Page 148 of Carry Me Home

‘She’s still driving?’

‘She said she couldn’t stop again. Said if she stopped she’d have to think about it and she couldn’t think about it yet. Tom. What happened?’

‘Cara was saying goodbye. She was upset. I hugged her. That’s all. That is all.’ Like if I say it enough it really will become that is all.

‘The hair, Tom. She was blubbing about hair. What the actual hell?’

I close my eyes. Open them. The road.

‘I tucked Cara’s hair behind her ear, because she was crying and it was a reflex. It meant nothing. It meant less than nothing.’

‘I believe you. She doesn’t.’ Brynn’s voice drops. ‘How far behind her are you?’

‘A few hours. She left before me and I had to go and finish packing the car. She’s got a head start.’ I slam my hand against the steering wheel. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ I swear my right eyeball is throbbing.

‘I’ll keep calling her. I’ll try to get her to stop somewhere safe.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. Just get here and fix this.’

She hangs up.

I drive.

The hours unspool in the headlights.

I try calling Nina every thirty minutes. Voicemail. Every time.

I leave two more messages. The second one is just: ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’ My voice breaking on the third one. Then I stop leaving messages because I can hear how they sound – desperate, panicked, the words of a man who might be lying – and I can’t do anything about any of it except drive.

The motorway is empty at this hour. Just lorries and the occasional car and the endless white lines flicking past. I stop for petrol somewhere in the Midlands, standing under strip lighting at four in the morning, the cold air sharp on my face, and I check my phone and there’s nothing, and I get back in the car and I drive.

Dawn breaks around Bristol. The sky turns grey, then pink, then gold. The world comes back into focus. My eyes are gritty. My hands ache from the wheel. The caffeine from three service-station coffees is doing nothing except making my heart rate match my anxiety – fast, jittery, wrong.

But I’m close. Two hours. Maybe less, but the satnav can get wanky the closer you get to Cornwall.

My phone rings, stuck on one of those magnetic holders on the dash, and I swipe the screen.

‘She’s home.’ Jude’s voice is rough with sleep. ‘Got back about an hour ago. Brynn’s with her.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s… No. She’s not okay. She’s exhausted and she won’t talk to anyone. Just sits there.’

‘I’m almost there. Two hours.’

‘Tom.’ A pause. ‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘She told Brynn to tell you not to come.’

‘I don’t care, Jude.’

‘I’m just passing on the⁠—’

‘I have driven through the night. I have called her forty-seven times. She can refuse to see me. She can slam the door in my face. But I’m coming.’