Conspiracy Girl (11 page)

‘I’m going to take a shower then get some sleep,’ I say quietly.

She nods without turning around and I back slowly away, watching her the whole time, battling a mix of emotions. I want to put an arm around her shoulders, but I can’t. She doesn’t
like being touched, and even if she did, I’d be the last person she’d want comfort from. I just wish there was something I could do to make things easier for her.

There is
, I remind myself:
find the people who did this to her and make them pay.

He’s been in the bathroom over two hours. I doubt even a Kardashian takes this long. I prise Goz’s head off my lap and walk over to the bathroom door. My hand is
half raised, ready to knock, when I stop myself. What if he’s . . . I don’t know . . . doing something in there? I stand there frozen.

But the fact is I’m freaking out out here on my own, with the only thing to occupy my attention a grainy image of my blood-streaked apartment, occasionally interrupted by the sight of a
bored NYPD cop chomping his way through a box of Dunkin’ Donuts.

Finally, I tap on the bathroom door lightly. There’s no answer. A spurt of adrenaline rushes through me as I entertain a rush of ideas involving Finn lying dead on the bathroom floor. I
don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid and deluded, but I think I have grounds for both.

‘Finn?’ I say. I knock again and call his name louder, hearing the trace of irritation in my voice. I’m still angry at him. He called me a liar, saying my testimony was full of
holes. I’ll give him full of holes.

Even if what he and Maggie are saying about the FBI being involved is true, it doesn’t mean that Miles and McCrory aren’t involved as well. But what did Aiden hide in my apartment?
And did he even hide anything? It’s just conjecture.

I push my ear against the bathroom door but it’s hard to hear anything over the sound of the cube’s persistent humming. My hand slides to the door handle. Should I try it? Finally, I
give in to my paranoia and twist the handle.

Finn’s lying in the bath, his head tipped back against the edge and his eyes closed. One arm trails down the side, his fingers brushing the rug. For a heart-stopping moment I think
he’s dead and then I realise he’s just asleep. Clouds of steam envelope him and his face is flushed from the heat.

My heart rate amps up as my gaze dips, before I can stop it, to his shoulders and his chest and then . . . I turn in a fluster, almost tripping over Goz, who has also come to investigate. Goz
struts right past me and pads over to the bath.

‘Goz!’ I hiss. ‘Come back!’

But Goz ignores me. He pauses by the bath and cocks his head to one side.

I tiptoe closer. ‘Goz!’ I whisper, grabbing him by the collar, ready to yank him out of there, but Goz won’t budge. He picks up a paw and in a moment of pure frozen horror I
see exactly what he’s about to do. Before I know it I’m employing my Russian Olympic coach voice. ‘Goz!’ I shout as my dog’s paw touches the water, prodding Finn in
the stomach.

Finn shoots upright in the tub, jumping straight to his feet, water sloshing in waves over the sides of the bath. Goz barks loudly. Finn stands there, totally naked, slightly unsteady on his
feet, his muscles locked as though he’s about to start a race and breathing hard enough that it looks like he just finished one. I think we just scared him half to death.

‘I was worried,’ I say, trying not to stare anywhere but at his face. I close my eyes and turn around. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘He thought you were drowning,’ I add,
embarrassment feeling like hot coals being strapped to my face.

‘Goz!’ I hiss furiously, snapping my fingers until I feel Goz rub against my legs. I haul him out of the bathroom and quickly, quietly, close the door behind me.

The sun is low in the sky, the sidewalks slick and shiny with rain. Puffs of smoke billow up from the vents set into the side of the building, making it look as though a dragon
is sleeping beneath the city.

I rest my palm against the window, grateful for the coolness of the condensation-slick glass. I poke a finger at Goz and give him an evil stare. He does that whole head-cock thing as though he
doesn’t get why I’m mad at him and pads to the other side of the room. I keep giving him the stinkeye as he rests his head dolefully on Finn’s chair and then I turn back to the
window, but I don’t register anything beyond the fogged up glass because all I can see is Finn standing up in the bath, water sluicing off his shoulders and down his chest. Oh God. This is
awkward. How am I going to look him in the face now?

The door to the bathroom opens. The muscles in my shoulders lock and I keep my back turned just in case he maybe forgot a towel or something and is still naked. I don’t want him thinking
I’m desperate for another look or anything.

‘What time is it?’ I hear him ask and I risk a glance over my shoulder.

He’s crossing to the other side of the cube, towards his desk, and he’s fully dressed. Thankfully.

‘It’s nearly three,’ I tell him.

He’s wearing a clean pair of jeans and his T-shirt clings to his back in wet patches. He ruffles Goz’s head and turns to me, our eyes catching briefly. There’s a trace of
amusement lighting his eyes, or maybe I’m mistaken. The one thing he doesn’t seem is embarrassed. But why should he be, with a body like that? I frown at the thought.

‘Sorry,’ I say at the same time he says:

‘You see anything?’

‘Huh?’ I stammer, my face burning hotter than the sun.

He tips his head, indicating the screen.

‘Oh, right, um,’ I head over to the desk, avoiding looking at him as I’m fairly sure he’s smirking at me.

‘Anything out of the ordinary? The cop still there?’ he asks, turning to the monitor.

I nod. ‘Yeah. He hasn’t moved.’

Finn’s expression has turned serious. He nods to himself. ‘OK, we’ll go tonight. Around three a.m.’

‘How are we going to get past him?’ I ask.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Finn says rubbing his eyes. ‘Look, I’m going to sleep for a bit longer.’

I daren’t look his way so I just keep my focus fixed on the screen and nod.

‘You should nap too, before we leave,’ he adds.

‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, mainly as I’m wondering where I’m supposed to sleep if he takes the bed. There’s no way I’m sleeping beside him.

‘Are you going to be OK?’ he asks in a quieter voice. ‘If you want anything, just help yourself.’

‘I’m OK.’ I still can’t look at him. ‘But if I feel like Snapple or peanut butter I know where to look.’

He hesitates for a moment, as though he wants to say something else, then he walks towards the bed. ‘And,’ he says over his shoulder, ‘a word of advice. Never sneak up on me. I
normally sleep with a gun close by. I don’t want to take your head off. Or your dog’s for that matter.’

‘I didn’t sneak up on you!’ I protest.

Finn flops down on to the bed, raising his eyebrow at me.

‘I didn’t!’ I say again. ‘I knocked and you didn’t answer. I was . . . worried about you.’ My blood boils as a smile joins his arched eyebrow.

‘Goodnight, Nic,’ he says, burying his head under a pillow.

‘Whatever,’ I mutter, turning away from him.

I can’t concentrate. There’s too much running through my mind, so after an hour and a half of staring at the cop on the screen, whose only activity appears to be
drilling for ear wax and checking his phone for messages, I start walking the length of the loft, back and forth, trying to replay everything and make sense of it. Where is Aiden? That’s my
biggest worry. And what about Hugo? I still want to call the hospital but I know better than to try.

The desire to get away, to escape everything, starts to build again. I’m like an addict needing a fix. The need to be outside is making my skin itch and crawl. My head feels too crowded,
with voices and images. I glance towards the door and then the bed, where Finn lies sprawled on top of the covers, and my thoughts are immediately diverted from plans of escape. Goz has snuggled up
to Finn, who has his arm flung over him.

I suppress the urge to yell at Goz because I don’t want to wake Finn. His warning still plays in my head. His gun is lying on the nightstand not too far from his outstretched hand. But my
irritation levels jump another notch or three. How dare he? That’s
my
dog. I shoot them both evil stares but they are both fast asleep, Goz snoring. I hope he slobbers all over
Finn.

After a few more minutes of pacing I realise that I’m feeling pent up and on edge because I’ve missed my usual exercise routine. Normally I work out for between two to four hours a
day. When I don’t, my body gathers up all the excess energy and it manifests in what my therapist calls ‘obsessive behaviour patterns’. I can end up spending hours checking and
rechecking locks on doors and windows, spring cleaning, folding and refolding clothes. It took a lot of therapy to get control of all those compunctions. Exercise helps the most.

Feeling relieved because at least this is something I can fix, I grab my bag from the kitchen counter and take it with me into the bathroom. A few minutes later, wearing a pair of leggings and
the same camisole top I was already wearing, I take up position on the other side of the cube from the bed and roll out Finn’s yoga mat. He doesn’t have a punchbag, unfortunately.
Slowly I start stretching and then I fall, trance-like, into a power yoga routine. I keep going until I’m drenched in sweat and my arms are shaking.

Finally I collapse on the mat and curl slowly into a ball, hugging my arms around my body. Tears threaten like a storm building on the horizon, burning the back of my eyes and my throat, but
refusing to come. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just too tired. Or maybe I just realise the futility. After the trial and all the press coverage, I got good at hiding my feelings, burying
them away from the prying eyes of the media and family friends and the long line of bereavement counsellors who tried to get me to relinquish my guilt and sadness – like they were suitcases I
could just put down and walk away from and not something that was physically attached to me, welded to my bones and flesh.

A wet nose pokes under my arm and prods my chin. I move my arms and find Goz sitting by my side, looking at me with concern. I use his powerful shoulders to haul myself to my feet then walk over
to the desk to check the monitor and see if the cop has moved, pulling my arms back over my head to stretch my aching muscles out. The cop is still leaning against the wall, yawning. What if
he’s still there later tonight? How is Finn going to handle that exactly?

‘What’s up?’

I jolt around. Finn is standing behind me, looking rumpled from sleep but alert. He’s staring at the screens over my shoulder but then his gaze switches to me and falls to my chest, then
my legs. He frowns in confusion. ‘You’re all sweaty,’ he says.

Self-conscious, I cross my arms over my body and swipe at the hair sticking to my neck. ‘I was just . . .’

‘Practising yoga?’ he asks, glancing over at his mat.

‘Yeah,’ I mumble. ‘I needed to,’ I add for no reason.

‘Cool,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘That’s how I wind down too.’ His gaze wanders to my shoulder, his hand reaching towards me before he catches himself and drops it
to his side. My strap has fallen down my arm. I pull it quickly back up.

Finn walks past me, stretching languidly as he goes, and once again I’m struck by how casual he seems, given the situation we’re in.

‘Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll fix us some dinner?’ he says, opening the refrigerator door and then slamming it again. ‘
Order
us some dinner,’
he corrects himself.

I pick up my bag and head to the bathroom.

‘Don’t worry, take your time,’ Finn says as I open the door, ‘I won’t burst in on you.’

I look over at him but he’s busy playing with Goz, offering him the leftover chicken curry from the takeout box. I just shake my head at him and close the door behind me, making sure to
lock it.

The shower turns on just as I finish ordering takeout. I move to the other end of the loft, trying to put some distance between myself and the images, now leaping into my head,
of Nic stripping out of her sweaty exercise gear and stepping into the shower. Goz would have my balls on a plate if he could guess what was going through my mind, which is nothing to what Maggie
would do if she knew.

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Hey.’

It’s Maggie. There are street noises in the background and I can tell she’s walking fast by the clipped tone she’s employing.

‘Any news?’ I ask.

‘Nothing. They’re putting out a missing person alert on Nic. They’re speculating that it’s a double kidnapping. Her and Aiden together. I’ve got internal affairs
breathing down my back. They’re bringing in extra teams, expanding the investigation. We’re keeping it out of the press for the time being but it won’t be long before it
leaks.’

My mind flashes back to the media furore surrounding the Cooper case. Once this hits the newsstands it will go huge. Any privacy Nic has managed to carve for herself is going to be lost.
She’ll be splashed across all the front pages. Not what we need right now.

‘You need to figure out who’s behind this, Finn, find out what they want.’

‘Yeah, working on it,’ I answer tersely. Hell, what does she think I’ve been doing? Sitting on my ass, meditating?

‘How’s Nic doing?’ Maggie asks. ‘Has she remembered anything? Does she have any clue what this is about?’

I head over to the windows to pull the blinds down. It’s cold outside, the glass is all fogged up apart from for a single handprint on one pane. Nic’s hand. I place mine over the top
absentmindedly.

‘No.’ I listen to the sound of the shower. ‘She has no idea.’

‘Where is she? Are you keeping an eye on her?’

‘Of course I am. She’s in the shower.’ As I say it I realise how it sounds, but before I can verify to Maggie that I’m not watching Nic
as
she showers, Maggie
interrupts. ‘And she’s OK? . . . With
you,
I mean?’ Maggie asks.

I draw the blinds and then flop down into my chair. ‘Well, she hates my guts but hey, give me a day or two, I’m sure I can win her around.’