Trust Me - Sheryl Browne Page 0,99
can from the fridge, why don’t you?’ he said, and turned away to head for the bathroom. ‘I won’t be long, and then we’ll have a chat about what to do about your old man, yeah?’
‘Okay.’ Millie swallowed and went through to the tiny kitchenette. What did he mean, ‘what to do about your old man’?
Pausing as the bathroom door closed, she listened for sounds of running water and then slipped into the bedroom and looked hastily around, relief crashing through her when she spotted what she wanted lying on the bed.
Quickly she grabbed his phone and, her eyes flicking to the door, selected his texts. She didn’t have to scroll down too far to find what she was looking for: a whole ream of messages between him and some woman calling herself Sweet Cup, the term of endearment he used for Millie herself. Probably because he couldn’t remember her fucking name. She suppressed something between a laugh and a sob.
Can’t wait to fuck you again, his last message read. Your old man doesn’t know what he’s missing. If she was looking for evidence of what he’d been up to, it couldn’t get more damning than this, could it? Bastard! Nausea roiling inside her, she dropped heavily onto the bed and read the reply. Just remember it’s worth waiting for, the slut had sent back with a silly winking face.
She checked the dates. The texts had been sent a couple of weeks ago, but he was obviously still seeing the woman, or some other cheap tart, as evidenced by the reek of perfume.
She really had been naïve, hadn’t she? How much had it turned him on, using her the way he had? He probably hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Her heart plummeted at the thought that she might have repulsed him. He was using this woman too, though, she would bet her life on it. She was tempted to text her and tell her just how much of a bastard he was, but that would only alert him to the fact that she knew.
What had she got herself involved in? Why had she? Humiliation rising hot inside her, she swallowed back the bile in her throat and got to her feet. She wasn’t going to face him with it. She’d thought she was, but he wasn’t worth wasting the emotion on.
Disgusted with herself more than anything, she tossed the phone onto the bed, then hurried to retrieve it as it slid off the edge of the duvet onto the floor. Cushioned by the carpet, it hadn’t made any noise – thank God.
As she bent to pick it up, her eyes snagged on something under the bed. His Banksy Ratapult T-shirt. She’d bought it for him online from the Banksy Shop. It had a stain on it, deep crimson, stark against the white cotton. Her eyes sliding once again to the door, she reached tentatively for it and shook it out. And her heart somersaulted in her chest.
Dropping it as if it might bite her, she tried to imagine where the blood had come from, but couldn’t. He’d had no visible injuries recently. Had he? Nerves knotted her stomach as, taking another breath, she peered back under the bed, sure she would find something terrifying there. There was nothing apart from an old laptop gathering dust, and a box. A shoebox-size box. The sort in which he kept the medication she’d helped him to steal.
Hesitating, she went over to the door to listen, then, hearing him shaving, eased the door to and went back to the box. She couldn’t just take it. He’d know it was her. But she could maybe take a photo of what was in there, one of the shirt too. She might need to. He’d worn gloves at the surgery. She hadn’t. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything near the safe, and her fingerprints would be around the place anyway since she’d been there many times with her dad. But what if she’d left some piece of DNA that would alert the police to her involvement? He would deny everything, probably that he even knew her, and where would that leave her?
Dropping to her knees, she held her breath and prised the lid off the box, a deep furrow forming in her brow as she studied the contents. It was full of old photographs. She recognised him in some of them, unmistakable with his twinkly eyes and sex-loaded smile, cultivated to reel women