Free The Other Child by Lucy Atkins Page B

pulling him aside and warning him that Joe is more fragile than he seems – that he sobs at bedtime and begs her to take him home, that he daren’t speak in class because of his accent and can’t remember the pledge of allegiance, that nobody sits next to him at lunch. Her chest tightens at the thought of Joe, small, alone and sad at the end of a long canteen table.
    ‘Right.’ David slaps his thighs. ‘So, listen, Tess, I’ll have him back here around midday tomorrow. My flight’s at two. Sorry – a bit earlier than I said. I have to catch the red-eye to Amsterdam.’
    She comes out to the porch and watches David’s hire car pull away with Joe waving through the passenger window, even smaller, suddenly, his face excited but uncertain, too, about leaving her, vulnerable, even with his dad. She has a sudden image of her mother’s pallid face pressed against a car window, the pleading eyes and palms flat against the glass, as she mouthed, ‘Take me home!’ And then they are gone and the street is empty again.
    She drops her hand and birdsong fills the air, a subtly aggressive, dominating sound. She feels the back of her neck prickle and suddenly she is sure that if she turns she will see someone standing in the shrubs between this house and Helena’s. She forces herself to look. The garden is empty. She pulls out her phone and calls Nell. It goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a brief message as she walks back down the path and steps into the shadows of the porch.
    She watches Greg receive his award, standing on a Chicago podium in a dark suit. He is authoritative, deep-voiced, witty, self-assured – a persona that she has glimpsed but never fully seen in action. She feels her heart fill up and suddenly wishes she was there, clapping with all those hundreds of doctors, showing him how proud she is of what he has achieved.
    She is just getting into the shower when she hears a dull thud downstairs by the front door. It is less distinct than a knock, more like the palm of a hand slamming onto the mahogany panel.
    She washes quickly, towels her hair, wraps herself in a bathrobe and goes downstairs. Before she opens the door she pauses, barefoot, on the cool white tiles, and listens, but all she can hear are the water pipes gurgling and the repetitive,
ha-ha
birdsong. She opens the door a crack. The porch is empty, but something by her feet catches her eye, a thin envelope on the doormat. It is grubby, a little crumpled, addressed to Dr Greg Gallo in tight, scratchy-looking handwriting.
    She picks it up, steps back inside and rips it open, unfolding a single sheet of paper.
    How can you look at yourself in the mirror every day?
    It is unsigned.
    She steps onto the porch again, holding her bathrobe shut, scanning the bright street. Nobody is there.
    She goes back inside and double-locks the front door. Then she walks quickly through to the dining room and peers out. A woman with white curly hair, a floral shirt and a small dog is walking briskly past.
    She goes back across the hall and into the living room, looking through the side window, past the swing set towards the corner of the street and the square brick house opposite. She has seen the family getting in and out of their people carrier: parents and three small children, all of them red-haired. But their driveway is empty today.
    She goes into the kitchen, half expecting to find a face pressed against the French windows. But the deck is empty too. A leaf flutters down like a tiny gold butterfly.
    She goes over and checks the locks, then hurries upstairs and shuts the bedroom door behind her. Her phone is on the bed. She calls Greg’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Right now he will be surrounded by surgeons and medical reporters. She tries Nell again, but that goes to voicemail too.
    She needs to stay calm. Whoever left the note has gone. It is nothing, just a question, just a scattering of words on a page. She wonders if she should take it to the