Just My Luck Adele Parks (if you liked this book txt) 📖

in a fashionably shaped, neatly trimmed beard, but I don’t have a clue who he is. In the past five weeks, there have been surprises—shocks. The way he has behaved since we won the money, his affair, are not things I would have expected of him, but they were things that I managed to accept are in the realms of possibility. But this? This thumps me in my solar plexus. I can’t breathe. I stare at him, this strange man. Obviously we have to go to the police. We can’t follow the instructions of kidnappers because they are fucking kidnappers. Criminals. They will outsmart us. They will out-wicked us. They will think of doing things that we can’t even imagine in our worst nightmares. Our daughter is in serious danger. There are no words. There are no limits. What the fuck is he thinking suggesting we don’t call the police? Something awful, unthinkable, might be happening to her right now and I am powerless to stop it. I glare at Fred and then at his pocket, where my phone is nestled.

“You are siding with him?” I demand. Fred won’t meet my eye. He doesn’t so much as nod. He just pushes his hand further into his pockets, as though securing my phone a little more tightly. “You weak bastard,” I mutter. No one responds. It’s as though I haven’t spoken.

“Let’s get Logan home, we’ll decide what to do from there,” suggests Jennifer. What in God’s name has it to do with her?

I try to hold it together in front of Logan. He was asleep when I received the photo of Emily so when we wake him, the first thing he mumbles is, “Where’s Emily?”

“She’s sleeping at friends’,” replies Jake. I let the lie roll. I just can’t bring myself to tell him what is going on. It would terrify him. What good would it do? We walk in a numb, ominous silence to the car. I am shaking so much that I can feel my organs rattle inside my body; I think it is a miracle that one foot finds its way in front of the next. I am undoubtedly in medical shock, but no one attends to me. No one slips their arm around my shoulders, hands me a hot sweet drink, squeezes my hand. Maybe they don’t bother because they know any gesture will be simply that—a gesture, empty and useless. No one can make me feel better when my daughter is God knows where and God knows what is happening to her.

Jennifer, Fred and Ridley climb into our car with us. I’m horrified. I don’t want to be anywhere near them, and Jake is acting as though this makes perfect sense and this somehow means I can’t find the words to stop it happening. I can’t waste energy on them. Once we are at home, Logan goes upstairs to bed, mumbling something about us not waking him in the morning. When he is in the bathroom peeing, I check that the windows in his bedroom are locked. When he climbs into bed, I tuck the duvet around him and remind him about the panic button next to his bed. He is too sleepy to ask why I’m now giving the device a sense of gravitas. When we moved in, just a few days ago, Emily and I joked that it was crazy to have a panic button so close to Logan’s bed. Emily said he’d constantly be hitting it when he wanted my attention. The police would be called every time he wanted a glass of water. It abruptly occurs to me that I could hit the button now. The police would respond. It’s more dramatic than calling 999, but my daughter is in serious danger, things are dramatic. I can’t call 999. I feel like a prisoner in my home as my phone has basically been confiscated. To underline that thought, I hear Jake on the stairs, then he is in the room, close behind me. “Night, champ,” he says to Logan. Of course, it’s natural he wants to check in with his son, especially tonight, considering everything, but his presence means I can’t lunge for the panic button. Had he, too, suddenly remembered its existence? Was he saying good-night to Logan or was he checking up on me? Stopping me from getting the help I think we need.

We go downstairs where the Heathcotes are gathered around the kitchen table. It’s un-fucking-believable, but I notice Jennifer’s eyes swivel greedily around the Poggenpohl units, I see her check out the expensive worktops, the enormous state-of-the-art fridge. I see her nostrils widen a fraction as envy flares. She is envious of me? A woman who has a child bound and gagged, abducted, missing, lost. I can’t begin to understand her. I have always tried to understand people. Not because I’m intrinsically kind or think that I value empathy any more than anyone else. It’s simply an urge, an instinct, to get to the bottom of human behavior. I thought I’d be safer then, if I understood people, but people are infinitely unknowable, mysterious. They have smiley talk, but give hard stares. They kiss you, but hurt you. Tell you they love you when, really, they hate you.

“Where are the security men you hired?” I demand.

Jake glances at his watch. “They’ve knocked off now. Gone home.”

“But I want someone here, right now, outside our door, outside Logan’s bedroom door. Twenty-four hours.”

“This house is perfectly secure. You know it is, and anyway we need to keep a lid on this, like the kidnappers said. Security guys would quickly pick up on the problem.” His words are infuriating. Too considered and reasonable in light of what is going on. I glare at him, but then my heart swells and slackens. I see that he’s not indifferent. There’s a milky white sheen on his skin that puts me in mind of meat sweating on a buffet on a hot day; he is