Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

‘Which park?’ I interrupt.

‘What?’

‘Which park did they go to?’ I repeat. I’m nearly shouting now.

‘The park in Watermoor, I think – you know, the one with the crazy golf? But Cat—’

I hang up, and ignoring the call from Georgia, who is trying to ring me back, I pick up my keys and run down the path to my car. My heart is pounding as I press my foot on the accelerator and speed down the road.

Luke has Dylan. Luke.

Did he write that note? And if so, why? Is it his way of threatening me – to make sure I don’t tell Georgia about what happened between us? Or . . . and my stomach clenches at a much worse thought. Much, much worse. Could Luke be Daisy’s brother? He’s about the right age. I try to remember the photo on the mantelpiece in Doug Foster’s dingy living room. The three siblings. The skinny, dark-haired boy with the football. What would he look like as an adult? It’s not inconceivable that he would resemble Luke. Maybe the night we met wasn’t an accident. Maybe I was set up. He would have gone on letting the police believe I didn’t have an alibi if I hadn’t caught him out and threatened to tell his wife.

I don’t have time to analyse these possibilities because I’ve reached the park and I skid to a halt outside. Without bothering to park the car properly, I fly out and hurtle through the park gates.

‘Have you seen a man with two little boys?’ I ask the elderly man in the kiosk where they rent out golf clubs and sell ice creams.

‘Well now,’ he says, ponderously, standing up with glacial slowness and scratching his head. ‘I’m not sure—’

‘Never mind,’ I snap impatiently, and I rush on past the empty crazy-golf course towards the wooded play area. There’s no one there, apart from a woman with a pram, keeping a watchful eye on a little girl on the swings and a couple of older children balancing on the wooden stumps that have been made into a sort of assault course.

Of course, Luke’s not here. He’s not that stupid. He would have known I’d speak to Georgia. He wouldn’t have told her where he was really going. Even so, I scan the wide grass lawns just to make sure. I can see most of the park from this vantage point. There are a few teenagers sitting in a huddled circle at the far end. Otherwise, it’s empty. The only other place he could be is the tennis court. It’s surrounded by a high hedge and hidden from view. I know it’s a long shot, but I run across the field and rattle the metal gate, peering in. No luck. It’s locked and there’s no one there.

Tears of rage, fear and frustration roll down my cheeks as I head back to the car. It’s hopeless. Dylan could be anywhere. He’s in danger and I’m his mother. It’s my job to protect him. I need to do something. But what? What’s the best course of action? I am tormented by the thought that every second counts, and every moment I dither or make the wrong move I am failing Dylan.

I take my phone out of my bag, unlock the screen with my fingerprint and bring up the phone number pad. The threat in the note couldn’t be much clearer: don’t go to the police if you want to see him alive again. But how would Luke find out if I called the police? He would have no way of knowing. And even if he did, what are the chances that he really means what he says – that he’d really hurt Dylan?

Sod it, you bastard, I think. I’m going to call your bluff. I start dialling 999, but as soon as I hear the ringtone, I drop the phone as if it’s on fire. I stand and stare at it for a few seconds. Then I stoop to pick it up, pressing the red end-call icon, my heart slamming against my chest. What am I thinking? If Luke’s crazy enough to take Dylan in the first place, not to mention crazy enough to kill Charlie, then he’s crazy enough for anything.

I can’t risk talking to the police.

Outside the park gates, a couple of cars are stuck behind mine, hooting irritably. A florid-faced middle-aged man swears at me. I stare at him blankly. The hooting seems muffled and far away, unimportant, like the buzzing of flies, and the man’s anger leaves me completely unmoved. I am in a different world to them – a world of horror where snarled-up traffic means nothing. I start up the engine automatically and slot into a parking space up ahead. Then I sit there, in the driving seat, trying to breathe and thinking furiously. It’s all my fault. How could I have brought Luke Martin into our lives? I should have recognised the danger as soon as I met him, but I was blinded by lust and flattery. The more I think about it, the more likely it seems that Luke is Daisy’s brother and that he killed Charlie.

But then I am brought up short because that makes no sense. Luke was with me the night Charlie died, so he couldn’t have killed her. He is my alibi. Therefore, I am his. He can’t be Charlie’s killer.

So why has he taken Dylan? My brain is in a whirl. Nothing makes sense. I want to scream but I can’t. This is too serious for hysterics. I need to speak to someone to reassure myself that I’m not going crazy. Maybe I should call Theo. I pick up my phone and notice there are five missed calls, all from Georgia. I call her back.

‘Cat,’ she says, sounding a little breathless. ‘Are you okay? Have you found Dylan?’

‘Not yet,’ I say abruptly. ‘Can you give me Luke’s number?’

‘He hasn’t got Dylan. I phoned him about ten minutes ago.’

I supress a scream. ‘Could you give me