Chapter Thirty-Six
Josie
It’s been nearly two weeks since Daniel Neal made the second ransom drop. His hope that his wife would be released has come to nothing.
There has been no further communication from the kidnappers. No sign of Joanna. Now, his anger is aimed squarely at us.
‘He saw you,’ he shouted. ‘He fucking saw you.’
We tried to reassure him that there was no way the kidnapper could have seen us, but he was inconsolable. Roy gently suggested a press conference and door-to-door inquiries. Daniel flatly refused.
‘I won’t put her life at risk.’
But deep down, we all knew the truth. He already had.
***
Daniel
It’s strange what you can adapt to. Joel and I miss Jo terribly, but somehow, we’ve fallen into a routine. It’s been two weekssince Jo went missing. It’s not the kind of normality anyone should have to live with, but it’s become ours.
Joel now looks forward to his mum’s ‘letters,’ which are actually carefully staged notes and always paired with a storybook. All thanks to Nicola. She’s been a lifeline. If I need her, she’s there – early, late, whatever it takes. Yet still I lie.
I tell her I’m working late when I’m actually out with Nic, throwing back a few shots. I’m careful not to overdo it, but without those brief escapes, I’ll lose my mind. Nic knows me better than anyone now. I can be real with him. But even he doesn’t know everything.
In the office, during a quick coffee break, my desk phone rings.
‘Daniel Neal,’ I say.
‘Danny, it’s James Lockwood. Can you come to my office?’
A knot tightens in my chest.
‘Of course, sir. I was just on a quick break anyway.’
Why did I say that? It made me sound lazy. By the time I reach his office, my heart is pounding.
I knock on the heavy door with its brass nameplate:James Lockwood, Founder and CEO.
‘Come in,’ he booms.
Lockwood’s voice always carries, but when he raises it, he could clear a football stadium.
His office is vast. Shelves of books line the walls, alongside oil paintings and items of antique furniture that seem to say,Look how well I’ve done. Photos of his ‘genius’ family (his term, not mine) crowd his desk.
‘Take a seat,’ he says.
My stomach turns.
‘Some of your colleagues say you’ve seemed a bit withdrawn lately. Everything all right?’ he asks.
‘I, um… We…’
He waits, eyebrows raised.
‘My wife’s been kidnapped,’ I say finally.
His face stiffens in shock. ‘Good God, man. Why didn’t you say something?’
