Chapter 27

27

My eyes snap open to the drab symphony of gray morning light seeping through my window. When I get up, my body aches. Behind my eyes. In my heart, my guts. I find myself googling symptoms. Pain: acute, chronic, persistent.

Images of last night flicker up, the final realization that so much has ended, all choices extinguished. A future with Nate, an escape from Tony. These two men helped to destroy Eva's life and now they're closing in on mine. I can't help thinking, how can I escape her fate?

Outside my window life carries on the same, shrill and ceaseless, in the excitable chatter of children on their way to school, the metallic clang from a building site opposite. The hours stretch, all the more elastic and endless since Amira is away. I miss her, and yet even if she were here, I'm not sure I'd want to confide in her. Where would I begin without alarming her unduly? What could I tell her that I know for sure to be the truth?

Priya emails, brisk and businesslike, oblivious, I assume, to all that has happened. She's expecting a completed manuscript by the end of next week and wants to know how it's going. All good , I reply.

I wake up at 7:00 a.m. the next day feeling different somehow. Clear-headed, single-minded. I tidy up the apartment, clean out the fridge, order in healthy food, give up alcohol. When I'm not proofreading, I go for long runs. Without music. Unexpectedly I find myself engaging with the outside world. In the snap of twigs on the muddy path, the way my exhalations and inhalations hang like misty clouds in the morning air. But still the rhythmic slap of my soles on the path sounds out two names: Tony, Nate. Nate, Tony. The faster I run, the more the consonants blur.

What a fool I was. Indignation fires me up, deepens to molten rage. They are the arch manipulators and yet now they accuse me of being the villain. A thief and a liar. Stealing from Eva's bedroom, creating a memoir to gain access to his house, cover for my own crimes. Each claims I've betrayed them to protect the other. Such a difference a fortnight can make.

My dreams shift up a gear. They are no longer bland but replete with revenge, ice-cold, bloody and exacting. For myself as well as Eva. How dare they? Tony always taking what doesn't belong to him. Taking. Taking. Taking. Shackling me to our shared past to keep me weak. Nate blaming and belittling me when his crimes are potentially so much worse.

I was sleepwalking into our affair, and now in the gray dawn of each day, I start to wonder how much he used his knowledge of neuroscience to seduce me. He spent his life absorbed by the brain, in particular our unconscious and the power it exerts over us. Didn't he tell me one afternoon, alight with its potential, how it's entirely possible to provoke a response, a set of behaviors even, without the victim realizing, simply by knowing the right way to play them?

The nonconscious you is the powerhouse of every interaction, every reflex and desire, even sexual attraction. Crack that and you can control any aspect of human behavior.

On my morning runs, I find myself jogging back towards the river, drawn to somewhere my mind won't acknowledge quite yet. The sky is a seamless blue, my breath cold enough to snap. In my head, I run a defense trial where I am exonerated and Nate is guilty as charged.

I should turn back and head for home but instead I've slipped down the underpass, below the rumble of the Great West Road. I emerge at Furnival Gardens and, a few minutes later, I find myself at the Upper Mall close to Algos House.

Outside I allow myself a sideways glance up at the Georgian windows, the tendrils of lilac wisteria creeping through the black railings. I think of the last time I was here. Nate's voice above the hiss of rain, urging me to call a cab from his house.

I turn on my heels. I think I've seen enough. But something catches my eye. The flash of white board, an estate agent's sign. Sold.

He must have been much further ahead with the sale than he'd implied that night, his plans way more mapped out than he let on. Another deception to add to the pile.

As soon as I'm home, I scan Rightmove, greedy for details of Algos House. "Immaculate and stunning architectural home close to the park with easy access to central London. Generous garden and studio with glorious views across the river."

I flash through interior after interior, the double-height atrium, the glass gallery, gleaming kitchen island and walk-in wardrobe. The overall impression is vaguely disappointing. Even through the estate agent's wide-angled lens, the rooms appear smaller, less opulent and characterful than I imagined, like a series of sterile stage sets.

I run back home, carry on editing the book except that every word I read feels inauthentic. Kath's words ring in my ears. You made her up. There's nothing of the sister I knew in there at all.

As all these fragments merge to form a bigger picture, deep unease seeps into my bones. Nate despises me now, he made that much clear. I'm also the only person who shares his secret: that he hurt Eva and lied to the inquest about his whereabouts. Anger turns to anxiety and finally fear.

Late one afternoon, when I am in the Google doc I used to share with Nate, I see his cursor hovering on the page. I scroll down swiftly to another section of the manuscript until I see it follow me there too. He hangs back and tweaks a paragraph I've been working on. I wonder if I am the first female to feel harassed in the context of a shared document.

It happens again the next day, his digital presence looming there like a veiled threat, name bolded up in blue. He is watching each word I write.

STALKER.

STALKER.

STALKER.

I copy and paste the word over and over, only to watch each one being deleted.

YOU'RE SO VAIN, YOU PROBABLY THINK THIS BOOK IS ABOUT YOU.

His cursor twitches there, before eating up the words.

I copy what I'm working on into a separate document to avoid his scrutiny. As I scroll through the chapters, it is like wandering into once-familiar rooms yet all the furniture has moved around, the decor is different. My phrases are vanishing, they've been ghosted away. It occurs to me that, finally, he has erased my voice—and Eva's.

Early on Wednesday morning it happens. I am tinkering on the final chapter when I realize I'm there. I've touched the finish line. I write a short covering letter to Priya and there's nothing else to do but press Send.

I have read about this euphoric milestone many times, the authors who celebrate with a glass of champagne or a cigarette. I have yearned for it, the giddy euphoria of the final period. Yet now I'm finally here, the moment seems tainted.

I declutter my workspace, bag up the notepads and the transcript and dump it all in the bottom drawer, stare transfixed at the space above my desk. One more thing on my list. I call a locksmith to change the locks. No more surprise visits from Tony.

Later, I am on the sofa watching TV when there's a buzz at the communal door. I don't move but someone on the ground floor lets them in. Steps echo from the stairs and my heart flip-flops. A knock now, more urgent this time, on my front door. I run to the hallway and press the intercom.

"Anna? It's me, Amira," comes a voice, out of breath, the south London vowels warm and familiar. "Sorry, I haven't got my key."

I exhale, relieved, and help to carry her bags in from the landing. We hug briefly, the scent of travel clings to her; of international departure lounges and fast food and taxicabs.

"I thought you weren't back until Friday," I say as she sinks onto the sofa, kicks off her trainers and rubs her toes.

"I thought so too, but surely you've heard about Jess?" She looks astounded, as if it's global breaking news I somehow failed to pick up on.

I shake my head, confused.

"Where have you been?"

"Here. Chained to my desk, out of the office loop. Something called finishing a book?"

"Ah, the great masterpiece." She rolls her eyes and I realize how much I have missed her.

"Anyway, tell me about Jess," I say, pleased by the distraction.

"Skiing accident. It was only a green slope but she managed to smash her knee in two places, and she's done her back in. They're operating on Monday. Reckons she'll be laid out for at least two months. On top of dealing with my parents for two weeks, I now have to look after the magazine." She exhales, leans her head back on the sofa, rakes a hand through her hair and groans. "No more lunches with you. There goes my social life."

I throw her a look of disbelief.

"What?" She frowns, barely able to conceal a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. I hear myself laugh for the first time in days, at her lame attempts to disguise her delight at this unexpected promotion, her ineluctable ambition that's impossible to conceal.

"Jess out of the way. Amira, editor of her own magazine? It's a dream come true for you. Come on. You're thrilled. You must be. It's all you ever wanted."

"It's not like that though. She'll be all over me, micromanaging remotely, pulling features at the last minute." She shakes her head lightly, grimacing, and I frown in disbelief.

"Spare me the humblebrags. It's brilliant news. You know it is. Possibly three months as editor and you can get a job anywhere."

"Well, maybe you're right." She softens, gives me a reluctant smile. I ask her about Paris and staying with her parents. She tells me about her father who is growing more forgetful, confusing her twice with her younger sister, her frustrated mother, and how guilty she feels living so far away.

"Sometimes I envy you, Anna. That you no longer have to worry about your parents. I mean, I'm sorry. That's an insensitive thing to say," she says quickly, scanning my expression.

I shake my head, accustomed to small comments like this from Amira over the years. "No, I think I know what you mean," I say. "My biggest childhood fear, of being orphaned, is behind me. I'm an adult and I'm free." I'm giving her the reassurance I know she craves. I can't tell her that it's more complex, that how you lose a parent is the real measure of the freedom you may feel, depending on how guilty or responsible you may have been. Nor can I explain all the complications with it, like how often it feels like the world divides into orphans, those who no longer have parents and those who do. But that's one piece of wisdom she'll have to discover for herself.

She stops herself and I know Tony is about to come up in the conversation. I'm struck with guilt, not sure what to share. How do I begin to tell Amira any of this, the subterfuge, the threats, Tony and Eva's history?

She looks down, chews her bottom lip. "Anna, I'm not even sure how to tell you." Tears fill her eyes and her shoulders slump. "We broke up, Tony and I."

Alarmed, I sit down next to her. She breathes sharply as if to brace herself for what she's about to share.

"He called me in Paris a few days ago unannounced, ranting and raging. About you mainly. About Nate and Eva. How we were all against him and that Nate was an evil bastard manipulating you. None of it made much sense. We fought again when I returned home, and I tried to calm him down but...he got so angry."

She looks at me for a moment as if in two minds, almost as if she's ashamed in some way.

She pushes her ringlets off her face to show me a livid purple and yellow bruise blooming at her temple.

I say nothing for a moment, a wave of emotion breaks inside me, fury that my brother would do this to my best friend, but something else too. Guilt. Why did I not act sooner, intervene in some way? I was too self-absorbed by my own dramas.

"Amira," I gasp. "That's awful. I'm so, so sorry. There's so much I should have told you. He came round here too, a few days ago. We had a big argument. I was going to call you. I can't believe I let this happen."

She considers me for a moment. "You couldn't have stopped this, Anna. I should have listened to you more. He always seemed so plausible when he talked about you relying on him—"

"What the hell happened? What did he do?"

"It was just an accident. We were arguing and I tried to leave. He pushed me, I must have tripped and hit one of the coat hooks."

I watch her making excuses to protect his actions, a dark unfathomable rage rising up in me. "You should report this, Amira. I'll support you if you do, whatever you need."

We hug, briefly. Her fingers reflexively touch her temple. "I'll think about it but the main thing is it's over. He's out of our lives now and that's all that matters," she says, firmly. If only I could believe her.

I cook supper for her. Glancing around the room, she notices the blank space above my desk.

"What happened?" she says. "Where's it all gone?"

"Big cleanup. All done, over," I say, brightly, rubbing my hands. "I sent the edited manuscript to Priya and we're meeting tomorrow."

"That's amazing, Anna, you got there. I hope you give us first go on serializing it. And Priya likes it?"

"So far, yes."

I sit down opposite her at the small kitchen counter and it strikes me how relaxed I feel when it's just Amira and me. Without Tony polluting our friendship, everything feels complete.

"So what next? Your own book?" She catches my expression. "I thought that's what you wanted most of all, so why do you look so horrified at the idea?"

"Right now, I can't imagine ever writing again."

"Really, that bad. I thought it was going well with Nate." Her eyes search mine. "You did, didn't you?"

I look away, my face burning.

"Oh, Anna," she says, putting down her wine.

I can't hold it in any longer, any of it, the secrets I'm carrying. And so I begin to tell her only what I can bear: about Nate and me, the day at the coast, Nate's confession about Eva, our kiss. How hard I fell for him, how stupid I was to be taken in. Then the doubts, small but sharper by the day. I blink back hot tears. She nods, quietly absorbs my explanation.

I don't tell her about Eva's journal. I can't go there yet, can't risk Tony getting to Amira. Instead, I tell her about nosing around Eva's bedroom and finding the pregnancy test receipt.

It is her turn to put an arm around me and I can't hold my tears back anymore. They slide down my cheek, my mouth twists.

"Anna, you poor thing. Thankfully you found out when you did, before it got more serious."

She leans forward, her expression grave as the implications of my discoveries sink in.

"But honestly. You could have been in danger. You still could be. Do you think he actually could have killed Eva?"

Even though I've tiptoed around that question, it's the first time I've heard it articulated before. Spoken by someone else, it carries extra weight. I struggle to digest the possibility it could be true.

"It sounds fantastical, doesn't it? I can't believe we're even having this conversation." I roll my eyes at the absurdity of it but notice she's frowning.

"Why is it so far-fetched, Anna? I'm not sure you're taking this seriously enough. The guy lied about his timings. He was there the day she died. If that's the case, you have to tell the police."

I nod slowly. "You're right, I probably should."

"Does anyone else know you have that receipt?" she asks, sternly.

I hesitate. "Only Tony. And Nate."

"Only?" Her tone is alarmed. "Anna, why did you tell Nate?"

"I wanted to find out if he was really lying, I guess. Part of me wanted to come up with a plausible explanation."

"And?"

"I just don't know anymore. He was adamant that he wasn't there when she died and, honestly, I felt he was telling me the truth. But now I feel cheated, that he's not who I thought he was. He admitted to hurting Eva, gripping her so tightly that he bruised her, lying to the inquest."

"What sort of person does that?" she says quietly, and then her fingertips reflexively touch her temple. I wince once more at what I see there, unable to catch her eye.