Page 63 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Until you choose to stop it. Do you actually want this thing with Teddy to be over, or are you letting Pierre steal it from you?”
“I don’t know.” I drag in a breath, rubbing the heel of my hand across my eyes. That’s what Pierre’s taken—my confidence in my own choices, what I want, what I need. It’s not like me to waver; I’m the woman who weighs evidence and makes the right call. This time the client is me, and I fear I’ve blown the case.
“Go home, run a bath, pour a glass of wine, let it settle. Tomorrow’s a new day.” She sounds exactly like my mum with her calm, bossy nurse voice. “I’m on nights all week, but I’ll text later to make sure you follow orders.”
“Thanks,” I say, folding the last dress and closing the case.
Downstairs, as she draws back from a farewell hug, Loreena studies my face as if she knows something’s wrong. Tommy’s far too chipper as if he knows it too. I paste on a thank-you smile and a bright wave as I leave the house that for a week felt like happiness.
Barrelling along the M40 toward London, I crank the volume to drown out the day. Stellar Riot crashes through the speakers—‘Ember’. I slam the off button, veer onto the shoulder, and come to a grinding halt.
As I thumb through playlists, blue lights flare in the rear-view mirror. I shove the phone into my bag and stare at the dash. A police officer taps the window; I lower it.
“Everything okay, miss? You can’t stop here.”
“Sorry, officer. Warning light on the dash—thought my brakes were actingup. It’s gone now.”
“As long as you’re all right.” He smiles, heads back to his car, and I ease into traffic.
As if it can hear the wreckage, my phone serves up the saddest track I own—‘Fade Into You’, all hollow chords and aching vocals. That’s when I know: I’m nowhere near all right.
Chapter 22
I’msittingonBriar’sfront steps when a cab pulls up. I check my watch–she’s earlier than I expected. The Sunday matinee has barely finished, and yet somehow she’s managed to flag down a cab and get from the West End to here.
I stand as she tumbles from the car, ditching her large tote bag on the pavement, hurtling towards me. She throws herself at me, a tiny tornado of hugs and tears, and I catch her instinctively, my arms wrapping around her trembling frame.
When I finally manage to pull back enough to see her face, the breath gushes from my lungs.
For a start, she’s still wearing her stage makeup—she usually wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside the theatre. It’s streaked now with tears that have carved pale tracks through the foundation. Her hair hangs lank and dirty around her shoulders. But it’s what I see beneath the smeared concealer that makes my vision blur at the edges. Bruising. Dark purple fingerprints circling her throat like a necklace.
My hands shake. I grip the fence rail behind to keep from swaying; the rage hits so hard I can barely breathe. If I didn’t know her piece-of-shit boyfriend had already left the country, I’d be on to the police. No—forget that. I’d just go round to his house and deal with the fucker myself. I’m not a big guy, but with what he’s done to my sister, my vision goes narrow and white-hot; I reckon I could take him apart piece by piece. Let him feel what it’s like on the receiving end.
I force my hands to unclench, will my jaw to relax. She needs me calm. She needs me here.
I scoop her back into my arms, partly to comfort her, partly so she can’t see the murder in my eyes. She made me promise not to tell anyone, and I’ll keep that promise. But Christ, it’s killing me.
“Bee, it’s okay, love. He’s gone and I’m here.”
“I know,” she sobs against my chest, her whole body shaking. “And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry he’s gone?” The words come out rougher than I intended. How could she be sorry when the bastard who claimed to love her did this to her?
“No.” She pulls back slightly, wiping her nose on the cuff of her jumper with a gesture so achingly young it breaks something inside me. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. You told me a week ago to end it. And I didn’t. I’m so bloody stupid, believing him when he said it wouldn’t happen again.”
“Hey.” I tip her chin up gently, careful not to touch anywhere that might hurt. “You’re not stupid. Not ever. You just have a beautiful, kind, trusting heart. And that’s exactly why we love you.”
She crumples again, fresh tears spilling over. I gather her closer, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.
“Come on,” I murmur when her breathing starts to even out. “Let’s get you inside. Cup of tea, yeah? And we’ll get you cleaned up.”
One arm around her, I guide her up the steps, her bag forgotten on the pavement. That can wait. She leans into me heavily, as if her legs might give out, and I match my pace to hers, letting her set the rhythm. Whatever she needs, however long it takes—I’m here.
“Why don’t you go up for a shower?” I suggest. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
She heads upstairs, and I busy myself in her kitchen. There’s still a picture of Briar and the arsehole pinned to the fridge. The way she’s looking at him with her eyes like fucking heart emojis makes me want to puke. If this is where love gets you, maybe I’ve been doing it right all along. I grab the photo, tear it into tiny pieces, and shove it in a bin.
My phone pings with a text. My first thought is Rachel. Maybe she’s changed her mind about giving us a proper chance. The small leap of hope dies when I see the name on the screen.
