Free Home Before Dark by Charles Maclean

all
the right people, including my future wife.
As he once said himself, he had a lot to answer for.
I looked around his neat, antiseptic office, the NHS-green
walls relieved only by his patients’ art offerings. Maybe I was
prompted by the therapeutic setting, or by an uneasy
conscience, but I never intended to bring up the subject of
Jelena.
'I need your advice, Will, and this time I don’t mean
professional advice.’
'You just hate to part with money.’ He was deadpan behind
his owlish, horn-rimmed glasses. 'Fire away.’
'I met someone … in a chat room on the internet.’
Silence. Then he burst out laughing. 'For Christ’s sake,
Ed.’
'I was hoping that’s how you’d react,’ I said evenly.
'I can’t help it . . . it’s just so perfect. The last person in
the world I’d expect to hook up with an online chick. Is she
legal?’
'Maybe this is not such a good idea.’
As a rule I keep things pretty close to my chest. But if I
ever feel the need to unload I can depend on Will to take the
piss. Which isn’t a bad arrangement, if you’re prone (as I’ve
been told I am) to taking yourself too seriously. After Sophie
died, I opened up to him – as a friend, not as a shrink, though
his understanding of the psychological effects of loss did no
harm. That was different.
'Why do I get the feeling you’re being defensive?’
He meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t really see the funny
side.
'Until a year ago,’ I retaliated, 'I had hardly any experience
of the internet. I used to warn Sophie about the dangers
without really understanding what they were.’
Will slouched down in his chair. 'I’m sorry, Eddie.’
    'When the police admitted they hadn’t the resources to
hunt for her murderer in cyberspace . . . well, I know more
now’
'Remember you telling me. No stone unturned.’
'I told you I was posting bulletins on MySpace and writing
on Facebook walls asking for information. What I didn’t tell
you was that I began trawling the Net using Sophie’s old ID,
pretending to be her, hoping the stalker might respond.
'In the end I found it too painful, but I went on haunting
the chat rooms, looking for someone who might have come
across Stormypetrel – Sophie’s screen-name. I’d talk to
anybody, approach total strangers and start telling them her
story – I know, it sounds pathetic, but it helped. At least I
felt I was doing something.
'Anyway, that’s how I got talking to this girl. It wasn’t a
pick-up, Will. She lives in Brooklyn, she’s twenty-five, single,
teaches kindergarten … oh and she plays the piano – surprisingly
well. She doesn’t think she has a hope of being accepted,
but her dream is to study music at the Conservatoire in Paris.’
Will was looking at me, not saying anything.
    For a moment it was as if his sister was sitting there.
There’s a strong family resemblance. He has her candid,
light blue eyes, a Calloway feature; though Will’s dark-haired
and sturdily built, as opposed to willowy blonde. They have
a certain way of tilting the head, the same appraising smile – emotional detachment, a coolness at the centre, is another
family trait.
'We got on right away. She’s bright, she makes me laugh.’
'Have you met her? Seen her on cam? Spoken to her?’
I shook my head.
'But I take it you know what she looks like?’
'She sent me a photo . . . reasonably attractive.’
'How can you be sure it’s her?’ He sighed. 'Does she know
you’re married? How old you are? Who you are? You didn’t
give her your real name, did you?’
'Look, I really don’t think she’s interested in my money.’
'Then she can’t know how much you’re worth,’ he said
drily. 'So what’s the attraction? Sex, I suppose. But for her?’
I didn’t mind being grilled by Will. It was probably what
I wanted: someone to ask the awkward, obvious questions.
He needed to get one thing straight, though.
'This is not about sex.’
Will lifted an eyebrow.
'We just seem to hit it off in some mysterious way.’
He