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CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

AMELIA

A faint whistle in the wind turns the urban hum into something resembling the soundtrack of a low-budget horror film. I swallow as I stand before the towering glass-and-chrome monstrosity Jake calls home. Better not count the number of windows to the top if I don’t want to lose my lunch.

Very well, then. Time to breach the first portal to hell.

Yvonne texts that Jake’s at dinner and in a foul mood, probably not sticking around. Anxiety spikes in my chest, but I push through the revolving doors—only to be stopped by a different doorman than before.

“And you are?” he asks, pure gatekeeper. My stomach drops.

“Amelia Stevens,” I reply with feigned hauteur, attempting to sound like I was expected and not on a quest that could very well end in a restraining order. He peruses the visitor list with all the urgency of a sloth, then finally tips his chin in a nod, granting me passage.

My strides slow as I approach the lifts until I’m all but dragging my feet. A ping, the harbinger of doom, is followed by a sly whizz as the doors open. And then there I am, face-to-face with a distorted version of myself in the mirrored interior.

Am I truly doing this? The character staring back has her doubts.

The car pings again. And again. My red heels have grown roots.

Come on. You’ve done this before. One small step for man, one giant leap for sheer and utter madness.

I cross the gap from solid ground to the coffin on a string. Breathe. Breathe. Yes, fat lot of good that does when I’m tasting bile on my tongue.

Slowly, I spin to face the opening. My fingers reach for the side panel, trembling as they hover a bare millimeter from the topmost button.

I squeeze my lids tight and suck in another lungful of air. They rise again on the doorman, watching curiously from his desk.

I can’t imagine what he must think. But only when he moves toward me do I manage to finagle enough courage to hit the “P.” Panic now.

As the steel doors slide shut, my eyes beseech his. “Come find me when I’m gone.”

I believe the response in the wanker’s is, “Girl, you be crazy.”

And then I’m alone with nowhere to go but up. I back myself into a corner and clutch the rails on either side as the ascent begins.

Vibrations, ever so slight, wrack my body. I dig my heels into the lush carpet, searching for traction.

This is so much harder without Jake to distract me.

Pings sound for every floor we pass, and each one sends a jolt through me.

Ping. What will he say?

Ping. What if he tosses me out?

Ping. What does it matter? I’ll be dead before I make it.

And then a final ping echoes, and the doors glide open, depositing me straight into Jake’s flat.

I stumble out, swaying until I find my land legs again. Oh sweet, dependable earth under my feet.

Once my innards settle back in their right spots, I take in the great room and the view beyond. When I was last here, I was too preoccupied to examine it fully. Out the windows, the city seems almost peaceful, an expanse of twinkling lights and shadows, indifferent to my burgeoning panic attack.

Stop dithering. Time for the next step. My heels click-clack past the living space, dining area, and kitchen until Jake’s bedroom door looms in front of me, and with a steadying breath, I let myself in.

Dim light filters through the lowered blinds, enough so that I can make out some shapes in the shadows. The seating corner, a tall bookshelf, the entrance to the walk-in closet and en suite I know is beyond. And across from it, the largest, most obvious piece of furniture I’ve been painstakingly avoiding—the bed.

While the frame is not wrought iron like in the original Airbnb, it’ll do. The blood in my veins turns sludgy, the thudding in my chest amping up with every step closer. Once I’m a foot away, I switch on the bedside lamp. Air whooshes out of me as yellow light fills the room.

I strip off my coat, jumper, and jeans, shivering. The red bra and knickers purchased for this stealth mission are no match for the chill in here.

Whatever. ’Tis the season and so forth. But really, why can’t thermals have the same appeal?

Next, I retrieve the filched handcuffs from my purse. Only a bit of fuchsia fuzz has survived. Perhaps I should have invested in a pink lingerie instead? Hopefully, he’s going to be focused on me and not the clashing colors.

I sink down on the mattress edge. The bed is wide and covered in navy sheets. Horizontal slats make up the headboard, thankfully free of visible notches . I shove aside the plump pillows to access the lowest rail.

I wind the chain around it, wincing when metal scrapes the oak, and slip a wrist through one manacle before I lose my nerve.

It’s loose, but not large enough for me to pull my hand through, even if I scrunch my knuckles tight. I blame my grandmother for that. Fat wrists, fat ankles.

All right. This is it, then.

I flick off the light. Before I change my mind, I snap on the other ring, clink it shut, and turn the lock.

The miniature key is clenched between my thumb and forefinger. Will Jake even listen to my explanation? Or is he going to toss me out as soon as he sees me? Maybe I should hide it and give him no choice? That’s a thought.

But what if he just leaves entirely?

You’ll be stuck. People may find a rank mess when they discover the carcass.

No. He’ll hear me out. It’s Jake. He’s not heartless.

And if I need to use the facilities? I’ve endured longer without the loo. My transatlantic flight was proof.

Decided, I slide the key under the pillow by my hands, close enough to reach.

Awkwardly, I flip onto my back, my arms stretched taut above me. This high up, the ever-awake city seems to have hushed. A gnawing ache starts in my belly as I realize just how stuck am.

I try to focus on my surroundings, taking in more of the room.

The place is neat. Does he have a cleaner? Will they be able to get the stench off the sheets, or will Jake be forced to move elsewhere? Maybe he’ll pick a lower floor next time.

A cool draft has the hairs on my body rising. I wriggle, trying to warm up, and attempt to snag the sheet with my toes, only for it to end up a crumpled mess by my shins. I breathe out in frustration. Rubbing my hands together offers little comfort from the icy cuffs. I fumble for the pillow to cover my wrists, catch its cotton casing, and tug. But then sounds the faintest betrayal. Bloody, bloody hell. The key’s fallen behind the bed.

Blackness creeps in from the edges of my vision.

Oh, no you don’t. No swooning. No hyperventilating. No bursting into flames.

I cycle through the alphabet in both directions, ignoring the beads of sweat that drip freely from my temples into my hairline, stuck in an awful place between sweaty nerves and cold chill.

What time will dinner at his mum’s end?

What if he doesn’t come home?

What if he comes home with company? Brings some tart over? And not the good type either—nothing spongy and lovely.

Everything in me revolts at the thought of him taking someone else to bed.

Tension coils in my shoulders, turning them into knots of discomfort. I tug at the manacles—once, twice, a third time. They only scrape my skin. I clench my fists tight, driving half-moons into my palms.

Drawing in a deep breath, I catch the lingering scent of Jake on the bedding. It’s an instant hit of calm. I greedily suck in more of that comfort, and mentally recite the digits of pi until I reach the tenth.

I continue to huff like a junkie as I switch to listing out my favorite sweets.

When I run out of those, I move on to belting out British hits from the last couple of decades.

Still, the silence feels heavier and heavier, closing in on me.

“Just shadows,” I mutter and keep at it—breathing, humming, singing, stuck in the space between worry and wishful thinking.