The Guilt Trip(91)

“You’re in a hospital in Portugal,” says Noah. “You’ve had an operation on your leg, but you’re going to be just fine.”

He looks like he hasn’t slept for days; is that how long she’s been out for? And if he’s by her side, waiting for her to come round, does that mean he doesn’t have his own wife to watch over? And where’s Jack? Shouldn’t he be here?

She suddenly remembers him lying next to her, shivering, with blood covering his face.

“Jack?” she breathes, going to pull herself up. The needle in the back of her hand tugs and she winces.

“Ssh,” says Noah, gently holding her down. “He’s okay. He’s being patched up, but he’s going to be okay.”

She allows herself to fall back into the pillow, trying to recall at what point the party turned into a nightmare. She sees flashes of Ali and Jack in a cave, Paige going to push Ali off the cliff, Josh as a baby in Jack’s arms, Noah and Josh laughing and drinking in a pub … all the images bombard her fragile brain and she’s unable to determine which of them really happened and which she’s imagined.

“Where’s Paige?” she asks, fearful of the answer.

Noah drops eye contact and stares intently at the bedsheets.

“Where is she?”

He shakes his head. “We don’t know,” he says quietly.

She goes to pull herself up again. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“She’s wasn’t on the terrace,” he says. “The police think she could have been knocked into the sea.”

“Is everybody else accounted for?”

Noah nods.

“So, it’s just Paige who’s missing?” she asks incredulously.

“And the driver,” says Noah.

They both look away from each other, neither of them prepared to even begin to acknowledge that it could be one and the same person.

“What the hell happened?” cries Rachel, the enormity of the situation bearing down on her.

“I don’t know,” says Noah. “They were going to recover the car at first light.” He looks out of the window at the pink-tinged sky. “So we should have some answers any time now.”

“Mrs. Hunter?” comes a voice.

Rachel looks up to see a man knocking on an invisible door at the foot of her bed. “May I come in?”

Rachel nods, assuming that he’s a doctor, in his beige chinos and open-necked pale-blue shirt. Dark hair curls around his collar and he offers the kindest of smiles. The sort that heals people.

“I am Afonso Da Silva from the police department,” he says, taking Rachel completely by surprise. He extends his hand before realizing that hers is otherwise occupied by the IV drip. He nods, almost imperceptibly, to Noah, implying that they’ve already met.

“This is Sophia Casimiro,” he says, turning to the woman who’s just appeared beside him. “She is assisting me in this incident.”

Rachel wonders what an “incident” means in Portugal. He didn’t say accident, crime or inquiry, so it gives her no clue as to what they’re actually investigating. Might it be a missing person case, while they search for Paige?

“I have spoken with your consultant,” the policeman goes on. “And she thinks you might be well enough to answer a few questions.”

Rachel looks at Noah, who gives a small nod.

“I still feel a little bit woozy, but I should be able to tell you anything you need to know.”

Da Silva’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry, woozy? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Rachel manages the tiniest of smiles. “Just a little sleepy from the surgery,” she says.

“Ah, my English is not that good, I’m afraid.”

“It’s better than my Portuguese,” offers Rachel.

“Okay, so while Ms. Casimiro speaks with you, perhaps, Mr. Collins, you would come with me?”

“Oh no,” says Rachel. “It’s fine. I’m happy to talk to you with Noah here. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

“I will be needing Mr. Collins to accompany me for just a few moments,” he says, holding a hand out to encourage Noah to leave.

“Do you know something?” he asks, getting out of his chair. “Have you found her? Have you found Paige?”

“Please, Mr. Collins,” says the policeman patiently. “Come with me.”

Noah turns to look at Rachel wide-eyed and terrified, as if they’re leading him to the gallows.

“Have you found her?” Rachel asks the policewoman who is getting a notebook out of her crossover bag.

“They will have news soon,” says the woman, sitting down on the imitation-leather armchair next to Rachel’s bed. “If I could, please, ask one or two questions?”

Rachel knows they know more than they’re letting on. “Is she alive?” she asks, in desperation.

“Senhor Da Silva will be giving answers,” she replies. “But I would like to know where you were when the car came?”

Rachel tries to brush off the fear that’s creeping through her veins, pretend that it’s a perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances. Though, if it had been a fluke runaway, she doubts the police would need to know her exact whereabouts.