Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(68)

“I’ll put this down and you can serve yourselves,” Jane says, setting it on the table. Holly breathes a sigh of relief. It’s possible she’ll escape this unscathed.

“Thank you,” Christopher says. He raises a hand—the right one, still clothed in the glove—in mock salute. “Not all my clients’ mothers are so accommodating to a private detective,” he says.

“Client?” Jane raises an eyebrow. Clearly Holly’s hopes are about to be dashed. “Whatever are you working on?”

“Later,” Holly hisses. But it’s too late. Jane has already turned to Christopher, who is helping himself to a biscuit. “Are you searching for Eden?” She pauses. “Or . . . her father?”

There’s a sound outside the door, which Holly realizes has been left ajar. She looks at her mother.

“Don’t look at me,” Jane says defensively. “I was carrying the tea tray. If you wanted it closed for privacy, you should have checked.”

Holly crosses the room, pushes the door open the rest of the way. She knows what she’s going to find, but she’s hoping with all her heart she’s mistaken.

She’s not. It’s Jack, and he’s ashen.

“Jack, sweetheart,” she says, reaching out for him. He ignores her, looks straight at Christopher.

“You’re a private detective? You’re looking for Eden?”

Christopher shoots a quick glance at Holly, who is paralyzed. “That’s right, mate. Any thoughts as to where she could be?”

Jack doesn’t answer. Holly holds her breath, waiting for the explosion. Yet she’s still stunned by its ferocity when it comes.

“You mean she’s alive? All this time, she’s been alive?”

“Jack . . . ,” she tries. But he’s having none of it.

“Why didn’t you tell me she’s alive?” he demands. “What else haven’t you told me?”

All the secrets she’s been keeping come crashing down on her. They pin her to the spot, make it impossible to breathe. Her mind is racing, looking for solutions, but she can’t get any words out. Meanwhile Christopher is looking on avidly. If he’d wanted a reaction, Holly thinks grimly, this must exceed his wildest dreams. At least Jack seems to have missed the whole different-father bit.

“Christopher, you need to leave,” she manages. “We’ll discuss whether you’re still employed later. Right now, just go.”

“I need a word with you first,” he says.

But Jack won’t be put off. “You told me she was dead! I thought she died in Cornwall!”

Holly doesn’t refute him, doesn’t say that she never said those exact words. It’s not going to help. Jack won’t stop. He’s shouting at her: questions about where Eden is and what’s happened, and the more agitated he gets, the worse he looks. His lips are developing a bluish tint, and that pale, unhealthy color is returning to his skin.

“Jack,” she says, “we’ll talk about it, all right? I promise. But please, let’s go upstairs.”

She moves toward him, and he recoils. “Don’t touch me!”

He looks like he’s verging on collapse, but still he won’t let her near him. Finally she turns to Jane for help. It’s her mother who is able to wrangle him up the stairs with a practiced ease, as if she moves recalcitrant teens every day. Holly starts to follow, but Jane shakes her head.

“Best if I do it for now,” she says, and Holly is left behind.

Christopher moves closer to her. “Is he okay?” The worry in his voice sounds real, but it’s too little, too late.

“No, thanks to you. My son . . . I told you. He’s not well. You need to leave. Now.”

“Not until I talk to you.”

She sees now why Barry warned her that Christopher was dangerous. For all his slenderness, there’s something inherently menacing about the way he’s standing. The tension in his muscles, the intensity of his gaze . . . he reminds her of a television special she once saw on super-predators. Something fast, and ruthless, that would strike before you even saw it coming. She thinks of the drug dealer in Barry’s story and swallows.

“Fine. But outside.” She can’t bear for Jack to overhear anything else.

She walks him to the door. She wants to shut it and lock it behind him, but the way he looks at her, it’s as if he’s read her thoughts. He waves her through ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

They stand on the front steps, and Holly pulls the door shut behind them. A slight breeze ruffles the hairs along the back of her neck, making her shiver and setting her even more on edge. Christopher watches her.

“I have a hunch,” he says quietly.

“About damn time,” Holly snaps.

“There’s a drug being released onto the streets,” he continues, as if she hadn’t spoken. “It’s been around for a bit, but the quality is getting stronger. The dealer seems to target young boys. Teenagers. The drug makes them euphoric, as if they’re flying, but then they crash hard. The highs get higher and the lows get lower until they can’t get enough to sustain the good part and the cycle puts them over the edge. We have three comatose boys right now,” he says, then corrects himself. “Three that we know about, I should say. All about your son’s age.”