I shudder as I walk on, my pace quickening. Could Matt be Simon? I went in there with him. Thank God I didn’t tell him about the video footage.
When I reach my street, I falter, as it occurs to me that the basement room might have its own cameras.
Suddenly hope springs up inside me, fast and bright. There was a photo, on Matt’s Instagram grid, of him standing in a plywood room. If I can match the room in the photo to the one in the video, then I might just have something usable. I open the app and there it is, Matt sitting at a desk in front of a plywood wall but it could be anywhere. It’s hardly evidence.
The sound of someone’s front door slamming a street away snaps me back to the now. I need to get in somewhere safe and work out my next move.
I walk home fast, then break into a jog, then a sprint, but a wave of lightheadedness begins to sweep over me as I run: my hands tingle, my heart begins to flutter in my chest, the need to sink to the floor suddenly almost irrepressible. Another panic attack, just like the ones I had during the divorce. I know I will not reach my house in time and I will not be safe out here on the street.
I race past the front doors of Northcroft Road, careening to Arabella’s door, but there is no answer. I pound again, but my knocks echo back to me.
Next, I fly on to Pam’s door. I ring the bell, pound the door, my heart thundering in my ears. But there is no reply here, either—everyone is out. I turn sharply back toward my side of the street and I see that there is a person standing on the doorstep two down from me, staring straight at me.
I stumble to a halt as we lock eyes.
Chapter 41
Home Truths
“Frankie?” Aoife Doherty is staringat me from her front door.
I try to take a breath, but the ground seems to tilt beneath me. I grip the railing beside me, white-knuckle tight, and sink down onto Pam’s front steps, my breathing coming in tight little gasps.
I’m having another episode. I haven’t had one since the last time I saw Ben. I pray that this time I don’t lose consciousness.
To her credit, Aoife has the least dramatic reaction to the unfolding events that I could possibly imagine.
She walks down her own front steps, along to Pam’s gate and up to me, sinking down beside me, and silently offers me her hand, my breathing jagged.
I look to her, her face calm and accepting.
“Go on, grab on. I used to have panic attacks all the time. Just ride it out. I’m here. No rush. Just breathe. We’ll do this one together.”
I don’t know why, but I take her hand. She squeezes it and I close my eyes and breathe.
I feel the dizzying panic rise, peak, threatening to eclipse everything, my throat burning with each rasped breath, as I teeter on the edge of the black void. But I push through, and slowly, breath by breath, it washes through me. I realize she has been talking to me throughout.
I catch only snippets.
“The second one was at a ballet recital. I was eleven, and, man,that one was bad. I peed my pants. Leotard, whatever. I swear my mam was more worried about me staining the community center carpet than she was about the rest of it. You doing okay, there?” she asks, suddenly breaking off.
“Uh-huh.”
“Good on ya, girl. Didn’t love being a kid,” she continues, her stream of consciousness grounding me. “Probably won’t have them. Not sure it’s for me. It’s a lot of work. Like getting a dog butthey’repeople, so you can’t leave them in the house alone or walk them on a lead, or train them, or, like, do anything you would do with a dog, really. So not like a dog. To be fair, though, I don’t want a dog, either. Can’t really have one with my job, you know. Sure, look at me—I can’t even collect my own bloody packages now, can I? What’d I be like with a living creature or a child?”
“You’re funnier than I thought you’d be,” I manage finally.
She smirks. “Oh, yeah, I’m a regular gas wagon. Hand me a microphone. Hang on—why’d you think Iwasn’tfunny?”
“Because, I mean, you don’t need to be, I guess,” I say.
She turns to face me with a wry smile. “Well, that’s a lot to unpack on the doorstep. Trust me—in my line of work a sense of humor is all that stops you from a murder spree.”
I feel my face drop like a stone. She notes the change.
“Oh Jesus, sorry. Right, I think we’ll get you inside your home, shall we? We’ll make a nice cup of tea.”
“Okay,” I say. I make a move to stand but falter. She leans over to help pull me gently up.
