Run Away (13 page)

Chapter 21

July 17, England

“H
YPO
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”
S
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to take an enormous bite of something so crunchy it could only have been a raw carrot. The sound of her teeth gnawing through the hard orange flesh rattled through the phone like screws caught in a vacuum cleaner, followed by an emphatic gulp. “Do you think Sam had any plausible reason to . . . do this to himself?”

Kayla had rung DI Winters, who’d dashed out of her office to take the call, and informed the detective that neither Russia nor Dave had seen Sam fall and drunkenly break his hand. She’d also recalled the mysterious black eye that materialized at the Full Moon Party, with little explanation of its origins. She had instinctively reached for her phone to call Sam and ask what had really happened before realizing she couldn’t. When you’ve lost someone close to you, those fleeting moments of forgetfulness, followed by sharp pangs of painful remembering, are more gut-­wrenching than the acres of dull grief stretching out before you.

Kayla considered Sadie’s suggestion. Sam might have been troubled, but he seemed far too stable a character to resort to such a drastic means of escape. Then again, she knew better than anyone that depression can be hidden—­nobody had seen Gabe’s death coming. Besides, Sam had been acting strangely during those last few weeks abroad. She shuddered at the possibility that her actions might have contributed to his end.
No
.
I refuse to entertain that idea
.
I’m already dealing with enough guilt
.

The garrulous detective mistook the brief break in conversation for uncertainty and set about articulating her train of thought. “I mean, I know the logistics don’t exactly fit. How would he slit his wrists, or something like that, bleed all over the apartment, then disappear off the face of the earth?”

The mental image of Sam crawling around in agony, trying to find a ditch to disappear into forever, made Kayla want to vomit. Sadie was lovely, but not exactly tactful. She was more concerned with the science of the mystery than the human angle.

Another carroty chomp. Kayla envisaged her standing on a busy pavement outside a high-­rise office block, waggling the vegetable around to illustrate her points to oblivious passersby. “All the facts suggest he was removed from the apartment by an external figure. But who? The lack of any concrete suspects does make you wonder, doesn’t it?”

It did. It was exactly that—­the lack of anything concrete—­that was torturous to Kayla. She was sick of looking through a cloud of mist at vague theories and lethargic conclusions. “Honestly?” she said. “I can’t see Sam killing himself, or even trying to. For one, he was a med student. Don’t they, I don’t know, value life? And secondly, his tolerance for pain was pretty low.” Kayla remembered his near-­hysteria over a wasp sting at the beginning of the trip. “I doubt he could . . . inflict any on himself.”

“Ah. I see. And I suppose most ­people with such a disposition would opt for a less . . . violent method if they were to . . .” Sadie paused. Her train of thought had reached a station, and another passenger got on board. “Did Sam have any enemies?”

The question took Kayla aback. “You mean outside of his drug-­dealing friends?”

Crunch, crunch. “Yeah, I guess the theory’s already been explored. I don’t know.”

Kayla wracked her brains. Could there have been anyone? “I don’t know either. I mean, outside of his friends from university, his family, and the Escaping Grey group, I can’t think who else he’s been associated with in the last year.”

Sadie lowered her voice. “So maybe it’s time to go back further?”

K
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to grow tired of Kathy Kingfisher’s answering machine. “Hi, you’ve reached Kathy. Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

So much for getting back to her. The list of questions Kayla wanted to ask Sam’s mum was growing by the day—­more about the money she couldn’t lend him, the tone of Sam’s voice the last time they’d spoken, whether he’d signed off their final phone call with a final-­sounding message of love. Not only was it frustrating for her queries to remain unanswered, but it was also difficult losing contact with the one person on the planet who loved Sam more than she did. Nobody else understood how heart-­meltingly warm his dimpled smile was. Or how cold everything became in its absence.

Kayla wondered what Dr. Myers would say if she knew how much time and effort she was putting into solving the riddle of Sam’s disappearance, which was supposedly already solved. Or that she was now officially referring to it as “disappearance” rather than death. Or that she was now analyzing all of her own actions through the eyes of a therapist.

Maybe it was the detachedness that appealed so much. Working with Sadie meant seeing the events from a scientific vantage point, laying out the cold, hard facts for the sole purpose of solving a crime. It was unhealthy, yes. Futile, perhaps. But, more important than anything, having a focus cured the crippling boredom that engulfed her every day.

Kayla’s dad had started to hint at the idea of her completing her internship at Greyfinch and going on to formally train in marketing. Since realizing that she wasn’t suicidal—­hell, she barely even seemed depressed—­he seemed to largely be glossing over the events of the last few months. Maybe it was too painful for him to think about, let alone talk about. Or maybe, in what would be a typical Mark Finch move, the thought of having any form of emotional conversation made his toes curl up tightly inside his shiny black brogues.

Her mum, on the other hand, adopted a much more hands-­on approach. When Kayla edged back into the kitchen after her phone call with Sadie—­and unsuccessfully ringing Kathy three times—­she’d found Martha clattering around the kitchen cupboards, her trembling hands fumbling with an unopened sachet of ground Ethiopian coffee beans.

“Mum?”

Her mother jerked backward in surprise, as though she’d been caught doing something terrible. Her eyes were pink-­rimmed and bloodshot. “Honey! Where have you been? Oh, help your mum, will you? I can’t get this damn packet open.”

Kayla took the coffee from between her mother’s shaking fingertips and tore it open with ease. “Just getting some air.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you. It’s so lovely outside.” The kettle perched atop the Aga whistled for their attention. Martha picked it up and poured bubbling water delicately into their expensive French coffee press and closed the lid. Her gaze remained fixed on the swirling brown liquid for a few moments before she turned to face Kayla. “How are you feeling, love?”

“I’m fine. You know, considering.” Kayla absentmindedly rolled the bead of her friendship bracelet between her thumb and forefinger.

Martha stepped forward and pulled a wooden chair out from its position beneath the huge oak dining table. “I mean how are you really feeling? You can’t fool me, you know. I’ve been around for a few years—­I know what loneliness looks like. Come on, let’s sit down and have a chat. I feel like we haven’t talked properly in ages.” Kayla half expected her mum to pat the seat encouragingly. She didn’t.

Kayla sighed and slumped down into the chair opposite. “I guess I am feeling a little lonely, if I’m honest.”

Martha placed the cafetiere and some mugs heavy-­handedly onto the oak table and sat down, picking up Kayla’s hands in her own. “That’s understandable, Kayls. You’ve barely seen or spoke to anyone other than your father and I since you got back. Why don’t you give Juliet a call? The pair of you used to get on so well.”

“Mum, I haven’t spoken to Juliet since she spread those rumors about our family back in high school. I told you about that, remember?”

“Oh right, yes, sorry. I do remember that. It’s hard to keep track of all these teenage dramas.” Martha pulled her hands free and slowly started pushing the filter through the coffee. “How about Alexa? What’s she doing these days?”

“She went to uni in Cardiff. She’s staying there over the summer, doing some bar work, I think. She’s glad to see the back of Northumberland.”

“I see. And what about—­”

“There’s no one, Mum. I’m not isolating myself out of choice.”

“Oh honey, I’m sure that’s not true! You had so many friends in school.” Martha poured coffee into both mugs and plopped two sugar cubes into Kayla’s. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a third. “Anyway, I had a thought. Bear with me a second.”

Martha lifted herself out of the chair, with what looked like heavy reliance on the table as support, and crossed the kitchen. She delved into the third drawer down on the kitchen counter—­the drawer that nobody ever dared open, as it contained a chaotic plethora of batteries, gas bills, pen lids, and sticky tape. Amidst many, many other random items that had no other home, even in a mansion as big as theirs.

Kayla couldn’t see what her mother was carrying until she returned to the table with a proud expression forming on her face. University prospectuses. Martha sat back down and spread the thick brochures across the table. They smelled of fresh paper and printer’s ink, all the covers adorned with smiling faces and scattered textbooks—­politically correct groups of mixed ethnicities and genders sprawled happily on a lawn outside their grand, red-­bricked schools. The message was clear enough: learning is
fun
!

“Mum, I—­”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Martha firmly. “I know you’re maybe not ready yet, and that’s okay. But I think this is something you should really think about, sweetheart. It would give you a goal, take your mind off things, help you meet ­people . . .” She trailed off, realizing that her daughter’s face had hardened. “What do you think?” She took a sip of her coffee.

It looked to Kayla like her mum was using the mug as a shield. She felt bad. She could tell her mum was genuinely trying to help, and so she tried to take the edge out of her voice. “I can’t, Mum. I mean . . . I don’t even know what I would study. There’s nothing I want to study.”

“Well, what about English? You’ve always loved reading?”

“I hate Shakespeare. We’d have to study Shakespeare.”

“Oh, he is a difficult bugger, isn’t he? Well, what about exercise science? You’ve been getting back into your running recently, haven’t you?”

Kayla stared intently into the palms of her hands. “Yeah. But it’s just a hobby. I don’t want to make a career out of it, or anything.”

Martha persisted. “Well, I certainly think you should consider it. There’s bound to be something out there you’d enjoy studying. Newcastle and Durham are great universities, and you could commute from home! You got such good grades all the way through school, and it’d be a shame to waste all your hard work. You’re such a bright girl, and—­”

“Actually, Mum, I’m not feeling too great. Think it’s the heat in here. I’m going to go and lie down, but I’ll think about it. About uni. I promise.” She squeezed her mum’s hands and left the table.

The heartbreaking look of motherly concern on Martha’s tearstained face stayed with Kayla for the rest of the day.

She knew, deep down, her parents were only trying to help—­even her dad, pushing her to join Greyfinch again. She wished she could stop being so stubborn and accept that life had to go on. Being stuck in limbo was no fun. She wasn’t sad enough to do nothing all day, nor was she emotionally ready to move on and do something with her life. It was a deep rut, and one she couldn’t foresee herself clambering out of anytime soon.

She couldn’t see past the present. Past her emptiness. The idea of flying back out to Southeast Asia to resume her travels had, at one time, seemed feasible, but now that her suspicions surrounding the incident—­as she’d taken to calling it—­had piqued Sadie’s interest, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the country without playing a part in the miniature investigation.

DI Winters had promised to keep rooting around the jumble sale of Sam’s past, hoping to pick up a rare gem that might possibly tie into the tragic events of exactly one month ago today. For now, she would cling onto that.

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Sadie’s loquaciousness might be rubbing off on her, or maybe she’d spent too many hours out of the last week cooped up in her bedroom. During her fourth therapy session, she could barely contain the rainstorm of words from gushing out her mouth. She explained all about her new detective friend and her dedication to seeking justice for Sam.

Dr. Myers’s reaction was one of concern. “Just be careful, Kayla. I don’t want you to—­”

“Cling onto false hope, I know.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want you to put off confronting your emotions for the sake of a misplaced inkling that there’s more to the story.”

“But there is more to the story. There has to be. Nothing adds up, and it’s infuriating.”

“Kayla . . .” Cassandra leaned forward and stared at her intently. “If there was more than meets the eye, the police would have found it. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. Weren’t you listening? Sadie—­the detective—­admitted there might be more to it.” Kayla’s voice was quickening. In the absence of friends, it was thrilling having a third party to discuss these conspiracy theories with.

Dr. Myers didn’t bite at the bait. She asked calmly, “Don’t you think, on some level, you’re using this surreptitious investigation simply as a scapegoat for your grief?”