Page 1

1

Alice

For most people, Number Withheld flashing on their screen is a warning sign. To me, it screams destiny.

It could be some mysterious man trying to call his bride-to-be, getting the wrong number, and realising I’m far more charming than the woman he’s about to marry. Naturally, he calls off the wedding and comes to Kitchen City to rescue me from the lunchtime lull. Or maybe it’s the guy I sold a kitchen to last week—the one who definitely would’ve asked me out if I hadn’t been wearing my figure-erasing uniform and a shirt that says Where all your kitchen dreams come true written across the back. Maybe it’s a wrong number that turns into the date of my life, the man of my dreams, and the wedding bells shortly after.

Then I remember I’m thirty-six years old. Men don’t accidentally fall in love with women who sell beech worktops for a living. My stomach sinks.

I’ve given up on finding true love because it doesn’t exist. Well, not for me anyway. There’s a higher chance this phone call is from a serial killer.

Unfortunately, my curiosity has always outweighed my survival instincts.

“Hello?” The line crackles. Reception in the staffroom is awful.

“Hi, is this Alice? Alice Sutton?”

Male. Sounds handsome. Not enough gravel to be a serial killer.

“Speaking.”

“Hi. You don’t know me. We’ve never met, but we have a mutual acquaintance.”

Pause.

My brain immediately supplies Liam Neeson from Taken. At any second, this man is going to tell me he has a very particular set of skills.

“My name is Drew Donovan.”

“Drew Donovan,” I echo, like that means anything to me and not like I’ve already decided he’s either a spy or about to ruin my life.

“Forgive me for calling you like this, but I need your help. It’s about my girlfriend, Sydney Vickers.”

The way his voice tightens around her name makes my stomach dip.

“Sydney Vickers?”

I’m suddenly sixteen again. Sydney Vickers and I used to share everything—training bras, lip gloss, school gossip, our deepest secrets. We were inseparable, until⁠—

“You remember her?” Drew interrupts.

“Of course I remember her,” I say. “She was my best friend.” I stop myself, hyperaware of the past tense.

“That’s why I’m calling you,” he says, and immediately my overactive brain starts flinging out worst-case scenarios like confetti. Has Sydney had an accident and forgotten everyone from her past? Does she have some kind of disease and they’re searching for an organ donor?

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Does she need a lung or a kidney or something? Because I’m happy to help if I’m a match.” Trying not to think about surgical scarring, I clutch my lanyard like it’s a parachute cord.

“God, no, no, it’s nothing like that,” he says quickly. “She’s fine. More than fine. Everything is great. But….” His voice trails off.

I try to shut down the steamroller of my imagination and remind myself that I’m a fully functioning adult with a full-time job, not the lead character in a psychological thriller.

“But what?” I ask carefully.

A distinct intake of breath hisses from his end of the line before he says, “Sydney’s been going through a lot lately, and… well, I think it’d be best if she told you herself. Although….”

My grip tightens on the phone.

“She doesn’t know I’ve called you,” he says slowly.