Page 73 of 56 Days
“So why are you...?”
“That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“All right then.” Lee takes out her notebook, flips it open, clicks the end of her pen. “Why don’t you start with your name?”
“Laura Mannix. Twon’s and ani-xon the end.”
The woman reaches behind into her pocket and pulls out her phone, which has one of thosecredit-card-sized pouches stuck to its back. She slides a small yellow card out of it and holds it up, stretching so Lee can read what’s on it.
Bitten nails, Lee notes. Chipped red polish.
And then—
NUJ.
The National Union of Journalists.
It’s a press card.
Lee flips her notebook closed.
“All press inquiries need to go through the Press Office,” she says, “as you well know.”
She moves to go.
Fucking chancer.
“No, no, wait,” Laura protests. “Please! It’s not... it’s not that.” Her chin trembles; she looks as if she’s about to cry. “I didn’t do anything, okay? Iswear. But I think that whatever’s happened in there... I think it could be my fault.”
28 Days Ago
When Oliver wakes the next morning, he finds the other side of the bed empty and cold. This in itself isn’t unusual; Ciara often gets up before him on weekdays. But then the events of the night before come back to him like a spray of bullets: one at a time but in rapid succession, each one compounding the pain of the previous hit. The fire alarm going off. Her possibly seeing the text message from Rich. Him trying to keep her inside. Her talking to the woman from the Westbury.
Her not talking to him at all when she came back in, except to say that she was going to sleep in the other bedroom.
The sound of the lock turning in its door a moment later had hurt him almost as much as the dragging of jagged glass across his skin had years earlier.
But he couldn’t dwell on it, because he was consumed with the fact that the woman with whom he’d randomly spoken outside a hotel door a few weeks back just happened to be living in the same apartment complex in a city of half a million people, and the implications of it.
One problem at a time.
But now he worries that it was a mistake not to talk to Ciara last night, to try to explain himself.
She could have gotten up this morning and left, not just the apartment buthimas well—
At the tinkle of steel against china, coming from the living room, Oliver’s muscles sag with relief.
She’s stillhere.
He finds her sitting on the couch, close to the patio door, which is standing open a few inches and letting in both a breeze of fresh, cool air and a soundtrack of chirping birds. Her legs are tucked underneath her, and a cup of coffee rests in her lap. Her phone is on the arm of the chair, within easy reach.
“Morning,” he says.
She turns and looks at him, her face expressionless. “Morning.”
He takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch.
“What time is it?” he asks.
