The It Girl(128)

But he is shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Hannah, it’s too late.”

He puts his hand in his pocket, and when he takes it out, Hannah goes completely still. He is holding a gun.

“You can’t—” she manages, but her mouth seems to be too numb to speak. “You can’t shoot me here—think of all the evidence—all the blood on your car. It won’t look like a suicide.”

Hugh sighs.

“I am aware of that, thank you. Get out of the car, Hannah.”

She shakes her head. If she gets out, that’s it, and she knows it. He cannot afford to kill her in his car; the evidence will be impossible to remove. Her only hope is to stay here as long as she can. But then, suddenly and without warning, he leans across the gap between them and slams the butt of the gun hard into her bump.

The shock is electric—a jolting pain that seems to run right through her body, making her scream, and the baby inside her flails like a fish, and Hugh shouts full into her face, “Get out of the fucking car, Hannah!”

It’s the first time she’s ever heard him swear, and she knows this is it—she can’t prevaricate any longer—and half bent over, cradling her throbbing bump, she fumbles for the door handle and stumbles out into the drizzling rain.

“Walk over to the cliff,” Hugh says. He is standing on the other side of the car, rain running down his face.

Stumbling, shivering, Hannah does as she’s told. Hugh’s jacket is still wrapped around her, and she has a sudden, piercing flashback to that night, so long ago, when they ran across the Fellows’ Garden together, Hannah wrapped in Hugh’s jacket. That was how it ended for April. And this is how it ends for her.

She is right on the edge of the cliff now. Behind her there is nothing but empty space and the pounding roar of the waves against the jagged rocks, ready to take her body and smash it into an unrecognizable pulp—a raw bloated mess that will cover up any bruises, wash away any DNA. And for Hugh, what’s the worst that could happen? The taxi driver remembers taking her to his house? She has his DNA under her nails? All he needs to say is that she left early that morning, told him she was taking a train. Or a taxi. Yes, she seemed depressed, Officer. No, he doesn’t know where she went.

Oh God, this is it.

“Throw me the jacket,” Hugh says, and, shivering even harder, she pulls her arms out of the jacket and tosses it towards him. It lands in a crumpled heap at his feet. He takes it, and then nods at the cliff edge. “Now, jump.”

Hannah looks behind her, over her shoulder, and shakes her head helplessly, hopelessly. She cannot do it. Not even if the alternative is Hugh shooting her, she can’t bring herself to do it, to throw herself and her unborn child into that sea. She can’t do it.

Hugh raises the gun.

And then Hannah’s heart seems to stop in her chest, and start beating again with a quickening hope. Because above the roar of the sea, she hears a different kind of roar. The roar of an engine, coming closer. And a light, twisting and turning along the narrow lane. It’s a motorbike, and it’s coming fast, faster than is really safe on the rutted, unfinished road.

It’s Will.

Hugh turns, distracted, shading his eyes against the glare as the light comes closer. And then he says something under his breath, something Hannah can’t hear, and he turns to face the track as the rider skids around the last bend and bumps into the clearing.

Will roars to a halt, just a few feet away from them both, and scrambles off without even killing the engine, pulling off his helmet. His eyes are black with fear, but Hannah can tell he is trying to seem calm.

“Hugh,” he says, holding out his hands. “Hugh—listen to me—you don’t have to do this.”

But Hugh—Hugh’s shoulders are shaking.

For a minute Hannah doesn’t understand. She looks from Will, hands outstretched, pleading, and then back to Hugh. Is he crying? He shakes his head helplessly, and then she sees—he is not crying but laughing.

“Hugh?” she manages. She takes a step forward, away from the cliff. The movement seems to tear at the muscles of her womb and a fresh wash of pain ripples across her stomach, radiating out from where Hugh hit her.

“You absolute imbecile,” Hugh says now. He wipes what could be tears of laughter from beneath his glasses, but might be rain, or just plain tears. “You idiot, Will. You could have lived, don’t you realize that? And instead, you’ve solved everything.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Will says. He takes a step closer and Hugh turns swiftly, pointing the gun at Hannah’s stomach.

“Don’t come any closer unless you want to see your baby right now,” he says, and his voice is suddenly cold.

“Okay, okay,” Will says, and he puts up his hands. Hannah is trembling. Her eyes meet Will’s. I’m so sorry, she tries to say. Will closes his eyes, shakes his head very slightly. It doesn’t matter, it’s okay.

Then he turns back to Hugh.

“What do you mean? Solved everything?” He’s trying to sound calm, hopeful, but there’s a tremor in his voice. But Hugh is shaking his head.

“It doesn’t have to be a suicide anymore,” Hugh says wearily. “Don’t you get it? I mean I could have just shot her, but if the body washed up, a gunshot would have been hard to explain. But this—this is much better. You killed your first girlfriend, and then when your wife got suspicious…” He shrugs. “You shot her, and then you killed yourself. It’s almost too perfect.”