Page 33 of Breaking the Dark

“Yeah.”

“So at like four in the morning—I swear I was up all night doing this—I found an Instagram account for a girl who describes herself as an ‘AI witch and facialist.’ Her page is set to private, but I used an app to track her IP address and get this: It’s in Essex.”

“Show me this girl, this AI witch.”

Malcolm fiddles with his phone and then passes it to her.

There on the screen is a tiny profile photo of a girl with such a strong filter used on her face that she barely looks human. Her profile name is Perfect Peach and her bio details underneath say AI witch, facialist, follow me for perfect skin and much much more, followed by a sequence of emoji including hypodermic needles, peaches, and UFOs.

“Could be her, huh? Could be Belle?”

Jessica grimaces. This stuff, it’s beyond befuddling. What does any of it mean? She sighs loudly and leans back into her office chair. Then she sits up straight again and slaps her hand down on the folder. “Right, well, looks like I’ve got some reading to do. Good work, Malcolm. Really good work. Any plans to see the twins again?”

“Yeah. Fox asked me to hang out after his rugby thing on Wednesday.”

“Where did you tell him you were at school?”

“Oh, I told them a public school where I knew they wouldn’t have any friends.”

“But didn’t you tell them you were wealthy?”

“Yeah. But I said my dad sends me to a public school because he wants me to be grounded in reality.”

Jessica nods. The kid is some kind of evil genius. “Great,” she says. “Good job. And from Tuesday I’ll be in England. So, you know, you can use my office as a base. It would be great if you could come in once a day, keep it warm, answer the phone. You can do that?”

“Yeah, shit, I can do that. Of course! I’m done at school at two thirty most days. I’ll come straight here, do my homework, keep it all nice for you. But how do I get in?”

Jessica opens a drawer in her desk and riffles around with her hands for a moment, dislodging all manner of random and unidentifiable objects before alighting upon the spare key she put in there the day she moved in.

“Here.” She passes it to him. “Do not fricking lose this, okay? And do not let anybody else in here with you under any circumstances.”

Malcolm holds his hands together in a praying gesture. “I swear on my mother’s life.”

“Good. Now go and do whatever you do on a Saturday night.”

After Malcolm is gone, Jessica feels it all closing in on her again, all the boredom, all the dark. She pours herself a coffee from the machine, ignores the furious compulsion to tip whiskey into it, then takes her phone, her laptop, and Malcolm’s report to her cold bed, where she stays until the following morning.

TWELVE

AMBER IS IN an ankle-length fake fur and wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses when Jessica meets her in the park at ten o’clock. One thin hand holds coffee in a metal reusable cup and the other the leash for a small black dog that is sitting very still at her feet.

“Good morning, Jessica,” she says brightly. “How are you today?”

Jessica grunts. “Who knew that going to bed so early could make you so tired?”

“Come,” says Amber. “We’ll do a half loop around the reservoir. It’ll help blow out the cobwebs.”

The park is Sunday-morning busy. The paths are ornately patterned with the first of the fall leaves, and there are dogs, so many dogs. In particular, so many dogs wearing clothing. Amber walks fast for a small person in big boots and Jessica has to hustle to keep up with her.

“What’s the dog’s name?”

“Charlie.”

Jessica nods. Amber gives her children animal names and her dog a human name. Rich people are weird.

“So,” says Amber, “your little friend came around on Friday night.”

“Yeah. I know. And he’s not my friend. He’s my…” She’s still not sure what to call Malcolm. “My intern.”