Page 132 of A Lethal Game of Trust

He laughed again. “After what you did, I hope she shoots you.”

And he hung up.

50

Seventy Times 7

Dom

The gate was opening and I was already nudging my car through the gap, revving the engine. I’d considered letting her know I was there or trying to walk in on her. Surprise her or give her a chance.

What was I going to say to her?

The team Chris had sent after me hadn’t managed to catch up, but I’d done half the journey on the motorway, speeding down the hard shoulder.

The car screeched to a stop outside of the house and I was throwing open the door before it halted.

There, up the twenty-eight steps, was the front door. Open.

Inviting me in.

Maybe she did want me to see her.

But the house was silent, save for my footsteps on the marble floor.

In the hall, I didn’t know where to go. There were at least twenty rooms I could search, including the housekeeper’srooms and the poolhouse. Would she be in the kitchen where her dad died? Her bedroom?

Everything in the house was covered like it had been when we were last here together. As I walked up to her room, I checked for any signs of disturbance but only found the furniture still covered in white or yellowing sheets.

Music played from Leonie’s room. An old song, probably from when we were teenagers. Before everything was ruined.

It was then that I got out my phone. It was only 5 pm, but the nights came in quickly at this time of year. There was enough natural light to see, but I may need a torch if she decided to hide.

There had been two more notifications on my phone from Leonie’s gate. At least someone else was in the house, or she’d left and come back.

I pulled my gun out, advancing.

The last time I had seen her, things had been salvageable. We were going to make it.

Something had changed. Clearly, she no longer believed I was innocent.

But this gun was not for her. Never for her.

I’d gladly use it on myself before her.

The music got louder the closer I got. Seventy Times 7 by Brand New. A song we had both belted in the car, over and over, sometimes covered in salt water, sometimes with a handful of chips in our mouths.

But always screamed.

Outside her bedroom door, I took a deep breath, put back my gun and stepped inside.

The Leonie from the camera, the blank one with shorter hair, sat on the armchair beneath her teenage bookshelf, a booklying open on the arm of it, a gun held on her lap, pointing at the door.

Where I stood.

She looked into the notebook and didn’t bother glancing up as I entered.

She’d taken off all the sheets. It was as if I’d stepped back into my own seventeen-year-old’s memories.