How I Lost You by Jenny Blackhurst Page B

might still be alive.
    ‘I think so, yes,’ Nick says slowly, placing the photograph down on the table. He’s staring at it as though it might start talking to him if he looks at it hard enough. I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking; those eyes may be beautiful but they are also completely unreadable. Maybe law would suit this man better than journalism. Or poker.
    ‘Firstly, I want you to know I had nothing to do with this photograph, although I realise how it must look to you. Secondly, I find it hard to believe how from receiving this photo – which could be any little boy, anywhere – you’ve concluded that your son is still alive and that Dr Riley faked his death certificate in order to frame you for murder . . . then what, killed himself? Or maybe the Mafia killed him for you? Although he did return from the dead to hand-deliver you a picture of your little boy four years on.’
    All right, when you put it like that, it does sound slightly far-fetched, but there’s no way on this earth I am about to admit that to this smug bastard.
    ‘I never said that,’ I answer in my best defiant voice. ‘And I don’t appreciate the cocky little dig about returning from the dead you stuck in at the end there. I’m concerned it may be someone who knows my identity, someone who may have a vendetta against me. Why else go to all that trouble?’
    Cassie has slumped down in her seat and is rubbing her face wearily. She obviously expected this to go better. Nick Whitely has made it clear he thinks we’re idiots and I don’t see the point in staying here much longer, but the food arrives so the three of us sit in silence while the waiter fannies around tucking napkins on to our laps and topping up our glasses. As soon as he’s gone, I speak again.
    ‘Someone put this, ’ I thrust the newspaper photo at him next, ‘in my bag on the very same day. More questions, more unlikely answers.’ He takes the second photo but his eyes don’t leave mine. ‘I don’t deny I’ve considered what it might be like to find out that my son is still alive, as crazy as that sounds. But answer me this, Mr Whitely: if you had spent every day for the last one thousand and seven days wanting to die for what you’d been told you’d done to your little boy, then you found out there might be a chance, however slim, that you hadn’t ever done it, that your little boy might be alive and happy, wouldn’t you grab it with both hands? Someone out there put that thought in my head, even for the briefest second, to be cruel, or to scare me, I don’t know which. But I want to find out who, and why.’
    His fork freezes midway to his mouth and he looks at me in a way I realise he hasn’t done before. Gone is the curiosity, that cat-playing-with-mouse smile and the cocky, self-assured twinkle in his eye; the man staring back at me looks like he knows exactly what it feels like to have something you wish so desperately had never happened. In his eyes now is a look of understanding. When he eventually speaks, I almost give in to the desire to reach over the table and kiss him.
    ‘How do you think I can help?’
    We stay at Dolce Vita until closing. When the waiters finally drop the pretence of good customer service and start stacking chairs on top of tables around us, we decide to give in and call it a day.
    Before we leave, Cassie and I disappear to the ladies’ for a long-awaited discussion about how we think the night has gone. Cassie doesn’t look overly happy.
    ‘It’s a good job he fancies you,’ she says, even her voice frowning. ‘Otherwise we’d both be back in Oakdale.’
    I try not to blush. ‘He does not.’
    ‘Oh shut up, he can’t take his eyes off you. He’s barely said a word to me since that wiseass remark about me shooting him. And it was a frigging picture frame, for his information.’
    I shudder. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’
    We return to the table and find him hanging up his mobile phone. ‘That was my