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Chapter Thirteen

Baxter

It was hard to believe I was doing this, but now I was back in Finchley, there was nothing to do but bite the bullet and get it done. After all, what was one more breakdown in front of Lake if I couldn’t cope when he’d already witnessed one? Witnessed it and still thought I was worth his time. He was either a saint or a masochist, and I hadn’t yet decided which was more likely.

“The coffee shop was over there on that corner,” I said. It was a women’s hairdresser now, advertising a discount for OAPs in big red letters on its window. In my mind, everything had stayed frozen in time, so discovering the last place I’d ever bought coffee now only offered cuts and styling was jarring.

Lake was a silent shadow by my side as I walked the length of the pavement, the cab having dropped us off a couple of minutes earlier. “I’d been in two minds whether to drive to my date,” I said. “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t, whether I’d still have been attacked.”

“I guess that depends on a question I haven’t asked you yet.”

“Which is?”

“Were you a random target, or were you their intended victim?”

“I don’t know.” It was something I’d asked myself countless times, but that didn’t mean I knew the answer.

All too soon, the multistory car park loomed in front of us, my heart kicking into a frenzied gear. Lake put his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do. And I’d rather not do it on my own.”

Lake nodded, saying nothing more as we kept walking. Or at least nothing more out loud. The same couldn’t be said for his thoughts. “What am I thinking, letting him come here? I’m not a therapist. I have zero knowledge beyond what I’ve read in a book about handling traumatic events. What if this makes it worse? What if making him talk about it, making him face it, is completely the wrong way to go? I should have spoken to a psychiatrist and gotten their opinion. Or is it a psychologist? It would help if I knew the difference.”

I pulled Lake to a stop. “I’m an adult,” I said. “I can make my own decisions. You’re not forcing me to do anything, right?” I waited for Lake to shake his head. “And whose idea was it to come here?”

“Yours.”

“Right. I’m not going to set foot in there and have a complete psychotic break.” At least I hoped I wasn’t. “Do you want me to sign something absolving you of all responsibility?” Lake shook his head again. “Okay, then.”

Being on foot rather than driving helped. It created distance, a barrier against fully reliving that day. At least, that’s what I told myself as we went inside. Although I had cause to reconsider that as we took the stairs up to the fifth and final floor.

“The car park was pretty full on that day,” I explained, mostly to fill the silence. “It annoyed me having to go right up to the top. I was already running late.” My laugh came out bitter. “Instead, I didn’t turn up at all. I bet Jamie was furious.”

“Jamie?”

“My boyfriend at the time.”

“Have you looked him up since you’ve been back?”

“To say what? Hey, I know I’m nearly a couple of decades late, but how about that dinner? My treat for getting murdered and standing you up.”

“I’d be curious.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The large sign painted with the number five at the top of the stairwell had turned my legs to jelly, my heart pounding like a drum. Any faster and it would beat right out of my chest. It felt like an out-of-body experience as I forced myself to push open the door.

This was where I’d spent most of my nights since returning to life, which made the concrete pillars and painted stripes eerily familiar. It smelled like most parking garages—of oil and damp. Not coffee, thankfully. That really would have pushed me over the edge.

My legs didn’t feel like my own as I forced them to keep moving. This wasn’t so bad, I decided after a few steps. Not pleasant by a long chalk, but doable. I revised that opinion halfway across the vast space as I neared the area where it had happened. Fear wrapped icy fingers around my heart and squeezed, stealing the breath from my lungs and leaving me trembling in its grip.

“It’s stupid to be afraid,” I said.

“It’s not,” Lake replied gently. “There’s nothing stupid about emotions. There’s no switch to turn them on and off.”

If only there were. I would have paid good money for it. My phone rang, the harsh tone echoing in the stillness, and I jumped. “Calisto,” I said after glancing at the screen.

“Maybe you should answer it.”

I shook my head. “Not now.”