Free My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller by Deborah O'Connor Page B

fingers on his black-and-white-checked chef’s trousers. ‘I’m Tommy.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Tommy Bibbings. Nice to meet you.’
    ‘Heidi,’ I said, not giving out my surname. I always did this. I didn’t like to tell strangers anything that might help them recognise me in case they started offering their sympathies about Lauren or Barney or both.
    ‘I was at the counter when I saw him hit you,’ he explained. His accent sounded Glaswegian but had blurred around the edges, suggesting he hadn’t lived there for some time.
    I decided to go with a half-lie.
    ‘I wanted a cold drink,’ I said. ‘I’ve been driving all afternoon. I’m a sales rep.’
    ‘Got distracted?’ he asked, staring at my knee.
    ‘I suppose.’
    He looked up, studying my face for a second before he spoke again. I wondered if he thought I might be concussed.
    ‘After what just happened, I think you should call it a day on the sales front.’ He sat back on his heels, his eyes now perfectly level with the gap in my skirt. He didn’t even pretend not to look. ‘You should get someone to come and pick you up.’ He nodded at my wedding ring. ‘Maybe your husband?’
    I sipped my tea and tried to work out my next best move. The estate agent and leasehold sign were worrying. How long did I have before Keith and the boy disappeared, possibly never to be seen again? This afternoon was clearly a write-off and, although I’d come back another time soon, I didn’t want today to go completely to waste. Maybe my rescuer knew something that would help?
    ‘I stop at that shop quite often,’ I said, trying to steer the conversation. ‘The bloke in there is really friendly.’
    ‘Keith? Yes, he’s quite the chatterbox.’
    He knew him. Good. Realising it would seem odd if I started quizzing him on Keith straightaway, for the moment I decided to change the subject.
    ‘You don’t sound like you’re from round here?’
    He paused before answering, smiling in a way that suggested we were both playing at some game.
    ‘Neither do you.’
    ‘I’m from down south originally. Kent. You?’
    ‘Clydebank. Just outside of Glasgow.’
    We were both quiet then. Like awkward teenagers.
    ‘When did you move here?’
    ‘Do you miss home?’
    We spoke at the same time, our sentences colliding into each other.
    I realised the girl behind the counter, Kimberley, was watching us. I caught her eye and she pretended to be engrossed in wiping down the work surface.
    ‘I don’t think it will scar.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Your knee, the cut.’
    ‘Oh, good. That’s good.’
    We seemed to have reached some kind of an impasse and, not sure what else to say, we stared at each other. Tommy was the first to look away.
    ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit.’
    As he retreated towards a cupboard at the back of the kitchen my phone rang. It was my boss, Yvonne.
    ‘Where are you?’ she asked before I could say hello. ‘The meeting is in five minutes.’
    My final pitch of the day. Shit. My stomach lurched; a sudden, rollercoaster drop. In the chaos I’d forgotten all about it.
    ‘I was about to call,’ I lied. ‘I’m not going to make it.’
    I noticed Tommy half-turn towards me, trying to listen in. I cupped my hand over my mouth and lowered my voice.
    ‘Upset stomach,’ I said, offering the first excuse that came to mind. I didn’t want Yvonne or, indeed, anyone to know where I was in case the information somehow found its way back to Jason. ‘I ate one of those garage sandwiches at lunch. I’m in a public toilet now waiting for it to stop. Can you get him to reschedule?’
    ‘He wants to see you. You’re the one he has the relationship with.’
    I held my silence.
    ‘OK, I’ll try,’ said Yvonne eventually, not happy but unable to argue. In two years I’d called in sick all of once. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on. Feel better soon, Heidi.’
    I used my thumbnail to worry at a whorl of dried ketchup on the table. I felt terrible about missing the