tablets? Maybe Mina got a prescription—was she struggling with insomnia?—and left the pills in the first aid box, but why would she do that, and even if she did—
“Didn’t it say on the packet what they were?” I think that’s what I say, but the blank look on Becca’s face suggests what comes out is something else entirely. Suddenly, her expression clears.
“Oh, I see! You think I gave you sleeping tablets by accident, when I meant to hand you painkillers?” She laughs loudly. “No, I’m not that stupid. It was intentional. I brought them with me.”
I grip on to the counter to stop the swaying that could either be me or the room. Sophia’s still in the doorway, looking first at me and then at Becca, and I smile at her, but she shrinks back.
“Is Daddy poorly?”
I don’t blame Sophia for her wariness—the way I’ve behaved over the last few months has done nothing to help her trust me—but I need her to understand that right now, she’s safest with me. I reach out an arm toward her, my hand trembling, trying for words I want to be reassuring, but which slide out in an anxious heap. Sokaypumpkincometodaddy.
Sophia pulls on her plait, twisting it hard around her fingers as her gaze flickers between Becca and me, me and Becca.
“Come over here, sweetheart.” Becca holds out her arms.
“Sophia, no!”
It’s too loud, too violent. She claps her hands over her ears and lets out a cry, running to Becca, who picks her up and rocks from side to side. Sophia wraps her legs around her like a monkey, her face buried in Becca’s jumper.
Above Sophia’s head, Becca smiles. It’s triumphant. As though she’s won a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
I force a pause between my words. “You. Need. To. Leave. Right. Now.”
“I’ve only just started.”
I start walking toward them, one hand gripping the counter because the room won’t stop moving. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’ve already committed a very serious offense.” I speak slowly, my bone-dry lips fighting every syllable. “Administering noxious substances carries a prison sentence, and don’t think they’ll let you off just because you’re still at school.” The effort of making myself understood leaves me breathless, like I’m fighting through quicksand.
“I’m twenty-three actually. Surprise!” She keeps her voice light, almost musical, as if she’s talking to Sophia, who’s still hugging Becca tightly. Becca sways from side to side, reassuring her. “Stop right there, Adam.”
I’ve been in countless situations like this. Drunk people, angry people, crazy people. I’ve driven through town centers with sirens blaring, adrenaline surging at the prospect of a punch-up, and I’ve held my own when outnumbered three to one.
I’ve been caught out too: the calm house call that suddenly turns nasty or the fight out of the blue when I’ve taken a prisoner back to a cell. It can come out of nowhere, but on some level, when you’re at work, you’re always ready for it.
I’m not ready now. Not physically, not mentally. Not when my body won’t work, and not in my own house, with my daughter. Not when someone I believed to be a seventeen-year-old girl has turned out to be an adult psychopath.
“Let her go.”
“I said stay where you are.”
“And I said let her go.”
Becca moves her free arm and smiles. I stay where I am.
Because there, in her hand, just millimeters from Sophia’s neck, is a loaded syringe.
TWENTY-ONE
PASSENGER 7G
My name is Ritchie Nichols, and I spent the first half of Flight 79 playing games.
I don’t understand people who say they don’t like computer games. Which ones? I always ask. Because it’s like saying you don’t like animals. Or food. There are so many different games, it’s impossible to hate them all. If you’re not into combat, there are sport ones, or role-play, or strategy ones where you run around collecting shit. They’re not my bag, but to each their own. On the plane, they only have puzzle games, but it passes the time at least.
Me, I’m into FPS (that’s first-person shooter). Those are the games you can really get into—you’re not looking down on a world, you’re in it. You can play for hours, lights off, headset on. You can hear your character breathing, and once you’re into the game, you can’t hear your own anymore. You’re one person—a mix of human and avatar, nothing between you and the bad guys except the barrel of a gun. When it goes off and the controller thumps