one important.”
“You don’t look too happy about it, whoever it is.”
Adam’s jaw was tense, his thumbs jabbing at the screen. I left it, snatching glances at him for the rest of the evening and unable to focus on whatever comedy series we were supposed to be watching. After Adam moved out and Katya was back in Ukraine, anxiety kept me awake till the early hours. I’d drift into a restless sleep, only to jerk awake when my phone beeped with a text. Adam, hit by remorse—or guilt—midway through a shift.
I’m sorry.
I miss you.
I love you.
I took to keeping my phone on silent.
One morning, there were six texts and two missed calls from him, and as I stumbled downstairs, hungover from lack of sleep, my phone flashed insistently. Instead of letting it ring out, I canceled the call, a small act of defiance I knew would hurt. Downstairs, it took me a moment to pinpoint the strange smell that pervaded the downstairs rooms. I checked the kitchen, wondering if I’d left something in the oven, but the chemical smell was strongest in the hall.
The doormat had been drenched in petrol.
In my sleep-fuddled state, I wondered if I had spilled something myself before going to bed or trodden something in from the road. I opened the door to get rid of the fumes, blinking in confusion as I saw Adam get out of his car and walk up the path.
“I tried to ring. Are you alright?”
He looked manic, as if he’d slept even less than I had. His gaze shifted about, jittery, as though he’d taken something, although I knew he never would.
“Why were you trying to call?” The crisp morning air had woken me up, pieces slotting into place to form a picture I didn’t want to see. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I need to pick up some clothes.”
“At seven in the morning?” I didn’t wait for his explanation. “I was about to call the police. Someone’s poured petrol through the door.”
I was surprised at how calm I felt, given the circumstances. Throwing Adam out had made me feel stronger, more in control; lack of sleep added a layer of distance to proceedings, as though I were viewing myself from above.
“What?” He looked around wildly, as though the perpetrators might still be hanging around. “When? Are you okay? Is Sophia alright?”
There was something off about him, as though he were keeping something from me. As though, I realized suddenly, he wasn’t shocked at all.
“She’s fine. She slept with me last night. I’ll call 101 and report it.”
“I’ll do it—I’m on my way to work anyway. Less chance of it getting binned that way.”
Later, when Sophia was in nursery, I changed the bulb in the porch light and asked Mo if she’d seen anything.
“Sorry, love,” Mo said. “The doctor’s given me something to help me sleep—I’m out like a light nowadays. There was a bunch of kids in the park a couple of weeks ago, though, trying to set fire to the rubbish bins. Could be the same lot.”
I called the police to give them this extra information.
“We don’t have a record of criminal damage at that address, I’m afraid.”
“My husband reported it this morning. DS Holbrook. He’s in CID.”
“Looks like he hasn’t got around to it yet. I can take details for you?”
Afterward, I messaged Adam.
Did you make the report?
Yes, all sorted. Not sure there’s anything they can do, but they’ll check known arsonists.
I stared at my phone. Why hadn’t he reported it? And why had he lied?
Another message came through.
I’d feel better if I was home with you. Just for a few days. I’ll sleep in the spare room.
In the murky recesses of my mind, a thought began to take shape. Could it have been Adam who put the petrol through the door, in some pathetic attempt to make me take him back? Did he think he was some kind of knight in shining armor?
We’re fine, thanks, I told him. I wasn’t scared: Adam might be an idiot, but he wasn’t a psychopath.
“You all should have gotten some sleep,” Erik says now as we leave the rest area and climb down the steep spiral stairs to the cabin. “We have a long time before our next break.”
“Thanks, Dad,” someone mutters from above me. There’s a stifled giggle.
Erik’s right, we should have slept, but the chatter of the other girls had been a welcome distraction from the question of how Sophia’s EpiPen had made it on to Flight 79. I