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‘You OK?’ I ask.
He’s perched on the edge of his bed, gripping his phone, scrolling with his thumb.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ he growls.
‘What?’ I snatch the phone out of his hands, and Pete doesn’t protest. He stands up, pacing the room.
‘I knew that guy was bad news! I should have told her not to go to that camp.’
My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the phone. It’s a photo of Adri in her racing gear. Her head is down; she’s tying her shoe laces. Glenn is standing over her. I know the photo well. I should. I took it. But the image isn’t what Pete is angry about. It’s the caption underneath.
NOT STAYINGQUIET. Last night, I experienced the ultimate betrayal. My coach, a man I trusted without question, attacked me in my hotel room. The police have been notified. He tried to threaten me into silence, but I won’t be quiet. He’s an abuser. And I won’t let him hurt any more women.
‘Holy crap,’ I say, not even meaning to speak out loud. Coach Glenn had always given me the creeps – now this confirms it.
‘Right? What is she thinking? She shouldn’t be posting.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘No, no, not like that. Jesus. I mean, because it’s a legal thing, right? If what she’s saying is true, then –’
‘If?’
‘Christ, Stella, give me a break. It’s a police matter, isn’t it? I have to call her.’ He takes his phone back. My head is swimming. I need to talk to Yasmin. Was that what she had called me about? Was she trying to get me to help Adrienne? That voicemail must have been left after the attack. Maybe they were together.
I dial her number again, swearing when it doesn’t even go to voicemail this time but just rings out. Shit. Is she still in Ibiza?
I’m searching for flights back to that godforsaken island when Pete walks back into the room. He looks ashen.
‘Did you get hold of her?’
‘Yeah. She’s with Spanish police.’
‘Did you tell her about us?’
‘God no. Not the right time.’
‘Did she mention if she was with anyone?’
‘She didn’t say. Look, I’ve got to go and pick up Ethan, but if you stay, then we can all have breakfast together …’
‘Sure,’ I say. But I don’t look up as he heads through the door. Instead, I text Adrienne.Where is Yasmin?
It takes a moment for me to get a response.She’s gone home.
My heart is pounding, but I don’t waste another second.I grab my suitcase from the hallway, glad now that I never unpacked. If I get the next train, I can be in London in a few hours. I listen to Yasmin’s voicemail again. How terrified she sounds. And Adrienne’s voice – stronger, more authoritative. Then I read Adrienne’s social media post. It doesn’t make any sense.
The post has gone viral; the ultrarunning community is up-in-arms, dismayed, outraged. Then I see that Glenn has posted a response on his own page. White font on a black background. He firmly denies all the allegations and is cooperating with Spanish police. He signs off withTHE TRUTHWILL COMEOUT.
It’s so messy. Complicated. But I have only one goal in mind: finding Yasmin.
My hope is she has nothing to do with this. My fear is that she’s at the very heart.
When I arrive at her flat, I call her name but she doesn’t answer.
She’s been here, though. Recently. There’s an envelope addressed to me sitting on the kitchen counter. I stare at it like it’s radioactive. I don’t want to open it. I barely want to touch it.
It’s heavier than I expect. I take a deep breath, then I rip open the seal. Inside, I find her training journal. Pages and pages of notes documenting her runs. Not the boring metrics, like her distances, pace and heart rate. But beautiful evocative descriptions of the trails – what she saw, how each step made her feel. It’s her essence distilled on to the page. Some of it is soaring, other sections more mundane – and then there are parts that I know were for her eyes only. Her private diary. Her innermost thoughtsand feelings. The kind of emotions she felt about running that Glenn tried to coach out of her. The elation and the heartbreak. He wanted her to bury all of that and focus on the technique. And when it didn’t work, he decided to destroy it another way.