for more than ten years. And even now it makes her shiver.
“It could have been plenty of other people,” she says now, trying to persuade herself as much as November. “April had pranked a lot of people. It could have been someone from another college entirely. It could have been—” The idea comes to her, and she clutches at it with a barely concealed desperation. “It could have been whoever was supplying her with the dextroamphetamine. A drug deal gone bad.”
This is all true.
But what November said is truer.
It could have been Emily. She has always had motive. And now she has opportunity.
“Hannah,” November says, and her voice is warning. “Hannah, please, don’t do anything about this until you’ve spoken to the police.”
“I won’t,” Hannah says, a little impatiently. “I’m not stupid.”
“I mean it—if this is right—if you tell anyone—”
“I said, I’m not stupid. I’ll phone them up tomorrow, as soon as I’m back in Edinburgh.”
“Okay,” November says. She looks at Hannah critically, as if she’s appraising Hannah’s strength, if it came to a fight. She looks worried.
“Why didn’t you say anything to Will?” she asks now, and Hannah feels a sudden tightness in her throat.
“Because he won’t listen,” she says. “I’ve tried—I’ve tried over and over to tell him that there’s something wrong about that night, something that I’m not seeing, can’t remember—but he won’t listen, he just wants me to shut up, pretend it’s all fine.”
She shuts her eyes. It is the worst feeling in the world, to be afraid—and to have the person you love tell you that it’s all in your head.
“Look, I don’t know him,” November says softly, “but… I feel like if you love him, he must be a good guy?”
“He is,” Hannah says. It feels as if something is lodged at the back of her throat, hurting her.
“He’s frightened for you. He lost one person he loved, much too young. I can see why he doesn’t want to lose another.”
“I know,” Hannah whispers. “I know.”
She puts her hand up to the corner of her eye and angrily brushes away the moisture prickling there, furious at her body for betraying her. She doesn’t want to be that woman—that pregnant woman who bursts into tears at the drop of a hat. She wants to be strong, logical, analytical—but she doesn’t feel like any of those right now.
“I could be wrong,” she says, forcing the words out as levelly as she can, and November nods, but the concern doesn’t leave her face. Hannah could be wrong. But if she’s not, there is a killer out there. Someone April trusted. Maybe even someone April loved.
And that idea makes Hannah very frightened indeed.
AFTER
That night, Hannah can’t sleep. Again. It’s not just the heartburn, though the Gaviscon pills aren’t working as well as the liquid does, and have left a horrible chalky residue on her teeth. It’s not just the baby, who seems to have woken up as soon as she lay down and is even now shifting and wriggling and turning like a cat trying to get comfortable on a strange bed.
It’s everything.
It’s her own fears. It’s her argument with Will. It’s Emily.
It’s Emily.
Oh God, it can’t be Emily. Can it?
A sickness is churning inside her as she thinks of the dinner they spent together tonight, Emily chatting away, glancing at Hannah with concern as she sat there silently picking at her ramen.
Had she guessed? Does she know what Hannah is thinking? Is she lying awake even now at her house across town trying to figure out what Hannah knows and what has changed since last night?
As Hannah reaches for her phone—1:47 a.m., the numbers gleam bright in the dim light of the hotel room—she is swamped by an almost overwhelming urge to call Emily, talk to her. Because it can’t be true. She can’t be thinking this about her old friend.