AllFreeNovel
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“Sorry. Yes. Quite a character.”
“He is that.”
“Did he get anything?”
“Well, yeah, a little. He found a pretty girl on Instagram who lives in Essex and looks to be some kind of freaky-filter-using beauty influencer with a fondness for the word ‘perfect.’ He thinks she might be Fox’s Belle, so he’s sent her a follow request. But more importantly, he’s got plans already to see Fox again, Wednesday night.”
Amber’s eyes widen slightly, and she nods. “Wow,” she says. “That is impressive. Both my kids are pretty friendly, but letting someone in from left field like that, very unusual. He clearly has a knack. The sort of knack that could be used for very bad ends if he so chose.”
“Yeah,” says Jessica. “I know what you mean. But he is a good kid. I promise.”
“I hope you’re right. Anyway.” Amber reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out a plastic envelope. “Here’s everything you need to collect your passport tomorrow. And all your travel details. You’ll need to check in online the minute you have your passport details. Your flight leaves at ten past ten Tuesday morning, gets into Heathrow ten o’clock that same night. I’ve booked a car to take you to a hotel in Kensington since you’re getting in late, and then Wednesday, first thing, another car to drive you to Essex. Your booking is at the Manston Oak Inn, seven nights, but can be extended. I haven’t booked you a return yet. We’ll see how you go. But stay in touch. We can FaceTime anytime. Talk on the phone. Whatever. Keep track of expenses. And more than anything, stay safe.”
She hands Jessica the package and Jessica smiles. “Thank you,” she says, feeling oddly touched by Amber’s concern.
“As far as I’m aware, Sebastian is still at the Essex house overseeing the renovations, and I need you to find a way to talk to him without him knowing that I sent you. You’ll need a cover story. Sebastian is something of a frustrated novelist, so I was thinking that you could say you were researching a novel?”
“A novel? You think I could pass as a novelist?” Jessica points her fingers at herself.
“Yeah. Of course. Why not? What does a novelist look like anyway?”
“I don’t know. Not like me though, I’m pretty sure.”
The dog has squatted to take a shit. Amber sighs and pulls a green plastic bag from a tube attached to the dog’s leash and flaps it open. “Just say you’re writing a crime novel,” she says, crouching to collect the pile of poop inside the bag. She eases herself back to standing and smiles at Jessica, the bag hanging from her fingertips. “Listen,” she says. “You’re a private investigator. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. But Jessica, before you go, I wanted to reiterate what I said to you the last time I saw you. I would be happy to have you in for a session, when you’re ready. You seem like…and please don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem as though you’re letting trauma hold you back and I can feel”—she pushes her fist gently into Jessica’s collarbone—“the pain in there. It’s almost tangible, Jessica. And I like you. I don’t know you. But I like you. And I would really, really like to help you. A girl like you shouldn’t be living alone in that apartment. A girl like you should—”
And there’s something in the tone of Amber’s voice, and something about the wholesomeness of this, a sunny fall Sunday morning in Central Park, surrounded by the sort of people who take walks in Central Park on sunny fall Sunday mornings, that makes Jessica feel like she could just come right out and say it, and she opens her mouth and she says, “You know, I think I might be…” But a cloud passes across the sun, the moment dies, and she stops.
Amber tilts her head at her. “You think you might be what?”
Jessica smiles, tightly. “Nothing. Just, I think I’m tired. That’s all. Just tired.”
“Well, they say that a change is as good as rest. Maybe this trip is going to be exactly what you need. But seriously, once you’re back, please come and talk to me. I’d love to help you.”
Jessica smiles. “Sure,” she says. “When I’m back.”
PART TWO
THIRTEEN
JESSICA PEERS THROUGH the windows of her limo as her driver takes her through the ugly outskirts of West London. She stares at the big mud-colored night sky and the high-rise buildings and feels strangely small and alone. It’s ten p.m. here, which makes it five p.m. in New York, and Jessica pulls out her phone and sends Malcolm a message:
All OK?
Immediately she sees that Malcolm is typing a reply:
Yeah
She’s about to reply when she sees he is still typing, then:
Your place is musty dude.
Plus your fridge is moldy.
I could clean.
Underneath is a praying hands emoji. Jessica sighs.
Don’t touch ANYTHING
