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“Because I was worried. You went to see your father, and then you didn’t call. You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I’m sorry. I … I was distracted. Adam—”
“You called Adam?” His face clouds.
“Yes.” His obvious disapproval annoys her. “He’s responsible for finding Pippa, of course I called Adam. And I was right. My father is involved. There’s a link.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Have they found her?”
“No. No, Phil, they fucking haven’t.”
Romilly knows she’s taking her anger out on her boyfriend, unfairly so, but she can’t stop it. He takes a step toward her, holding out his hands to offer comfort, but she turns and walks away. She goes into the kitchen and busies herself making a cup of tea. Mugs, kettle, water. She feels him standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Romilly, I know you’re concerned, but you can’t let it affect you like this.”
“Like what, Phil?”
“Like … this! This anger. Worry. It’s taking over your life. You haven’t been to work. You’re not sleeping. Perhaps you should go and see Dr. Jones.”
“I don’t want to see my fucking therapist again.”
“And you shouldn’t see him anymore.”
Romilly can agree with that one. “I’m not going to visit my father again,” she replies. His face still looms in her mind’s eye. His smile, too familiar, taking her back to her childhood. Digging up the old feelings, the worry, the insomnia. The guilt.
“No,” Phil says firmly. “I meant Adam. I don’t want you seeing Adam again.”
Romilly turns quickly. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“He’s no good for you, Romilly. This investigation, these murders. It’s destroying you. And he’s your ex—”
“So?”
“So, from the beginning you were desperate to see him. And you’re telling me there are no feelings there.”
“Fuck off, Phil.”
She walks away from him, into the living room, but he follows, close on her heels.
“Tell me it isn’t true. You can’t, can you?”
“If you don’t trust me when I tell you that our marriage is over, then what good is anything I say?”
“I’m not talking about your marriage. I’m talking about your feelings for him. That you still want to be with him. That you’re still in love with him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He frowns, shaking his head. “I can take the nightmares, the fear of the dark. I will look after you, Romilly. Because I know about you and your father and your tragic past.”
Her tragic past. Romilly stares at him as he says those words, slightly disparaging, slightly disgusted. Like she has an unpleasant social affliction that can’t be cured.
“But this. Carrying on with your ex under my nose. This I can’t take.”
“I’m not—” she starts, but he interrupts again.
