Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

surprised you’ve automatically jumped to the conclusion that somebody abducted Jo-Jo rather than she’s packed some things and is camping out at friend’s house or some hideaway somewhere.’

Cavendish folds her arms. ‘You mean aside from the fact that both parents, her step-sister, her grandparents, and her teachers have assured us she isn’t the sort to run away? Of course we’re keeping that possibility in mind, and all uniform units in the area and bordering towns are checking the homeless shelters and parks for anyone matching her description, but I’m not going to waste valuable time searching for an unlikely runaway when her potential kidnappers could be putting distance between themselves and here.’ She lowers her voice again. ‘Given your own history, I would have thought you’d encourage such proactive decision-making, rather than criticise.’

‘I wasn’t criticising…’ I begin to say, but she’s allowed the door to close in my face, and I know I’m wasting my breath.

Pulling out my phone, I see I’ve missed several calls from Maddie. She’s panicking because it’s quarter to ten and I’ve yet to arrive at the book signing to set up. She probably thinks I’ve chickened out.

‘Hey there,’ I hear a familiar voice call from behind me.

Turning, I’m pleased to see the friendly face of PCSO Rick Underwood.

‘Can I give you a lift home?’ he asks jovially. ‘It’s the least I can do after dragging you from bed this morning.’

I can feel eyes burning into the back of my neck from within the station, but I don’t turn to check they belong to Cavendish. ‘A lift into town would be great,’ I say, returning Rick’s smile.

Chapter Fifteen Now

Weymouth, Dorset

My first reaction to the enormous line of people is that some major incident has occurred and all the shops on the high street have had to evacuate their customers. It’s only when we reach the end of the queue that I can see where it originates. Surely all these people can’t be here to see me?

Although Waterstones has two entrances, only the rear one faces the road we’ve travelled along, and so I’m forced to walk past the queue of people to the front door, where I can see Maddie inside pacing relentlessly and practically wearing a hole in the carpet. She is chewing the end of a biro (a habit she developed to counter stress when she quit smoking), and it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the second one she’s got through while she’s been waiting.

‘Where have you been?’ she hisses under her breath as she has the security guard unlock the door.

‘Sorry,’ I offer, nodding at Rick, who has escorted me to the door like I’m some kind of pop star and he’s my bodyguard.

Maddie eyes him with confusion, not quite able to connect the dots, but then her face lifts and the worry lines dissipate. ‘Oh, this I like,’ she declares broadly. ‘Being escorted to the store by an officer of the law is a great publicity stunt. I wish I’d thought of it myself.’

I wince, but don’t correct her. ‘I really am sorry I’m late. Something came up that required my attention.’

Maddie’s anxiety has been totally washed away by Rick’s chiselled features and her eyes haven’t left him since I drew her attention. ‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ she says. ‘You’re here now, and that’s what matters.’ Then it’s as if I’m not even there. She thrusts her hand towards Rick. ‘We haven’t been introduced. I’m Maddie Travers, Emma’s agent. And you are?’

He blushes slightly at her directness, but shakes the hand. ‘Rick Underwood. I’m the reason Emma is late, so please don’t take it out on her. It’s entirely my fault.’ He glances over at me, and his smile grows. ‘Thanks for this morning. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.’

He allows the grumpy security guard to lock the door and Maddie’s focus finally returns to the job at hand. ‘They’ve set you up a table just over here so that the event doesn’t clog up the main entrance. Did you bring a drink with you?’

Brightly coloured posters are taped all over and around the table, each one produced by my publisher to promote the launch of the books. It looks a bit tacky to me, but who am I to criticise Maddie’s efforts? At least she arrived on time. I had meant to buy refreshments on my slow meander into town after the fry-up I never got, and so I can only shake my head meekly.

‘Never mind, I’ll buy you a bottle of water once the tills are open. We have a huge crowd of people to get through. I had planned that you would have pre-signed some copies, but we haven’t time for that now, so you’ll just have to go one at a time. I’ll stick by for as long as I can to keep things moving. Okay? Are you ready for this?’

Am I ready to smile non-stop for the next two hours, listening to praise for my books when all I want to do is hide in a cave and let Maddie handle all forms of criticism? Of course I’m not, but I know that isn’t what she wants to hear. Cavendish’s words are still stinging in my mind, and I hate the thought that there are others out there who think that the books I have written were done with the intention of profiting from the tragedies that befell my subjects. I only wrote Monsters Under the Bed to cast much-needed light on the abuses at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. I never would have described the events surrounding Cassie Hilliard’s abduction in Ransomed had my publisher not insisted on it. I am here today as much because of circumstance and Maddie’s insistence that I contribute to the publicity machine. If I had my way, I would write at home and only venture out for food and drink. I envy those who write under a pseudonym. Anonymity