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Inside Gmail, I scanned down the list of work emails and routine updates, checking for anything important. Nothing jumped out until my eye came to the email I had received from Sunsmile Insurance—the email that had started all this. My stomach turned over at the sight of it, as I relived that moment when I’d realized the truth of what was happening to me. Was it really only this morning? I felt like I had aged fifty years since reading it.
The email sat there, read but otherwise seemingly untouched, but I had no way of knowing if the police had been all over it, if perhaps they were already in touch with the insurer. If they were, there was nothing I could do about that now. I just had to keep going, putting one foot in front of the other.
I was still staring at the unread messages, trying to think of what I could truthfully say to Hel to reassure her, when my computer pinged and a new email notification flashed up in the corner of my screen.
My eyes flicked automatically to the sender.
It was from Jeff Leadbetter.
For a minute I didn’t do anything. I didn’t open it. A part of me wanted to—Jeff worked with Miles and Malik, for God’s sake. He might have information I could use, or let something slip about how close the police were. But at the same time, this was Jeff we were talking about. He was police. And he was also the man I’d spent five years trying to avoid and forget.
The email squatted, unread, at the top of my inbox, an unexploded bomb of possibilities. What if there was a virus attached? There were no attachments, or none that I could see, but Gabe had told me once about an exploit that used embedded images to hijack the computer, worming their way in as soon as the email was opened. I swallowed, hard. Then I navigated to my settings and ticked the box labeled Ask before downloading external images.
Finally, with the feeling that I was taking a giant, possibly insanely stupid leap of trust, I opened Jeff’s email.
Well well well, it began.
Who’s been a naughty girl then.
I nearly shut it back down. A kind of enraged nausea welled up inside me. How had I ever dated this man, let alone slept with him? The thought made me feel sick.
But I forced myself to keep reading.
Had a call from Habiba Malik today. Said her colleague Alex had been having a very interesting chat with a friend of mine—right up until the point when the aforementioned friend slid out of the interview. Without telling anyone. And then the boys over in tech turned up some veerrry dodgy stuff on your phone apparently.
Serious talk though, Jack—you’re in trouble. Big trouble. And you know there’s no way you can keep this up? I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve but I don’t think civilians realise how hard it is to stay under the radar. You’ll run out of money, you can’t use your cards, you can’t use your phone, there’s no way you can leave the country, and if you’re reading this the tech boys have probably already traced your IP address. You’re fucked basically, excuse my french. But you know that, right?
Listen, take my advice. Turn yourself in. This is only going to get worse the longer you delay getting caught. Because you WILL get caught. Everyone does in the end. No, turn yourself in, get a good lawyer, cop a plea.
Why did you do it anyway? Was he hitting you? Screwing around? You should have come to me. I’d have sorted him out for you. In a purely professional manner appropriate for a serving officer of course ;)
J
By the time I finished reading the last line, the fear and nausea were gone—burned away by the only emotion that remained: a searing fury. Without giving myself time to think better of it, I stabbed the reply button, then began to type, hitting the keys so hard the computer rocked against my lap.
Jeff. Fuck you. No seriously FUCK YOU. How absolutely dare you—the idea that Gabe would ever, EVER physically abuse me, that is RICH coming from you of all people.
Are your superiors reading this? Did they authorise you to send that pathetic screed in the hopes that I would confide all my secrets to you, maybe beg to be rescued, or give away something about my location? Well I hope they ARE reading this, because I have something to say—something I tried to say five years ago, only no one wanted to hear it.
To whom it may concern: I dated Jeff Leadbetter from the age of 20 to 22. He treated me like shit for at least 80% of that period, and when I finally pulled myself together and left him, he hit me, threatened me, and then stalked me for six months. And when I reported it to the police, his colleagues swept it under the rug.
So fuck you, Jeff, and fuck you whoever is reading this. And no, it goes without saying, I didn’t kill my husband. But someone did, and whoever it was broke into our house via the vent on the bathroom window, and then cut his throat. It took me about five minutes to find that out—five minutes it could have taken you too, if you weren’t so busy trying to convict me. So do your jobs, get out there, and fucking CATCH THEM.
Furiously, my fingers physically trembling with rage, I hit send and watched the email swirl away. Then I put my head in my hands and tried to figure out what I had just done, and whether I’d made a huge mistake.
A large part of me knew that I’d probably done exactly what the police had been hoping I would do with that email—assuming they’d known about it. They must have known it would make me angry—even someone who knew nothing about my past with Jeff couldn’t have read those mocking, patronizing sentences as anything other than a goad. And so I’d responded, falling into the trap like any forum poster taking the bait of an internet troll and firing back.
But perhaps the police hadn’t banked on Gabe’s VPN—a supersecure one which bounced through several countries that were known for their lack of cooperation with UK and US law enforcement.
Well, whatever I had just done, I was committed now. There was no unsending the email, and if I had given away my location, I might as well accomplish something useful at the same time.
Deliberately pushing Jeff Leadbetter to the back of my mind, I opened up a new email and filled in Hel’s address at the top. That was the easy part, but when I tried to think what to say, I struck a brick wall. I’m okay? Except I wasn’t. Don’t worry? She absolutely should.
Dear Hel, I managed at last.
I’m safe. I can access emails but you should assume the police are reading anything you write here. So far, so pointless. How could I get her a message that actually mattered?
The thought came to me with a bitterness that stuck in my throat, that this would have been so much easier if I actually had killed Gabe. If I’d had some warning, I could have prepared—I could have had cash and burner phones up to the eyeballs, and a properly researched protocol with Hel for secure message exchange. Instead I was making it up as I went along, drowning in grief, and trying not to screw things up more than I already had done.
