Page 52 of 56 Days
She stays in the bathroom for another few minutes to keep up appearances, then gathers up her things and unlocks the door.
The steam spills out behind her into the colder air of the hall—directly opposite, the door to the living room is indeed closed.
She pauses next to it, head turned, listening. There’s no sound at all coming from the other side.
What’s he doing in there?
She moves closer until her left ear is almost touching the wood.
Nothing. But then—
She thinks she might have just heard a scrape of metal on cement.
Which would mean he’s outside, on the terrace.
There’s adrip-dripsound then, much closer, and after a beat she realizes it’s her, shedding droplets onto the hall floor, marking the spot where she’s been eavesdropping, the sodden ends of her own hair giving her away.
She ducks into the master bedroom, clutching the towel she’s wrapped around her, closing the door behind her with a softclick.
And then locking it, too.
The key has always sat in the lock but she’s never heard it turn, and she winces now at how loud it is. Hopefully he’s still outside. Why would she be locking this door right now? She can’t think of any plausible reason and she certainly can’t share the real one: because she’s going to look for the backpack.
She puts her clothes back on first—her trusty jeans and a plain blackT-shirt, creased from its time as a ball on the bathroom floor—and then scans the room.
There’s really only two places it could be: in the wardrobe or under the bed. She checks them both, in that order, careful to leave no obvious sign that she’s been rifling through Oliver’s things.
But there’s no sign of the backpack.
Did he come in here and take it while she was in the shower? Why would he do that? What the hell is in there that he doesn’t want her to see?
She checks again to make sure she hasn’t missed anything, but the backpack definitely isn’t there. It’s quick to search; Oliver doesn’t have much stuff. Clothes and shoes and toiletries just about covers the lot.
But then he did say this was a temporary home. Maybe he only left London with whatever he could bring on the flight.
“Ciara?”
She freezes.
Oliver’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the living room. She quickly turns the key, opens the bedroom door wide, and then hurries to thefull-lengthmirror hung on the wall by the wardrobe, where she still has aline-of-sight to the door to the living room.
The shower has steamed all the makeup off her skin but not her eyes, leaving her lashes smudged and messy with wayward mascara. She wets a finger and drags it underneath each eye in turn, trying to repair the damage and trying to look like that’s what she’s been doing in here all along.
Theliving-roomdoor opens with a flourish and Oliver appears.
When he spots her in the bedroom, he grins at her mischievously. “You ready?”
“Ah...” Her hair, she notices now, looks plastered to her head. “Yeah.” She pushes her hands up into it, massaging her scalp, in a futile attempt to rescue it.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“Nowthat’sabold-facedlie.”
“Lovely tome.”
Ciara rolls her eyes at him.
“Come on then.” He holds out his hand, beckoning her. “Let’s go.”
