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The truck starts without a hitch, and Jess takes it as a good sign. She drives across town and parks a few rows down from her parents’ house. She knows which way they’ll come from if they’re driving from the hospital, but she has no idea when. Nav had said a few hours, so she settles herself down in the seat for a wait.
She scans the other cars parked in the road, but there’s nobody nearby. After all this time, there’s no way she’s handing herself in to the police. Griffin’s working on the investigation. They’ll find something. They’ll find this killer, and then they’ll know she had nothing to do with Patrick’s death.
The fire seems a distant memory. Her recollection of Patrick is hazy, like a surreal dream. It’s still too much for her to come to terms with—that her husband is dead. Her life with Griffin feels, not normal, but—Jess isn’t sure.
She thinks about Griffin, lying in pain back at the apartment. She can’t comprehend what that’s like, to suffer in that way, and for the first time she considers her condition as a blessing rather than a curse. Griffin seems like such an immovable force, to see him taken down so completely is sobering.
Sitting in the old Land Rover reminds her of him. It smells of cigarettes; there is mess strewn around. For the first time she wonders about his wife—the woman who used to wear this sweater. And what he was like as a husband.
The day is drawing to a close, and the street lights blink into life. A few cars come down the road but don’t stop.
Then, at last, she sees her Mom’s Nissan Note come toward her and turn into the drive. She watches as the car is parked, and the headlights turn off. Her mother gets out of the car and opens the door at the back. Then—there she is. Alice is chattering away happily; her hair is loose and cascades around her face.
Jess instantly relaxes. Her daughter is here, and she is fine. She puts her hand on the door to open it; then something makes her pause. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a white hatchback drive slowly down the road. It stops a few cars down from Jess and turns its headlights off, but nobody gets out. She can see a woman sitting in the front.
Every muscle in Jess’s body wants to get out of the car. She wants to go to her daughter, to hold her in her arms, but instinctively she knows that this car is police. She knows she can’t move.
She starts to cry as she turns the ignition key to the Land Rover. She takes one last look at her daughter. The front door to her parents’ house is open, and her mother is ushering Alice inside. She’s safe. She’s happy. She’s well. That’s all that matters, Jess tells herself as she pulls out of the parking space.
She drives away from the house, looking in her rearview mirror as she goes. The white hatchback isn’t following her. She’s alone.
She wants to get back to Griffin. The absence of her daughter is a heavy weight, but with a weird jolt, she realizes how much she needs to be back with him. That being next to Griffin will ease that sadness slightly, and she drives quickly through the dark streets.
She sees the garage ahead and pulls the Land Rover back into its parking space, then climbs out. The garage is closed now, the lights in the office turned off; she looks toward the one basement window. It’s strange—it’s dark there too. She wonders if Nav has been. Perhaps Griffin is asleep, lulled into slumber with the arrival of new pharmaceuticals.
She pushes open the unwieldy metal door and goes down the stairs. She puts the key in the lock and opens the door. It’s dark and she stops, letting her eyes adjust. She looks toward the bed. It’s empty. Griffin’s not there.
She frowns, worried. He can’t have gone out. She has his keys, his car. She takes a step forward, but her foot catches on something on the floor. She looks down. There’s a lump in front of her, something in the dark.
She takes a quick breath in and grasps around for the light. The sudden brightness dazzles, but she knows.
She falls to her knees next to him, shouting his name.
Griffin’s lying on his side, his head at an angle. It looks as if he was trying to get to the door. She shakes his body, trying to wake him, but he doesn’t move. She panics, her brain racing to remember even the slightest bit of basic first aid. She shakes him again, then rolls him onto his back. She leans next to his mouth. His breathing is labored, his heart rate slow, but he’s alive.
She picks up the phone on the table and dials 999.
“Ambulance,” she gasps. She’s put through, and a voice asks her name, where she is. She gives the address but then stops. Her name. She tells them who she is, and she’ll be arrested. She’s called the ambulance; she should leave, run now. But she can’t leave Griffin. She can’t.
“Jessica Ambrose,” she says. “Please come quickly.”
The operator asks her about the patient.
“Nate Griffin. He’s unconscious, barely breathing.”
Jess crouches next to him. Then she notices it. Written in the dust next to his hand are what look like letters. She squints. They’re shaky, but she can make out a few. S H I. She turns her head, trying to read them the right way around. P M.
She takes a sudden breath. She knows. She knows what Griffin was trying to tell her.
“Diamorphine,” Jess shouts down the phone. “He’s had an overdose of diamorphine.”
“Stay on the line,” the operator says. “The ambulance is on its way.”
Jess slumps back on the floor, sitting next to Griffin, the phone clutched in one shaking hand, his hand gripped in the other.
“Shipman,” she whispers to herself. “Harold Shipman.”
CHAPTER
