Because children change so much.

I’ve told you everything I know.

And now Pete remembered a different child. Another little boy—small and scared and malnourished, hiding behind his mother’s legs as Pete unlocked the door to Frank Carter’s extension.

A little boy who would now be in his late twenties.

“Bring me my family,” Pete remembered. “That bitch and that little cunt.”

He looked up at Amanda, finally understanding.

“That’s what I didn’t listen to.”

Forty-three

Just before lunchtime, there was a knock at the door.

I looked up from my laptop. The first thing I’d done after dropping Jake at school that morning had been to google Karen. She’d been easy enough to find: Karen Shaw had bylines for dozens of online articles at the local paper, including pieces that covered the abduction and murder of Neil Spencer. I’d read each of them with an increasingly sick feeling in my stomach: not just fear over what she might write next—all those private details I’d revealed to her yesterday in the coffee shop—but also a sense of betrayal. I’d allowed myself to imagine that she was genuinely interested in me, and now I felt stupid, as though I’d been conned in some way.

The knock came again: a quiet, tentative sound, as though whoever was outside was undecided if they wanted me to hear or not. And I thought I knew who I would find out there. I put the laptop to one side and went to the door.

Karen, standing on the front step.

I leaned against the wall and folded my arms.

“Are you bugged under that thing?”

I nodded at the big overcoat. She winced.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

“What for?”

“I just … want to explain. It won’t take long.”

“There’s no need.”

“I think there is.”

She looked contrite—ashamed, even—but I remembered my mother telling me that explanations and apologies were almost always for the person making them, and I felt an urge to tell Karen she could make herself feel better on her own time. But her apparent vulnerability right now was such a stark contrast to her manner during our previous encounters that I couldn’t. It looked like she was doing this because it really did matter to her.

I leaned away from the wall.

“All right.”

We went through to the living room. A part of me was slightly embarrassed by the state of the place: my dirty plate from breakfast was on the couch by the laptop, and Jake’s colored pencils and drawings were still scattered all over the floor. But I wasn’t going to apologize to Karen for the mess. It didn’t matter what she thought, did it? Before this morning, it would have—there was no point denying that now. Foolish, but true.

She stopped at the far end of the room, still wrapped up in her big coat, as though unsure whether she’d been invited in or not.

“Can I get you a drink?”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to explain about this morning. I know how it must have looked.”

“I’m not really sure how it looked. Or what to think.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Yes.”

“And I almost did. You might not believe me, but I was actually kicking myself yesterday morning. In the coffee shop, I mean, the whole time you were telling me all that stuff.”

“You still let me, though.”

“Well, you kind of didn’t give me a chance.” She risked a slight smile at that: a flash of the Karen I was more used to. “Honestly, it seemed like you had a lot to get off your chest, and on that level I was glad to be of use. It was a pain listening to it all as a journalist, though.”

“Was it really?”

“Yeah. Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to use any of it.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“Well, yes, in the sense that it wasn’t officially off the record, I suppose I could. But it wouldn’t be fair to you or Jake. I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s more about personal ethics than professional ones.”

“Right.”

“Which is fucking typical, frankly.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Biggest story in the history of the area since I moved here, and I’ve got an angle none of the majors have. And I can’t use it.”

I didn’t reply. It was true she hadn’t used it—at least not yet. Her most recent article had been posted this morning, and it had only included the same basic details reported by all the other news outlets. What I’d told her went way above and beyond what was already out there, and it was also very obviously part of her beat. But, however tempting it must have been, she hadn’t revealed any of it so far. Did I believe her now when she said she wouldn’t? I thought I did.

“Have you talked to any of the others?” she said.

“No.” I was about to repeat my father’s line about not knowing anything, but that would have been a pointless lie under the circumstances. “The rest of them left early on. There have been a few phone calls on the landline, but I’ve just ignored those.”

“Irritating.”

“I never answer the phone anyway.”

“No, I don’t like phones much either.”

“It’s more that nobody ever calls me.”

Not really a joke, but she smiled. And that was okay, I thought. The conversation had grown quieter the longer we’d been speaking, and some of the tension in the room had dissipated now. It was almost a surprise to me how much of a relief that was.

“Are they likely to keep trying?” I said.

“It depends on what happens. From experience, if they won’t leave you alone, then it might be worth talking to one of them.” She held her hand up. “Not necessarily me. In fact, as much as it kills me to say this, a part of me would probably prefer it wasn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends, Tom, and that makes it harder to be objective. Like I said, I was kicking myself yesterday. You do realize that I didn’t take you for a coffee because I sniffed a story, right? It was a total surprise, what you told me. How could I possibly have known? But the point is, if you get an account out there once, there’ll be less interest. See what happens, though.”

I thought about it.

“But I could talk to you?”

“Yes, you could. And you know what? All that aside, it’d be nice to go for a coffee again at some point, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe I could get some dirt on you.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Maybe you could.”

I thought about it.

“Sure you can’t stay for a drink?”

“Sadly, yes—I wasn’t just saving face before. I really do need to get back.” She was about to head out of the room, but then something occurred to her. “What about tonight? I could probably get my mother to babysit Adam. We could grab a drink or something?”

Her mother to babysit. Not a husband or partner. I supposed I’d been assuming she was single, and I wasn’t sure now whether the confirmation was deliberate or accidental. Regardless, I very much wanted to say yes. Jesus, how astonishing would it be to go out for a drink with a woman? I couldn’t remember the last time. But even more than that, I realized that I very much wanted to go for a drink with her. That I’d spent the morning feeling hurt and foolish for a fairly obvious reason.