Chapter Thirty-Four

2 January

He should have been packing. Instead he was surfing the Internet, looking for a way to contact Lori. Nothing was working. Lori France had no Internet presence that he could find. He’d been so focused on protecting her, and Misty, he’d left himself with no way of getting in touch.

At least that way you were sure they’d be safe.

It had been the right thing to do – but now …

Lori might not be anywhere on the Internet, but he was. His reappearance had hit the headlines. He’d put the phone on divert to route all his calls to the virtual assistance company he used when he needed them. The involvement of the police and a potential court case made ‘no comment’ an acceptable response to everything and also effortlessly upped the level of interest. There were reporters camped outside, waiting for him to emerge.

Not going to happen, ladies and gentlemen.

Public opinion seemed to be divided about his disappearance – most were concerned and intrigued, a few still thought it had all been a publicity stunt.

If you only knew.

He’d found a lot of stuff on the Internet that he didn’t want, but he hadn’t found Lori. But you do know where she lives.

The temptation to get in the car and simply drive back to Wales, and the quiet simplicity of the barn, was so strong, he almost gave in to it.

But why would you go back to Wales? Officially those days in the barn never happened. You can’t make a connection now.

Also the street is full of reporters and you have a plane to catch at stupid o’clock tomorrow morning.

Frustrated, he glared around the room.

A letter?

He dug in the drawer in his desk. He had a stamp, but no envelopes. He rummaged some more, unearthing a dog-eared postcard from a stately home he’d visited six months ago for an event.

It was better than nothing – but a brief message that anyone could read wasn’t really enough for what he wanted to say.

Come on, you’re supposed to be a writer.

After a moment he scribbled ‘Thanks again for everything’, underlining the ‘for everything’ and adding his initials. Underneath he printed an e-mail address that he’d had for years, that only a handful of people still knew, completed the address of the barn and added the stamp. If he hurried he could catch the post and get started on the damn packing.

Once you get past the reporters.

When he arrived downstairs, there were two large men in the entrance hall. He might have been worried about this, but one of them was Joe. He introduced his colleague, Tom. ‘Boss said you wanted to learn a few moves, self-defence, like.’

‘I do, but I’m going to America at some God-awful time in the morning.’ He explained about the tour.

‘No problem. We’re global.’ Joe grinned at Tom. ‘What you think? Ray in New York and Chris in L.A.?’

Tom nodded. Drew looked from one grinning face to the other. ‘Why am I getting the feeling that this is suddenly not such a good idea?’

The grins just got wider.

Oh, well, he had asked …

Beyond the narrow glass doors to the block, Drew could see a couple of reporters on the steps, huddling against the cold. He pulled the postcard from his pocket. ‘While you’re here, can you do me a favour?’

3 January

Lori stared at her computer screen. Displacement activity. Anything rather than sending her completed manuscript to the agent who wanted to see it.

It’s as finished as it will ever be. Let it go!

Instead of doing what she’d logged on to do, Lori was surfing the web. There was no reason for it. She was just surfing. Quizzes to check her knowledge of Shakespeare, adverts for writers’ retreats in remote locations, videos of cute kittens to make Griff jealous – when she wasn’t looking at news reports about Andrew Vitruvius.

At least you know now that he’s safe.

She’d seen the proof, excited selfies from two fans, unable to believe their luck, when they found themselves on the same flight to New York. Three months on tour and then what? He’d have to come back for the trial. Two men and a woman had been charged with abduction and a string of other offences. Lori wondered about the woman. Slighted girlfriend? It would all come out eventually.

Now that she’d started to dig, she couldn’t seem to stop. It hadn’t taken long to find out everything she ever wanted to know about Andrew Vitruvius. The books, the reviews, the public appearances, the awards, the six-figure contracts, the film options, the hair-raising research trips, the girlfriends – models and actresses mostly – the fans – girlfriends in waiting?

And at the end, or maybe the beginning … the wife.

She’d read that with a lump in her throat. He’d been just eighteen, eighteen, when his wife and three week old son died, along with fifteen other people, in a tangle of wreckage outside Brighton station, three days before Christmas. Two kids who had met while in care, fallen in love and had a child.

And then he lost them.

There was an old and grainy picture of relatives waiting at the station for news. If you knew, you could pick out the painfully young Drew, standing at the back of the group, shoulders stiff with tension, flat cow lick of dark hair stark against pale skin, face trapped in anguish.

Pain coiled around Lori’s heart. To bear that sort of loss, so young. But somehow he’d resurrected himself. His first book had been published four years later.

And yours will never be published if you don’t send it.

Quickly, before she could think any more, she tapped out a covering e-mail. With a fast beating heart, she attached the manuscript and launched them both into cyber space.

For a moment more she dithered, hands over the keyboard. Should she send Drew a quick jolly message on Twitter or e-mail – glad you survived Christmas? And what would she get in response? A casual, ‘Oh yeah, must meet up again sometime’? A standard response from whoever handled his e-mail? Nothing at all?

He said he would forget the time you spent together. And asked you to do the same.

Actually, he said he wouldn’t talk about it.

Does that amount to the same thing?

It was just a kiss. She ran her tongue over her lips, as if she could still taste …

The man is out of your league. He’s already moving on.

Forget the manuscript and Drew Vitruvius.

Write the next book.