‘Tell her? I’m not telling her anything.’
‘She has a right to know who her father is.’
Ffion walks slowly towards him, her eyes never leaving his. Rhys blinks nervously, his stomach twisting. She’s close enough to touch him – he can smell shampoo and cigarettes in her hair.
‘You go anywhere near my daughter . . .’ Ffion spits out the words ‘。 . . you dare tell her anything – and I swear to God, Rhys Lloyd, I will kill you.’ In a move too sudden for Rhys to step back from, she brings her knee sharply up into his groin.
As Ffion disappears down the drive, the Triumph backfiring into a cloud of dust, Rhys sinks slowly to his knees.
FIFTY
JANUARY 8TH | LEO
Leo grips the top of the windscreen and lifts one foot to step into the boat. Lightning flashes bright white, and a gust of wind lurches the vessel to one side. Leo has no choice but to fall into the cockpit, scrambling on to the seat next to Ffion, who’s wasted no time in releasing the moorings. By the time thunder cracks overhead they’ve left the jetty behind, and now Ffion releases the throttle, and the motorboat bounds forward, throwing Leo into the hull of the boat.
He can’t see the water, and he doesn’t know if that helps, or makes it worse. He knows there are trees within striking distance, but the snowstorm hides them, consuming everything, until it seems there’s nothing for miles. The boathouse light is lost in the first curve of the lake, and now they’ve passed The Shore, are already beyond the parts of the lake which could be seen from the jetty. He clutches the side of the boat as it crashes through the water, every wave lifting him from the base of the boat. His heart hammers against his ribcage and he doesn’t dare crawl back on to the exposed, narrow seat.
As a new police officer, catapulted into Liverpool city centre, Leo found himself in risky situations all the time – any number of which could have ended badly. The brawl outside All Bar One; the nunchuck nutter fighting anyone who came near. The guy on the bridge who threatened to take Leo down with him if he didn’t let him jump. None of those jobs scared Leo.
But now?
Now, Leo is terrified. Growing up, there was never spare money for extra-curricular activity, and when you live on an estate, miles from natural water, swimming lessons aren’t a priority. Leo reached a moment, somewhere in his teens, where it was too late – too humiliating – to learn, and so he never did.
In the dim light from the dashboard Ffion’s jaw is rigid, eyes set on the red haze in the sky, fading even as Leo looks at it. He takes a deep breath. Somewhere beneath that mark, lost in the blizzard, is sixteen-year-old Seren, alone and in danger, and way more frightened than Leo has any right to be. He can’t imagine being any colder than he is now, yet every wave which crashes over the windscreen reminds him of the bitter depths of the lake.
Gingerly, Leo inches his way on to the seat next to Ffion. The windscreen offers a little protection, and he tries to find the rhythm of the boat, softening his body so it absorbs the impact instead of flying into the air. The lake seems at once liquid and solid, each wave a brick wall against the hull. Ffion doesn’t waver, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, snow swirling about her.
Leo feels a quiet strength begin to build, somewhere between the rough water and the storm raging overhead. He grabs the searchlight from between Ffion’s feet and switches it on, sweeping it across the water. Ffion’s doing whatever it takes to get her daughter back, and Leo can’t let her down. Then, once Seren is safe, he’ll do whatever it takes to get his own kid back.
FIFTY-ONE
NEW YEAR’S EVE | SEREN
Wear the dress.
Seren’s stomach gives a little flip as she looks at the message again. This is it. She’s been wondering if it’s all been in her head, thinking he might fancy her, even notice her in that way. She even wanted to ask him, like some stupid kid. Do you like me? Is something happening between us?
Wear the dress is her answer.
She’s giddy with excitement as she gets ready. She washed her hair this morning, and now she straightens out the frizz, before using the irons to tease each section into soft, loose waves that ripple over her shoulders. She smudges her eyes with golds and browns, coats her lashes with mascara and shapes her brows the way she’s learned online. With every layer of make-up she looks older. By the time she’s finished, she feels nothing like Seren Morgan. She’s glad of it because, right at the back of her mind, a tiny warning is trying to make itself heard. She pushes it away. She’s sixteen. She could leave school. Get married. Drive a moped.