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Minutes tick by as I lie still and wait for Max to fall asleep. He reached for me a few minutes ago, and I tried not to flinch under his touch. He didn’t push for anything, though, and now he’s turned away from me, and I listen to the gentle rhythm of his breath.
My phone vibrates and I grab it, reading the WhatsApp message from Taylor.
There’s a silver Golf parked right across the road. Licence plate AF23 NKT. But now isn’t the time to talk to him. We need to be sure first.
I sit up, my whole body instantly alert with adrenalin and fear as I start typing a reply to Taylor. Then I remember that he’d worried about me confronting this man. I delete the message telling him I’m on my way over there. Instead I tell him that he’s right.
‘Max?’ I whisper.
When he doesn’t respond, I slip out of bed, grabbing the clothes I’ve left in a pile on the chair. I close the door behind me, grimacing when the click echoes into the silence.
It’s less than twenty-five minutes later when I get to Taylor’s flat, and I’ve spent every second of the drive over praying that the car is still there.
But it’s not. Instead, there’s an empty space on the road directly opposite Taylor’s building where it must have been. I pull into it, feeling like the air’s been sucked out of my body.
I lock the car and head into Taylor’s building, rushing up the stairs to his flat. I knock on the door, the thud so loud in the silence. There’s no answer.
‘Taylor?’ I call.
There’s no reply, but the door opposite his flat begins to open.
‘I don’t think he’s in,’ a young man says, coming out and locking his door. He looks younger than Taylor, and has a small dog with him.
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
‘Try calling him,’ the guy says, disappearing downstairs.
My head spins as I call Taylor’s mobile, but again it goes to voicemail.
My blood feels like ice as I knock again. What if he went out there to confront the driver? I call him again, this time leaving a message. ‘Can you call me? I’m worried,’ I say into my phone before ending the call.
I wait, time ticking too slowly, fear seeping into my veins. The Golf wasn’t there. And now neither is Taylor.
After a while, I try to be rational: it’s late – there’s every possibility that he’s fallen asleep. Morning is only a few hours away, and I can call him again.
But as I drive home, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s happened to Taylor. And that it’s all my fault.
SIXTEEN
I’ve barely slept. My head feels as though it’s being crushed, and every limb in my body aches, screaming to be healed.
Something must have happened to Taylor. There’s still no reply from him, and he’s mentioned before that he’s an early riser. He’s already been attacked once. And now I’m swimming in a sea of guilt. I’m the one who stopped him going to the police. If I hadn’t, things would be very different now.
Beside me, Max still sleeps, even though he’s usually up long before now. The toll his attack took on his body goes far beyond his bruises and memory loss.
Downstairs, I try to eat some buttered toast, just to ease the empty ache in my stomach, but I abandon it when the food lodges in my throat. Instead, I drink tea, hoping it will be enough to sustain me this morning.
I leave a note for Max, telling him I’m leaving early to run some errands before I get to the shop. Sarah will stop by after dropping the girls at school, and I still feel uneasy about letting her spend all this time with Max.
Then I message Cole to tell him I’ll be in late. I still haven’t heard back from Katy, but I doubt Cole will mind being on his own. He and Katy never seemed to gel.
It’s quicker to get to Cricklewood this time, even though there’s still a steady stream of cars on every road I take.
Doubts set in, heavy as cement, when I get to Molly’s house. The more contact I have with anyone who knew Alice Hughes, the more I’m putting myself at risk. From the police. From the driver of that Golf. From Max?
She opens the door within seconds, as if she’s been expecting me. But her face is a mask of confusion as she struggles to place me for a moment. She’s wearing a long black cardigan today, and loose black jeans.
‘Hi, Molly.’
