Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(53)

“Ah,” he says, with that amused grin she finds so infuriating. He holds his arm up, rotating it from side to side. He’s wearing a prosthetic today, one that ends in an articulated hand. He extends, then curls the fingers, waggling them at her. “No hook today. I tend to save that for first impressions and occasional practical jokes.”

He’s standing in front of a large window, and with the sun behind him, Holly can see through the thin fabric of his shirt. The artificial arm, a sleek metallic black, joins his own at the elbow. In the soft afternoon light, it’s oddly beautiful.

“How does it work?” Holly asks, fascinated.

“Osseointegration,” he says. “A fancy way of saying that it’s grafted onto my nerves and bones.” He rolls back his sleeve to show her the implant site. She’s conscious of how closely he’s watching her, but if he’s hoping for a reaction, he won’t get it from Holly. She has too many of her own scars.

“Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Not much. Not anymore. My arm gets tired sometimes, after a long day. But not often.”

He rolls the sleeve down, then stretches out his hand to her, palm upright. She hesitates, then meets it with her own. The artificial hand is cool, not humanlike at all, yet touching it is uncomfortably intimate, as if he’s showing her the truest part of himself. It’s so quiet she can hear her own breathing, and maybe his too. His gaze is steady, but she struggles to meet his eyes. She wonders if he can detect the pressure of her skin against his hand, and the thought makes her breath come more quickly.

Ridiculous.

She steps back and breaks their contact.

“The best titanium and plastic you can buy,” he says, dropping the hand to his side. If he’s noticed her agitation, he doesn’t show it. “It even comes with a silicon sleeve that makes it more realistic. Lets me blend in better at fancy parties and whatnot. But I don’t get invited to many of those, and I’ve never been a fan of artifice, so I go with the black.”

Holly can’t tell if that’s an insult or not. It sounds like one, and she leaps at the chance to take offense and put that moment of connection behind her.

“Since that hefty retainer I paid came from the profits of artifice, I’d think you’d be more of a fan,” she says.

He shrugs. “No disrespect meant. There’s no way to hide this, so why try?” he says, waving the hand at her again. “On the other hand, when the robot revolution comes, I’ll be on the winning side. Do you see what I did there?”

Holly tries not to smile, but it’s such an awful joke she can’t help herself. “Do you have something for me?”

He sighs theatrically. “To business, then. Please, take a seat.” He gestures at a desk and chair across the room. She walks toward it and he follows, and she tries not to be conscious of his eyes on her back. She focuses on his office to distract herself. It’s different from what she’d expected. White, filled with light and a few simple pieces of furniture, it’s understated in a style not that different from her own. There’s no clutter, only a single plant on a side table by the window.

She sits in the chair, and he settles himself behind the desk. A laptop is on its center, and Cooke opens it. He types for a moment, then swivels its screen toward her, and Holly braces herself for what she’ll see.

Except she’s looking at a blank screen. A single white page with nothing on it. She looks at him inquiringly.

“This is what I’ve found so far,” he says.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the anger that flares through her. Her children have no time for this.

“Not at all,” he says. He pushes the computer out of the way and leans forward. “At least not on my end.”

“Excuse me?”

“Holly—may I call you Holly?”

“I prefer Dr. Darling,” she says coolly.

“Dr. Darling, I am very, very good at my job. Good enough to command—and deserve—that retainer you mentioned. Good enough to be in high demand, which lets me pick my clients. And although I picked you, I think your story is a bunch of bollocks.” He smiles winningly.

“What exactly are you saying?” Christopher Cooke is far more intelligent—and charming—than she’d originally given him credit for. She bets he enjoys being underestimated, just like she does.

“I’m saying that I’ve done everything I’d normally do in a situation like this, and more. I’ve searched property records, I’ve checked arrest records, I’ve even had a look at the driving licenses database. If there’s a record and you can think of it, I’ve checked it. And of the many, many Peter Smiths I’ve found—and there are a multitude, I assure you—none of them come within a whisper of meeting the description you’ve given me. So either this Peter person is very good at hiding—better than I am at finding, which is difficult to believe.” He pauses. “Or . . .”

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t exist. Which begs the question, why would someone such as yourself pay me a great deal of money to search for a phantom person?”

“Perhaps he’s living under an assumed name,” she says, desperately trying to keep the panic from entering her voice. Why did she ever think this would work?