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He screws his eyes shut, willing the images away. He can’t think about that now. She’s gone. The needles, they’re gone. He lifts a hand and runs it gently down his arm to reassure himself. The cuts throb and sting, but there are only bandages there now, the hastily applied steri-strips holding him together.
He glances forward to Jamie. His face is set, almost expressionless as he drives. He can’t imagine how he must be feeling. Adam’s failure to find Pippa, and how Jamie had managed to save him, weighs heavy on his mind.
His head spins again, and he raises the bottle up to his lips and takes another swallow. He’s had water, sugar in the form of a hastily found Mars bar—any way to get vital nutrients in him without … without …
He feels a hand in his, Romilly next to him. He looks over and she smiles. “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispers.
“It would take more than a psychotic serial killer to do that,” he replies, and she leans across and kisses him.
He sits back, then winds the window down so the winter’s air blows on his face. The weather is cool and crisp, the cold breathing life into his bones. He even enjoys the glare of the streetlights as they drive, blurred smudges against the night sky.
He’s here. He’s alive. And the killer, she’s gone.
CHAPTER
73
Day 9
Sunday
ADAM LIES IN his old bedroom in Romilly’s house. Jamie’s snoring is reassuringly loud from the spare room next door; a dim morning light trickles in between the gap in the curtains. A new day beginning. He likes the feeling it brings: the promise of something good. Hope.
He hears Romilly’s footsteps on the stairs, then the door opens and she comes in, a tray balanced in her hands.
“I don’t want to hear any shit from you,” she says as she sets it down on the mattress. “You need decent food and water.”
He pushes himself up slowly. He feels the cuts on his arm stretch and throb with every movement. Last night, after a much-needed bath and clean clothes, Romilly had restuck and dressed them, doing the best she could without the involvement of any sort of needle. Painkillers and superglue. Gritted teeth. White sterile bandages and steri-strips holding the perfectly straight edges of the cuts together.
After, with the help of a few pills, he had fallen asleep in seconds. A dark dreamless slumber, twelve hours of nothingness and for that he is glad. But this morning, everything aches. Muscles that had been tensed slowly relaxing.
He leans against the pillow, and she passes him the warm bowl of porridge. The bland mush is the only thing he can stomach. The events of the day before have left him weak and nauseous.
He eats it slowly, feeling her eyes on him. He remembers the evening just gone. Jamie’s haunted eyes. Adam trying to block out the events of the day before. Romilly trying to persuade both of them to get medical attention. Physically there wasn’t anything wrong with Jamie, and Adam persisted in his refusal to let anyone near him. Mentally, he knows they both have a long way to go.
Jamie told him what happened to Marsh. Quietly, they waited for news. And soon, it arrived: he had died. Massive blood loss; the knife had gone in from behind, nicking his heart. There was nothing they could do on site, and even less by the time they got to the hospital. Everyone had been notified, including his family: Detective Chief Superintendent John Marsh was dead. Killed in the line of duty.
Adam had stared for a long time at the official notice sent to his phone. Despite everything his boss had done for him—his unwavering support, his mentorship, and in the end, his friendship—he didn’t think he’d ever known Marsh’s first name.
And Adam knows there is still more to be done. Maggie has been charged with multiple murders, detained in police custody until her appearance at the magistrate’s court on Monday. But the case against her has to be carefully constructed: exhibits collated, mental health assessment, interviews. But not by him; he’s a victim now. His own statement needs to be recorded, entered into evidence.
“Will you go?” Romilly asks quietly, interrupting his thoughts.
He looks at her, then puts the bowl to the side, appetite gone. The request came in last night: Dr. Elijah Cole wants to see him. Only him. Alone.
Heated debates had flown up and down the chain of command. Should they bow to a murderer’s wishes? Was it safe? Was it worth the risk, even if he had information vital to the case? In the end the decision had come back: it was up to Adam. He is a senior detective as well as a victim. He would have the final say.
But he hadn’t had to think for long.
“Yes,” he replies to Romilly. “For my own sanity. I need to confront him, see what he wants to talk about. Otherwise, I’ll always wonder.” He sees her face, lost in thought. “Is that okay?” he asks slowly.
She sighs deeply, then presses her lips together, looking down at her hands. He notices she’s shaking.
“Yes,” she says at last. She looks like she’s going to cry. “But first, we have to talk. And someone else needs to be involved.”
CHAPTER
