They don’t steal first boyfriends. They’re not that fucking cruel.
‘All right, chill,’ Caden mutters, shuffling away from her. ‘I don’t think I said that; and you shouldn’t either, about your own sister.’
Jess looks up at the black sky. Her mouth pulls at the edges. Is Caden defending her? Is she supposed to be grateful for his scraps?
‘Me chill?!’ Amber shouts, twisting round onto her knees, no sign of remorse or shame. ‘You’re chasing my dumb ginger beanpole of a sister, and I’m supposed to be cool about that?’
A moan escapes, Jess can’t stop it. But Amber and Caden are too lost in their argument to hear.
‘I don’t fancy her, not anymore. But you shouldn’t talk about her like that.’
‘You fucking do, you liar!’
The thwack of a slap rings out. Suddenly Jess is transported back seven years. She sees her mum, the blood pooling on the carpet, her eyes like marbles. She feels sick.
Is Caden going to retaliate? Like Tyler always would?
Does she even care anymore?
‘Fuck this,’ Caden spits out. ‘You’re a crazy bitch!’ He stands up, turns away.
Amber scrambles to her feet and reaches out to him. As she grabs the neck of his hoodie, she flinches, and Jess remembers her fight with Lucy earlier, the broken bottle, Amber lifting her hands to protect herself, her fingers making contact.
‘No, you can’t go,’ she says, trying but failing to sound tough. ‘I don’t want to be here by myself. At least drive me back. And you’ve got my gear in your jacket!’
‘Get off me,’ Caden growls. ‘I don’t need to do anything. We’re done, Amber. Jesus, it was stupid to begin with. What kind of bitch steals their sister’s boyfriend anyway? I should have told you to fuck off when you first messaged me.’
‘Don’t twist the truth! I just wanted to be friends. To get to know the boy who my sister was keeping a secret from me. You were the one who pushed things. Told me I was beautiful.’
Caden chuckles coldly. ‘And one measly compliment was enough for you to betray your only relative. You’re just a cheap slag; goodbye, Amber.’ He reaches down to pick his jacket off the ground, but she lunges at him.
‘Don’t say that!’ Long fingernails, flashes of electric blue, the sound of skin tearing.
‘Shit!’ Caden cups his cheek. ‘You’re fucking mental!’
Jess’s phone vibrates in her hand. A new Snapchat message. Habit kicks in and she clicks on it.
I’m here. Be scared.
‘How could I not have seen it?!’ Caden shouts. ‘Why the hell did I find that story about why you moved to Chinnor so funny? When it was the biggest red flag ever!’
Jess can’t breathe. She was so focused on finding Amber that she forgot to turn the Snapchat map function off. She’s led Sean right to them.
But it’s Caden’s next words that hollow her out like an exploding bullet.
AFTER
Monday 13th May
Rachel
I swing off Blackbird Leys Road and park outside Evenmarle Tower. I don’t want to think about how I got Sean’s address, going back into my work database, searching for another case file that’s got nothing to do with me. As soon as Lou said that Sean’s mum had died of cancer, I suspected we’d have his records. Sean is only 19 now, so it’s likely he’d have been a child when his mum was first diagnosed. And a single mum in and out of hospital would always lead to social services involvement, if only to check that no support was required.
And I was proved right, because there it was. Sean Russo, son of Lizzie Russo and Jed Brown. Father absent; mother deceased. Currently residing at 504 Evenmarle Tower.
Work has brought me to this deprived area many times over the years, but I haven’t been since my promotion, and it looks like the tower has had a facelift. It used to be a bleak concrete block, but there’s a new glass entrance porch now, and deep-blue cladding on the walls. As I walk inside, I wonder if there’s a new security system, but both the doors are wide open. I press for the lift, and miraculously it’s working.
The closer I get to Sean’s flat on the fifth floor, the faster my heart beats. Do I really think Jess has come here? Or am I searching for answers about Matt? As though by seeing Sean Russo in the flesh, I’ll be able to decide for myself whether my husband inflicted his injuries over two years ago. I reach his door, and without letting myself question what I’m doing, rap my knuckles against it.
No one comes.
But I can hear movement inside, so I knock again, louder. But still nothing. I push open the letter box. There’s no hallway – the door leads straight into a front room – and I can make out the dark outline of a man pacing. ‘Sean?’ I call out. ‘Sean Russo?’
The dark mass freezes for a moment, then grows in size. A moment later, the door edges open six inches or so. Enough for me to see Sean’s eyes. Pupils big enough to swallow me whole.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he hisses. There are grazes on his cheeks. Blood on his T-shirt. I’ve dealt with many agitated teenagers over the years, but it feels different this time. Because it’s personal – and more dangerous with it.
‘Um, my name is Rachel Salter,’ I start, silently thanking my past self for keeping my maiden name. ‘I work for Oxford City Council in Children’s Services.’
His eyes narrow. He glances down at his clothes, as though suddenly remembering what he looks like, then edges the door closer to the frame, so only half his face is on show. But his hand is still visible, and I can see that his knuckles are missing a few layers of skin.
‘I’m not a kid,’ he says. ‘I’m 18 now, so you don’t need to come here.’
‘I know,’ I say, with a conciliatory smile. Listen. Relate. De-escalate. These are the pillars of my job and I draw on them now. But inside, I’m on high alert. Because it’s obvious that he’s hit someone. Was it Jess? Is she in his flat now, injured and in need of help?
Is Matt innocent after all?
‘I was hoping you could help me,’ I continue to explain. ‘I’m looking for Jessica Scott and I thought she might have come to see you.’
