“Wh-where did you hear that name?” My eyes flick to the radio in his hand. “Who are you talking to?”
The radio fizzes with static. Is that her? Oh, thank God. Jenny, baby. Jenny, pick up the radio. Tell me you’re okay.
Sam. I take a step back. No. No. Riven holds the radio out to me, his face blank. “You should answer him.”
No. No. I lick my lips. “No,” I force out.
“Apparently he’s your boyfriend,” Riven clips out. His voice is utterly expressionless. “He sounds worried about you. You shouldn’t let him worry.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
The radio crackles. Jenny, baby, it’s so good to hear your voice. Are you okay? What the Hell are you doing?
“Take it,” Riven says, thrusting the radio at me. I pull away, letting it clatter to the floor. Sam’s voice cuts off. “No. I’m not talking to him. And he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my ex.”
“Really.” Riven’s voice is flat.
“Yes! Really! Why would you believe him over me, you don’t even know him!”
“It sounds like I don’t even know you.” He shakes his head. “What’s your name?”
“D-Daisy Whittaker.”
His lips press together as he surveys me. I shiver as his cold eyes assess me. The man in front of me looks nothing like the man who was laughing into my neck just minutes ago. He looks furious. Like he hates me.
“Give me your wallet,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
He looks around the room, spotting my handbag hung over a kitchen chair. He goes to pick it up, rooting through it until he finds my wallet.
I lunge for it. “What the Hell are you doing? Give that back!”
“Stop,” he orders, opening it and shaking all of my cards onto the table. He looks through them slowly, examining my driver’s licence, my library card, my debit card. Reading the name printed on all of them. Jennifer Adams.
Ice slides down my back. “I can explain,” I whisper.
He ignores me, checking inside my purse again and finding my passport. He flips through the pages, checking my name and photo.
“Sure looks like you,” he says flatly. “Well. I suppose everything makes a lot more sense, now.” He tosses the passport onto the table.
“Riven, I swear, it’s not what you think—”
“Is anything you told us true?” He demands. “Anything at all? Do you really live in London?”
“No,” I whisper. “Brighton.”
“What?”
“I don’t live in the city. I live by the sea, in Brighton.”
“I see,” he says, his voice icy. “What about your job? You’re an art teacher? Are you really here on holiday?”
I hesitate.
His eyes narrow. “Tell me the truth, Goddamnit.”
“I am an art teacher. Or I was,” I admit. “But I’m not on holiday. I was fired.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He turns away, taking in a deep breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I close my eyes, tears streaming down over my cheeks. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I can’t explain what happened without telling him the whole story. And then he might see the video. I’d rather die than let him see the video.
“Stop crying,” he barks, pulling himself upright. He towers over me. It feels like he’s filling up the whole room with his cold fury. “Who are you? Why are you here? Why the fuck did you fucking come here? Making us all care for you, when it was all just a lie?”
I reach for him. “Riven, I’m so sorry—please let me explain—”
“No.” He snatches his arm back. “I don’t want you to explain. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
“But…”
“NO!” He roars, and I flinch back, horrified, as his voice echoes around the lounge. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time! I don’t want to listen to any more lies!”
I close my mouth. Riv’s never shouted at me before. I didn’t even think he could. But now the calm, gentle doctor has been stripped away, and I don’t recognise him anymore.
He’s silent for a moment, chest heaving. Then he turns and heads for the desk, opening up his laptop.
Fear gushes through me. “No. Please don’t look me up.”
He ignores me. I grab his arm, trying to pull him away from the laptop. “Riven, please, please, please, if you care about me at all, do not look me up. PLEASE!”
He shakes me off. “I need to know who the Hell I’ve been keeping in my house all this time. I want to know who I’ve been letting into my bed every night. What, are you some kind of criminal? Are you in trouble with the police?”
“No, I—”
“Then why do you care if I search your name?” He opens a web browser.
Fear bolts through me. I can’t stop him. He’s going to see the video.
He’s going to see the video.
I have to get out of here. I can’t be here while he watches it. I can’t.
I barely even think as I run to my room. I ignore my suitcase. I don’t care about it. I just have to get out of here. I can barely breathe. I pull on an extra sweater and a second pair of socks, then rip out a page from my sketchbook and scribble a quick note. In the hallway, Riven barks something I don’t understand. I jump, heart thudding. “Eli,” he growls. There’s a radio hiss.
Shit. He must be telling the others to come back. I skitter through the living room, grab my wallet, and pull on a pair of snowshoes, bundling into my coat. When I push open the front door, I have to lean against the wall for a few seconds. I feel weak. My chest is burning. There are tears rolling down my face.
The snow is heavier than it was this morning, but it should be fine to walk in. Riven was out here an hour ago. All I need to do is get to the village; then I can find a place to stay until the weather clears up. I can get my car, and drive away to some new town, and forget any of this ever happened.
I push myself off the wall and start trekking through the snow. I can’t be in that house with him anymore. I can’t just sit there while he watches that video of me. Even thinking about it makes my lungs squeeze and my stomach flip.
My vision starts going dark at the edges. Fat frozen flakes sting my eyes and cheeks. I swallow down a sob as I plough forward.
Oh my God. I’m all alone again.
