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He glances at his watch. ‘You don’t have much time. Look out for a dark green Jeep. That’s his.’
‘Got it,’ I reply with a tight smile. Henry twirls the bag handles so it shuts tight, the notebook gone forever. Then he marches off in the direction of other runners doing their own searches.
‘What did you find?’ Mariam whispers to me as we walk back towards the bivouac.
My words come out all in a rush. ‘Mariam, I don’t think I can do this. What Jason was going to tell me – it had to do with Ethan. The same day Glenn died, when I was running the Yorkshire 100, Ethan was hit by a car.’
‘Mon dieu, Adrienne!’
‘He was OK, luckily, but I have always been sure it was connected. Maybe someone who blamed me for Glenn’s death. Jason agreed. Look at this.’ I pull out the pages of the notebook, smoothing them so she can read it. ‘Someone out there wants revenge. What if they’re going to target Ethan again? I need to go back home. Protect him.’
‘You think they are after your son? Or after you?’
I pause. ‘Well, me,’ I say. ‘For what I did.’
‘And you are here.’ She grabs my wrist. ‘The Adrienne I used to know wouldn’t hide away. Remember your petition?’
I cringe, thinking about how brazen I used to be. A few years before the Ibiza camp, I’d found out that a friend had been refused permission to defer her place in a race because of pregnancy. Outraged by the injustice, I’d launched a full-blown boycott campaign until the race directors changed the rules, which – thankfully – they did. But that was fighting for someone else. That’s always come easier to me.
But Mariam’s right – I’m here now. I’m in the running for the first time in seven years. I’ve come to face my demons. And one of those demons might just be the psychopath who targeted my son.
Maybe I should let them come. If I retreat now, I’ll always be looking over my shoulder. Always worried. I want to show whoever it is that I’m not going to run away any more. I won’t be made to feel afraid.
A feeling of inevitability settles in my stomach. I need to focus on my mission: to get my answers from Boones.
I think about that race number. That number thirteen. I can let it be a curse. Or I can let it change my life forever.
Mariam seems to see the decision in my face. She links her arm with mine, patting my bicep. ‘Come on. Let’s get back to the tent. This race is going to be full of surprises. We need to be ready.’
11
Adrienne
Seven years earlier
Yorkshire
A few weeks after the accident, Pete and I are called in for a meeting with DS Flintock. Confirming my alibi for Glenn’s death wasn’t hard – the GPS tracker recorded that I’d been miles away – and the coroner had ruled Glenn’s death had been from natural causes. A heart attack. This meeting is about something else: my theory that Ethan had been targeted by someone who blamed me for Glenn’s death. I know how I must seem. The paranoid mother. The lying ‘victim’ who cried wolf and is now suffering the consequences.
I hand her printouts of some of the vitriol I’ve received online – the threads about me, the horrific emails exclaiming how I’ve ruined lives and careers. There’s also the letter:STOP RACINGOR SUFFER.
‘You see? It can’t be a coincidence,’ I insist.
Pete sits next to me, his knee bouncing underneath the table. I want to give him a kick, but I don’t think that would look good.
The detective sighs. ‘We’re looking into it. But I brought you in here because we located the vehicle involved in your son’s accident,’ she says.
My breath hitches. This is it. My time to find out who was responsible.
‘The black Range Rover was rented,’ she continues. ‘Reported stolen that morning.’
‘Reported by who?’
‘An American tourist. We’ve done a thorough interview and he has no connection to you or Mr Knight, and we have him on CCTV at his hotel at the time your son was hit. We’ve looked closely into Mr Knight’s family and friends – anyone who might have had a motive, as you say, to hurt you. We can’t find any correlation. Our conclusion is that your son was the victim of a joyride gone wrong.’
Every sentence hits me like a blow. I can see it in the detective’s eyes. She’s done pursuing any other avenues.
‘Can you tell me the name of the tourist? Maybe I can spot a connection you’ve missed?’