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‘What happened earlier? With Jack?’
‘I somehow found out that Jack was here when he said he wasn’t, on the night it happened.’
‘Oh.’ Petra blows out a long gust from her glossy lips. ‘Jesus.’
I nod.
‘But – Jack wouldn’t lie. Why would he do that?’ Petra asks. ‘And okay, he’s super smart and everyone fucking loves him. But work drama? Jack? Getting involved in that stuff? I don’t think he would do anything that that. Plus, hehelpedwith the investigation. When it happened, he just wanted to help you.’
That hurts. A little nettle sting on my heart. ‘But why did he say he wasn’t here?’
Petra takes a long sip and then leans back on her computer chair. She looks up at the ceiling the way a philosopher might and says, ‘IwishI had access to CCTV,’ with a groan. Then, she sits up. ‘Oh.Oh.You know what we could do? I have access to the car log now.So, I can see vehicles check in and out of the car park? I can seeregistrations.’ She pauses, stares at me, and a shiver runs down my spine.
‘Oh my God, really?’ I rush out.
‘Yep.’
And I’m reluctant, even though I’ve wanted clarity on this, this thing that’s changed my life in numerous ways, for months. It’s almost like I’m scared to know. But I want to know more than anything, all at the same time. I want to let go. I want to move on. I want to know what happened the night they were sent, once and for all. Regardless of the answer.
I swallow. ‘Do it.’
Petra turns to her computer, cupping her hand over her mouse. She clicks her tongue. ‘OK, so .?.?. hang on .?.?.’
Petra taps a few buttons, then presses print. The printer next to me starts to spit out a page of registration numbers. The paper smells warm and sweet, and it almost turns my stomach. If it really wasn’t a glitch, the answer to who was here that night, and who could’ve sent my emails, is onthat page.
‘I’ve printed between 6 p.m. and midnight. We can see who leaves late. See if anything jumps out at us.’
I take the page from the printer, my heart racing, as Petra sips and sips on the miniature bottle of prosecco, her wide eyes staring at me across the desk, like she’s waiting for the reveal at the end of a film.
I scan the list. Jack’s registration checking out of the car park at 18:34. I continue down the list, to see if his car checks back in. It doesn’t. My heart sinks but blooms all at once. Jack wasn’t here. Jack told the truth. Of course he told the truth.
‘Jack checks out.’
‘What time?’
‘Super early.’
‘Before emails were sent—’
And then, I see something. Owen’s car checking in at nine and leaving at 22:27.
‘Owen was here,’ I say into the silent room. ‘He said he was in Manchester. I asked him, and hesworeit.’
‘Jesus,’ says Petra, releasing the straw from her lips. ‘Fucking people. I hate people. M—Millie, where .?.?. where are you going?’
And now, I’m standing, limbs surging with hot rage, as if I’ve been injected with it. He’s lied to me. He continues to lie to me. ‘I’m going to Owen’s.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘Hang on,’ she says, standing. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Petra dashes after me, and I walk across that same thin, ribbed carpet I walked across, shamed and nervous and sick just mere months ago. And all the while .?.?. all the while, Owen was sitting there, feeling as though he was – what, getting revenge on Chloe? Showing her he meant it when he said he could get whoever he wanted – and ‘Look! Stone-cold proof my ex is still in love with me and I was moving on!’
We push through the exit – Flye’s car park dark and lit by street lights, the sun, long set, the air cold and smoky, in that November way. And as I get to my car, I see Jack, packing up his boot, two cars along from mine. Boxes. Bags. A helium balloon which bobs in the night, the street lamps casting a shadow over the words on the foil: ‘We’ll miss you!’
He stares at me.
