Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Glasgow

May 2024

CLEM

Quinn’s phone rings as they’re heading back along the corridor. He cancels it, but immediately it rings again, and this time he answers, turning on his heel to take the call somewhere more private. But when he answers, Clem catches the note of frustration in his voice.

“For Christ’s sake, Heather. You know why I’ve not answered. My daughter’s in hospital.”

As she heads to the vending machine for a bottle of water, Clem mulls over his words with a faint sense of satisfaction. All this time she has imagined his life with Heather to be idyllic. She realizes now that this was driven by bitterness at his abandonment of Erin. But still—to hear him speak to her with such anger, and to call Erin “my daughter”…

She recalls a conversation, not six months ago, when Erin was standing in the kitchen, mashing up some vegetables for Freya. I would have to do something drastic to get Dad’s attention. She said it lightly, and Clem agreed, because they both knew how much he preferred Heather and the boys over her.

A thought slips into her head: Did Erin do this to get her father’s attention? A voice in her head shouts, No! Of course not. She would never risk her life, not with Freya around.

But the suspicion lingers.

Maybe she didn’t mean for Arlo to die. Maybe she didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. But it is undeniable how much Erin wanted his attention, how much thought and effort she put into trying to work out the riddle that would make him love her, his only daughter.

But now Erin has his full, undivided attention.

No , she tells herself. The idea is ludicrous, and she feels guilty for thinking it.

“How’re you doing?” a voice says. She looks up and finds Bee standing there, a hand on her arm.

“If I’m honest, I’m not doing great,” Clem says with a weak smile. “It would be hard enough if we were just dealing with Erin’s burns, but there’s a criminal investigation going on, too. So many unanswered questions.”

“I get it,” Bee says. “This is not a quick process. It never is. You need to take one hour at a time. Not even a day at a time—an hour . That’s the only way through this.”

Clem considers this. It isn’t the answer she wanted. “Thanks.”

“Go home. Get some rest. Take a sleeping pill. You’ll be amazed at what a difference it’ll make, getting a good night’s sleep.”

Over Bee’s shoulder she can see Quinn heading back up the corridor toward them, and the thought of a night with just her and Freya, in her own home, is suddenly tempting.

“I’m going home,” she tells him, checking the time on her phone. “I want to see Freya and get some rest.”

“Can I see Freya?”

She pauses, surprised at the request. “Well, yes. I’d have thought you wanted to head back to your hotel?”

“It’s been a year since I saw her. Do you mind?”

“Well…No, not at all.”

She reminds Quinn of her address and arranges to meet him after she collects Freya from Josie’s. The house is noisy, full of toys and stray bits of laundry; a welcome respite from the hospital.

“Got your message,” Josie says. “So good to hear that Erin’s awake and talking.”

Clem takes a steadying breath and smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s great.”

“God, you must be so relieved.”

Clem swallows back a sob. She’s not relieved at all. She feels battered, and broken, and wants someone to hold her while she cries her heart out.

“She’s still a way off being better, but the doctors are hopeful.”

Freya clocks Clem in the doorway and runs to her, arms outstretched.

“Gama,” she says, her way of saying Grandma . “Gama!”

Clem scoops her up, breathing in her scent and pressing her lips against Freya’s cheeks. “I’ve missed you, lady,” she says.

Josie sends her away with a homemade lasagna in a large casserole dish and a bottle of elderflower cordial. “You just call me if you need me to have Freya again, okay?” she says earnestly.

Clem straps Freya into the car and drives home, where Quinn is already parked outside. He gets out and heads to the car, eager to see Freya. She looks up at him warily, then glances at Clem for explanation.

“Hello, little one,” he says as Clem unclips her car seat. His face softens at the sight of her. “You’re so much bigger than when I last saw you. Just like your mummy, too. All that blonde fluff.”

Freya frowns, unsure who Quinn is.

“This is…Quinn,” Clem says.

“Do you want to take my hand?” Quinn asks Freya, and she pauses before reaching out to curl her little fingers around his. They walk together like that to the front door.

It’s strange, seeing Quinn in her flat, looking over hers and Erin’s photographs on the living room walls. For years she has felt embarrassed that she lives in such a tiny flat in the wrong part of Glasgow. Compared to Quinn’s Yorkshire farmhouse, with stables and a barn, three acres for his sons to play on quad bikes, she might as well live in a shed. Even now, when she is distracted enough by Erin’s situation not to care about such things, she finds herself apologizing for it.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” she says, as Freya races inside.

“It smells like Erin,” he says. “It looks like her, too.”

“I gave her free rein with the decorating,” she says, looking over the monstera-themed feature wall matched with pistachio green. All the house plants are Erin’s, and the books in the bookcase are hers, too. A cabinet full of crystals is mounted on the wall, and the photographs on the mantelpiece are all of Freya. Clem realizes with a sting of embarrassment that there is hardly anything of her here at all, her life positioned behind Erin’s. The main bedroom is Erin’s, too, and that was before she had Freya and needed the space.

“Shall I put that in the oven?” Quinn says, glancing at Josie’s lasagna.

“Oh. Okay,” she says, though she’s not sure either of them will eat it.

Freya toddles back into the room, holding a toy up for Quinn to take. He lowers to inspect it.

“Is this your owl?” he says, and she nods, shyly.

“Hello, Mr.Owl,” he says, turning the owl to talk to him. “Are you Freya’s pal?”

“Ollie,” Clem corrects.

“Ollie,” he repeats.

Freya beams, and then laughs, and the sound of it is the best sound Clem can remember.

They sit around the fold-out dining table overlooking the garden. Freya grins at Quinn shyly from her high chair while Clem pushes the lasagna around her plate.

“How the fuck is someone waking up and calling themselves ‘Nyx’ normal?” Quinn asks.

“Language,” Clem says, glancing at Freya.

“Shit. Sorry.”

They sit in silence, nothing but the sound of traffic on the road outside and Freya’s occasional question. Clem realizes that, any other time, it would sadden her immensely that Freya is sitting with her grandfather but has no idea who he is. It’s not like Quinn didn’t know Erin was pregnant. Not only has he ruined his relationship with his daughter, but he seems set to do the same with his granddaughter. But Clem finds herself not caring, absolutely reconciled with the fact of it. What matters now is Erin. What matters is figuring out the puzzle of what happened on Orkney.

“Did Erin ever tell you who the father was?” Quinn asks.

“The father?” Clem repeats. She bristles at the way he frames it so bluntly. The father instead of Freya’s father .

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” she says simply, and concentrates on cutting up Freya’s food. “She didn’t.” Freya stares at him, unsmiling. Then she lifts a hand and waves at him. Quinn hesitates, before waving back.

“You haven’t told her I’m her grandfather?” Quinn says.

“Would you like me to?”

He hesitates. Freya bursts into a laugh at him, and he can’t help but smile back.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Freya,” Clem says. “This is Granddad Quinn.”

Freya stares, no sign of whether she has understood or not. “I think she’s too young to grasp the concept of a grandfather,” Clem tells him, though she wants to ask him, finds she is genuinely curious, why he is so keen to be a father or a grandfather now.

“The police are understaffed, undertrained. I don’t rate that detective.”

Clem bristles. Why can’t he just call “that detective” by her name, like everyone else?

“She’s the family liaison officer, and her name is Stephanie. She’s not the one leading the investigation.”

Quinn leans forward, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on her. “You know as well as I do that this investigation is a shambles. And you know every bit as well as I do that we need to take this into our own hands now.”

She studies his face, wondering what is driving this sudden impulse to go hunting for a killer. It’s all very odd.

“I want to tell you something,” she says then. “It’s about Erin.”

“Go on.”

She takes a breath, wondering how to put it. “She had this moment where she just switched. Like she was back to being Erin again instead of…whatever is going on with her when she says she’s Nyx.”

“Right,” Quinn says, but she can tell he doesn’t get it.

“I don’t know how to explain it. No one else was around. She mentioned Arlo. She said he was on fire, that she saw a face in the fire…”

He studies her. “A face?”

“Yeah. And then she changed again and went back to being weird.”

He goes to say more, but just then Clem’s phone rings, and she sees “Stephanie FLO” on the screen.

“Hi, Clem?”

“Yes? Have you found Senna?”

“No, sadly that’s not why I’m ringing. I wanted to ask if you knew about Erin’s TikTok account?”

“I know she sends me TikToks via WhatsApp,” Clem says. “But I don’t know anything about her account.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Are you at the hospital?”

“No, I’m at home.”

“Would you mind if I come and speak to you just now?”