Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
It had been an amazing week.
And the day after New Year’s Day, Kit died.
Or killed himself.
There. I thought it.
My unspoken suspicion.
Damn it, Kit. You fucker.
The A4 becomes the M4, and I spy the high-rise towers that dominate the Brentford landscape and signal that I’m near. I come off the motorway hitting the slip road at fifty miles per hour. I slow down, but fortunately, the lights at the junction are green, and I cruise through them thankful that I’d brought her home earlier in the week and know where she lives.
Six minutes later I pull up in front of her house, leap out of the car, and dash up the short pathway. There are still clumps of snow on the grass and the sad remains of a snowman. The doorbell trills somewhere inside, but there’s no response. The house is empty.
Fuck.
Where is she?
Apprehension overwhelms me. Where could she be?
Of course! She’ll be coming here by train.
I’d seen the sign for the station as I’d turned in to Church Walk. I sprint back down the path and turn right on to the main road. The station is less than two hundred meters on my left.
Thank God it’s so close.
As I dash down the station stairs, I see a train waiting on the far platform, but it’s heading into London. I stop and focus my attention. There are only two platforms, and the one I’m on is for trains traveling out of London. All I have to do is wait. An electronic display hanging overhead announces that the next train arrives at 15:07. I check my watch; it’s 15:03 now.
I lean against one of the white iron pillars that support the station roof and wait. There are a few other commuters waiting for the train, too. Most of them, like me, are seeking shelter from the elements. I watch as the frigid wind blows a discarded crisp packet in gusts along the station platform and across the train tracks. But it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Every few seconds I glance at the empty track, praying for the London train to materialize.
Come on. Come on. I will it to arrive.
Finally the train appears around the bend, and it slowly—oh, so fucking slowly—pulls in to the station and stops. I stand up straight, my stomach churning with anxiety as the doors open and a few people alight from the train.
Twelve of them.
But not Alessia.
Fucking hell.
As the train leaves the station, I check the electronic sign again. The next train is due in fifteen minutes.
That’s not too long.
It’s a fucking age!
Hell.
I’m glad that even in my haste to leave the flat, I remembered my coat. It’s bloody cold. I cup and blow on my hands, stamp my feet, and pull up my coat collar in an effort to keep warm. Thrusting my hands into the pockets, I pace up and down the platform while I wait.
My phone buzzes, and for some insane reason I think it might be Alessia, but of course she doesn’t have my number. It’s Caroline. Whatever she wants can wait. I ignore the call.
After an intolerable fifteen minutes, the 15:22 from London Waterloo comes into view around the bend. It slows as it approaches the station, and after an agonizing minute it stops.
Time suspends.
The doors open, and Alessia is first off the train.
Oh, thank fuck.
Relief nearly brings me to my knees, but just the sight of her calms me down.
* * *
When Alessia sees him, she stops short in complete astonishment. The other disembarking passengers stream past them as she and Maxim stare at each other, drinking each other in. The doors close with a hiss of compressed air, and the train gradually pulls out of the station, leaving them on their own.
“Hello,” he says, breaking the silence between them as he approaches her. “You left without saying good-bye.”
Her face falls, and her eyes fill with tears that spill down her cheeks.
* * *
Her anguish rips through me.
“Oh, baby,” I whisper, and open my arms. She puts her face in her hands and begins to weep. Feeling at a loss, I fold her into my embrace and hold her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” I whisper against her green woolly hat. She sniffles, and I lift her chin and plant a tender kiss on her forehead. “I mean it. I’ve got you.”
Alessia’s eyes widen, and she pulls away. “Magda?” she whispers, alarmed.
“Let’s go.” I take her hand, and together we hurry up the metal staircase and out onto the road. Her hand is cold in mine, and I want nothing more than to whisk her away to somewhere safe. But first of all I have to know what’s going on. What trouble she’s in. I only hope that she’ll open up and tell me.
We walk quickly but in silence across the road and back to 43 Church Walk. At the front door, Alessia fishes out a key from her pocket, unlocks the door, and we both step inside.