One Small Mistake(31)

Ever since I woke, confused and nauseous, I’ve tried to escape. It’s impossible. In my many attempts to smash the windows, I’ve bruised my elbows and bare feet. I remember reading an article about using the steel rods of a headrest to smash a car window in an emergency, but my attacker must’ve read the same one because he’s removed them. He’s disconnected the horn too, so no matter how many times I’ve slammed my fists into it, it doesn’t so much as squeak. Even if the horn did work, I’m not sure there’s anyone around to hear it.

I’m in the woods. For as far as I can see, there are trees. Trees and no sign of anyone else.

On the front seat is a bag of supplies: bottles of water, energy bars, a sick bag. I’ve thrown up twice, through fear or my body rejecting whatever drugs are in my system, I don’t know. Despite sealing the bag, without being able to open a window, I’m breathing in the thick, acidic tang of vomit.

My attacker didn’t show his face, but I’m sure it’s the man who’s been following me; he was just as broad and thickset. He knew where I lived; would’ve seen the broken lock … But why take me only to abandon me in a car? My stomach turns over again. Is he out there, in the woods, watching me? It’s no use, but I scream for help again anyway. My throat is raw. I scream until all I can do is silently sob.

‘Fuck!’ I shout. I kick the back door; pain shoots up my shin. ‘Fuck!’

Despite being confined to a car in the height of summer, I am shivering so hard, my teeth clang together. Exhausted, I rest my head against the window and fight to keep my eyes open. Eventually though, I lose that battle too.

I jolt awake at the sound of a fist on the car window. I whip around. I blink and blink again.

‘Oh my god,’ I breathe. Then louder, ‘Jack! Jack!’

The car door is pulled open and I scramble out. I’m shaking so hard my legs buckle beneath me. He pulls me close and I cling to him, hardly able to believe it.

‘You’re hurt,’ he says, a bite of anger in his voice. ‘Let me see.’

He takes my arm and gently peels the blood-soaked bandage away.

‘We need to call the police.’

I’m sobbing, relief-wracked and sobbing.

He focuses on my injury. ‘I need to clean this.’

‘I can’t believe you came. I can’t believe …’ I trail off, relief slipping into confusion. ‘Wait … how did you find me?’

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

He won’t meet my gaze. ‘How did you find me, Jack?’

He refuses to answer. Tears gone, I jerk away from him. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat. ‘Was it you? Did you—’

‘No.’ He moves towards me, but I shrink away because I’m confused and terrified and my entire world is spiralling. ‘Jesus, Elodie. I’d never hurt you. Not ever. You think I’d do that?’

He’s appalled I’d so much as consider it. I’m a little appalled myself because this is Jack. He’s always been good to me. But I need to know. ‘How did you find me, Jack?’

‘He wasn’t supposed to hurt you.’

Realisation slides icily down my spine. ‘You arranged this.’

He doesn’t deny it.

‘Oh my god.’ I spin away from him, pressing my palms against the car to steady myself.

‘Elodie—’

‘No,’ I shriek, whirling on him. ‘How could you do that to me? I was petrified. I thought he was going to kill me.’

‘Don’t be dramatic.’

‘Dramatic?’ I am incandescent. ‘Someone broke into my fucking house and attacked me! Who was it, Jack?’ I shove him in the chest as hard as I can. ‘Who the fuck was he?’

‘Does it matter?’

My palm itches to slap him.

‘A friend,’ he offers.

‘My stalker?’

‘Someone who owed me a favour. Elodie—’

‘Take me home.’

‘Listen—’

But I don’t. I push past him and start marching barefoot through the woods. All the little stones and sharp twigs cut into my feet, but I keep going. I am too angry. Too fucking angry.

‘Elodie!’ He swings into my path. ‘I did this for you. For all the reasons we talked about. You don’t have a job, or money, you’re going to lose your house and everyone you’re close to when they find out you’ve lied. How’re you going to tell Florence the book she wants you to dedicate to her dead son doesn’t exist?’

Without an answer to his question, I ask him one of my own. ‘How does this solve anything?’

‘Harriers want true crime; give them true crime. Everyone thinks you’ve been abducted; you can hide out at Wisteria for a while.’

The absurdity of his proposal renders me speechless.

‘It’s empty. Remote. When you reappear, you’ll have something to write about. Another pretty blonde with a story to tell. When we pull this off, you won’t just have Harriers making an offer, all the big publishers will.’

I laugh because there’s no way he means what he’s saying.

‘Remember when we were kids, we found that shack in Marley Wood near Wisteria? When you’re ready to be found, you’ll move there; it’s close enough to the cottage that you can get there easily, but far enough away that it won’t raise suspicion.’