Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
I’m praying it’s the latter. “We could be overreacting, right?” I ask, not wanting to insinuate that John might have been seeing things. “Making something out of nothing?” I’m clutching at straws, I know I am. This is not fucking good.
“I really fucking hope so,” John whispers.
I get out and walk up the path to the house, going to the window and cupping the glass, looking inside. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I say, the glass steaming under my breath. I just need to see who lives here. See if we’re off the mark.
“There’s no one there?”
“The client you took her to see, it was definitely Ruth Quinn?”
“Yes, Ruth Quinn. I already told you. I know my eyesight ain’t as good as it used to be, but I’d put my life on it.”
Put his life on it that he thinks he saw Lauren? “Now you’re putting your life on it?”
“You need to call the police,” John hisses. “Not go looking for her, you crazy motherfucker.”
“I’m not leaving this house until I see with my own eyes who lives here.” I go to the door and knock.
“Jesse,” John goes on, sounding insultingly soothing. “You need to get your arse back here. Leave it for the police to deal with.”
“No, John,” I shout, hitting the door a little harder, my temper and fear getting the better of me. I’d put my life on it. All I can hear are Ava’s words about this client. She’s testing, demanding, always fucking calling or dropping by her office. Fuck. Every time I’ve thought I’ve seen Lauren, it’s been around the area where Ava’s office is. Every single fucking time. “Just tell Ava I’ve got caught up in traffic. I don’t want her to know about this. It could be nothing.” I’m praying it’s nothing. Praying.
“It’s too late,” John sighs, defeated. “She’s standing right here. You’d better come home.”
“Fuck!” I smash my fists into the door, probably raising the dead as well as the whole of London. “Answer the fucking door!” I shove myself away and rake a hand through my hair, looking to the clouds and forcing myself into some calm breathing. I’m a joke. “Can you put her on the phone?” I ask. My time dodging that final, crucifying piece of my past is up. Because even if we’re wrong, Ava’s heard too much.
“Who is she?” It’s the first thing she says, her voice strong.
I stalk to the end of the pavement and look up at the house, searching the windows. “I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?” she yells, her composure lost, fear fueling her.
“I’m on my way home.” I give up; there’s no one home, and if there is, they’re not going to answer. “We’ll talk.”
“No,” she snaps. “Tell me.”
“Ava,” I wheeze, getting in my car, exhausted by my emotions. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it’s her.” A Ford honks me when I pull out in front of it. Take it easy. “I’ll explain when I can sit you down.”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Baby, please, I need to see you.” Hold her hands. Hold her down.
“You didn’t answer my question. What else could you possibly have to tell me, Jesse?”
“I’ll be home soon,” I murmur quietly, putting my foot down when I reach the main road.
“Will it make me run?”
“I’ll be home soon,” I say again, on auto pilot. I disconnect the call and grip the steering wheel hard, along with my teeth. Try in vain to get my head on straight. Then I dial Steve.
“Everything okay?” he asks warily, sensing my stress.
“I have another name for you. Two actually. Lauren Pierce and Ruth Quinn.”
“Right,” he says slowly, waiting for more.
“They could be the same person. Lauren Pierce is—” I breathe in, fighting the words forward. “She’s my ex-wife.” Steve doesn’t react. He just listens. “She was unwell. Mentally, I mean. She was in hospital for many years, and I’d heard she’d passed away. I’ve just found out she’s not dead.”
“Tell me more,” he says, calm and patient. Professional. No judgment, no show of surprise, although I’m sure he feels it.
“Ruth Quinn is a client of Ava’s. A difficult one. I don’t know a lot on that front. But John took Ava to an appointment this afternoon and caught a glimpse of this Ruth Quinn. He thought she looked familiar.”
“Familiar as in, like your ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“How long has it been since John’s seen her?”
“Sixteen years, maybe seventeen.”
“And you?”
“Same.”
“That’s a long time, Jesse.”
“I know,” I grate. I hear him. Why now? “I’ve been to the address of Ava’s client. There’s no one there. It could be nothing”—fuck, I hope it’s nothing—“but it could be something, Steve, and I really need to know.”
“I’ve got you. I’ll check out the names now and come back to you. What’s the address of this client?”