they wouldn’t be able to trace me here.
No, the only threat is from the Nosy Neighbour from the Nook. I feel like walking out and confronting him, telling him to mind his own f***ing business. But I know that would be a mistake. If he does suspect that I’ve got Missing Mabel, my aggression might prompt him to go straight to the police.
Got to play it cool, mustn’t let him see I’m rattled. In fact, I should go to the other extreme. Reach out the hand of friendship. Invent some story about my partner being away on business but coming to join us next week. Be brazen. Stop hiding Mabel like she’s a guilty secret. Cut off her curls and dress her up as a baby boy.
Except all the clothes I bought for her are pink …
I hear the gentle slam of a car door and gasp, startling Mabel.
‘You mustn’t cry,’ I tell her. ‘Keep quiet, okay?’
Silence.
I listen for footsteps crunching up the gravel driveway, but can’t hear a sound. Turning off all the lights, I cross the hallway and go into my bedroom, which is at the front of the house. The curtains are still open. With my back against Aunt Dolly’s wardrobe, I edge my way to the window. Mabel wriggles in my arms, as if trying to escape.
‘Shh,’ I say. ‘Keep still. Don’t make a sound.’
I peer around the side of the curtain. A tree is obscuring my view of the road, but I can just make out the edge of a dark-coloured vehicle parked outside the house. My breath catches in my throat. So I wasn’t imagining it. Somebody is watching me. It has to be the neighbour. There’s nobody else it could be.
‘This could be trouble, Mabel,’ I whisper. ‘What are we going to do?’
At least there are no flashing blue lights. Not that the police would advertise their presence. They definitely wouldn’t hang around outside; they’d storm the bungalow, kicking the door down and bursting in, screaming at me to put down my weapon.
‘But you’re my weapon, aren’t you, my darling?’ I say, walking away from the window and out of the room. ‘And I’m not giving you up. I’d rather we both died in the process.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Day Eight without Mabel
Amber wakes at 5 a.m. after a couple of hours of fretful sleep. She slides out of bed, careful not to wake George. He’s lying still now, but for most of the night he was tossing and turning, crying out in his dreams. She tried rubbing his back and whispering calming words in his ear, but he shoved her away. Sleeping in the same bed is so difficult at the moment. It shouldn’t be the case. This should be a time to cleave to each other, to lie locked in a needy embrace, but their bodies don’t seem to fit together any more. When Amber rested her head on his chest, his flesh felt hard and unyielding; she didn’t know where to put her arms. Her secrets lie between them like a fidgety child.
Ruby sent the text last night. Amber doesn’t need to read it again; every word is etched on her brain. You lying, cheating bitch. This is all your fault. I hate you. I will never forgive you. You have 24 hours to tell George. If you don’t, I will.
She dresses quietly in the darkness, feeling in the drawers for clean underwear, putting on yesterday’s jumper and jeans. The heating doesn’t kick in until six and the flat feels cold. She goes down to the first floor, holding in the emotion as she walks past the nursery. The sight of Mabel’s empty cot is unbearable and they’ve had to shut the door. Amber has made a private vow not to open it again until her daughter returns. But when will that be? How long does it take for spiders to weave their cobwebs? How many layers of dust will have settled on the surfaces? Time has become distorted. Hours seem like days, then suddenly a whole week has slipped by. This is Day Eight without Mabel.
It’s strange how she’s only been part of their lives for a few months and yet a future without her is impossible to contemplate – even though her very existence has always been problematic. She is the product of a terrible but miraculous mistake; a tiny time bomb that started ticking from the moment of her conception. Deep down, Amber always knew she wouldn’t get away with