Simon hadn’t been this terrified in years. He’d never reached a state of peace. That was probably asking too much. But he’d been told things would get better and gradually they had.

Now this. He felt like someone had thrown him back in time. Back to when he was helpless and terrified and alone. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t get them to be still, no matter how tightly he clenched them against his body. His leg was the same. The interview room was almost identical to the one they had held him in when his father–

He cut that thought off. It was too much to go there. His shrink had told him that reliving something in your memory just burned it deeper into your brain and that he didn’t want.

Dr Nobel had told him to take long deep breaths to release… something, some calming hormone. But deep breaths wouldn’t cut it. He needed something stronger, some anti-anxiety drug.

And Liz… what had happened to Liz? Was she dead? He knew little about her, aside from what he’d learned at work, but people wouldn’t care about that.

It was nearly Monday too, wasn’t it? They had hauled him off in his slobbing about the house sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt and his other clothes were sitting in a bag somewhere waiting for DNA analysis. Thank god he hadn’t been put into one of those lime green paper forensic suits as they had done to him when he was a kid.

What would everyone at work think, though? Did they know Liz was missing? They had to, right?

The police were probably questioning all of them, too. But what about when Monday rolled around? Would he be free to go to work? If he didn’t, they’d notice he was missing, too. Then they’d talk, wondering where he was, and why he wasn’t there.

Would the cops tell the company he was “helping with their enquiries”? God, he hoped not. What would he do then?

If Liz was dead and he went back to the office, what would they think? No smoke without fire? He was always a bit odd, kept himself to himself, wasn’t really sociable?

Christ, he’d been so careful. He’d tried so hard to keep himself safe and now somebody had gone missing and who had they homed in on? How could this be happening?

‘Mr White?’

The voice came from far away. He turned and everything was hazy. He had to blink for his vision to clear and he realised it was D.I. Burnham, leaning down to look at his face, a slight smile of concern on hers.

‘You’ve had a rough time, huh?’

‘What?’

Simon’s voice was tight and croaky. His tongue was dry and felt stiff.

‘You’re the kind who shuts down under stress, aren’t you?’

Burnham waved her hand at the cold cup of tea, and a white bread sandwich whose edges had dried and curled. He couldn’t even remember when that had appeared.

‘I’m a stress eater myself,’ the detective carried on.

Simon didn’t get it. She was talking to him like the social worker who’d sat in with him when he was questioned as a kid. Was she trying this other tack because the last one had failed?

‘Here, your clothes.’ Burnham handed him a clear plastic bag containing his laundry. ‘We’ll return your computer at the door.’

‘You’re letting me go?’ Simon asked, because he really wasn’t sure what was going on.

‘You were never under arrest, Mr White. You could have left at any time.’

The police were funny that way, giving one impression when they meant the opposite. So devious. He pushed himself to his feet, surprised at how hard that was to do. How many hours had he been sitting there? His legs were cramping and unwilling to stretch out.

‘Liz?’

It was probably stupid to ask, but he had to know. Mainly because he was scared shitless for her. But also because he needed to know what to expect when he went back to work. If he went back to work.

‘We’ve found her.’

The detective spoke in a neutral voice that didn’t bode well.

‘Is she… is she dead?’ Simon asked, the last word coming out as a whisper.

‘She’s alive, but injured. It turns out she caught a cab somewhere near your house in a CCTV black spot, so we didn’t see that. The cab got into an accident and Liz’s bag got lost so the hospital couldn’t identify her. Thankfully, we’ve now done so.’

‘She’s alive.’ Simon collapsed back onto the chair, sank his head into his arms and sobbed, wave after wave of relief rolling over him. ‘Thank God!’

‘Listen, I know it’s only three blocks away, but let me drive you home,’ Burnham said.

Simon didn’t want the policewoman to take him home. He wanted nothing more to do with her. But he also felt like he couldn’t get home on his own, no matter how short the walk. He was feeling lightheaded and so weak he had serious doubts about making it all the way upstairs.

‘Here, drink this.’ Burnham twisted the cap off a bottle of coke and handed it to him. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress and haven’t touched a thing in hours. You’re probably feeling nauseous because of it.’

Simon didn’t want the drink, but had to admit that he felt better after downing it and was strong enough to get back onto his feet.

‘Come on, this way,’ Burnham said and walked off without looking back.

She said nothing as she opened her car door for him. Thankfully, not a police car with all the accompanying livery. And she said nothing on the short drive home.

Once she pulled into the parking lot, Simon gave her a nod of thanks as he got out, clutching his bag of belongings.

‘I’ll make sure you get in safely,’ Burnham said with that same, mildly concerned smile she’d given him at the station.

He didn’t have the energy to tell her not to bother, and by the time he got to the top floor, he was too exhausted to say anything. He was used to the daily climb, but he had to hand it to the detective; she reached the top without looking winded. She then insisted on accompanying him to his door. It was midmorning; the sun was already up, and a couple of neighbours passed him and gave him a curious once over. They’d be gossiping about him for a while, too. He hoped he wouldn’t have to move.

‘Thanks, I can take it from here,’ Simon said as he opened his door and stepped inside.

‘I’m sure you can, but you’ve been up overnight, so I just want to make sure you’re comfortable before I leave.’

I’d be a damn sight more comfortable without you, Simon thought but was too tired to say so. He just left the door open for the detective to follow him in.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ Burnham said. ‘Or I can fix you a cup of tea?’

Now Simon was confused. Was this how the police usually treated suspects? Or was this only the treatment you got if they wrongfully accused you? Maybe she didn’t want to get sued for police brutality.

‘I don’t want anything,’ he muttered.

Least of all from her.

‘I thought you’d like to know that we informed your employer that you were helping with our enquiries. And that obviously, now that Liz has been found, you’re in the clear. We stressed this was all routine procedure and that it was just bad luck that Liz disappeared near your house.’

‘Okay,’ Simon said, too tired and eager for the detective to leave to care about what she was saying.

‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat or drink?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Okay, well, get some sleep. It’s what I’m going to do now too,’ the detective said with a final, sympathetic smile, and then she was gone, pulling the door shut behind her.

Simon made sure the door was locked, ripped off his clothes that now reeked of sweat, crawled under his duvet. Considering how tired he was, it took a long time before he fell asleep.

***

The moment a pale grey dawn light filtered into his room, Simon gave up on trying to sleep. It had been fitful and filled with nightmares. He glanced at the clock: 4:30 am. There was no point in staying in bed, so he took a long shower.

At 5:30, he was clean, dressed, sitting at his dining table, barely noticing the cup of tea warming his hands. He’d added more lumps of ginger than usual because he was feeling nauseous. Dr Noble had told him, years ago, that ginger helped calm the stomach. It usually worked for him. Today it was having no effect.

Simon gazed into the depths of the mug and thought about the coming day. He’d be going back to work and everyone was bound to know that he’d spent the previous night in police custody. Both thoughts, what lay ahead and what had just happened, made his hand shake, so he put the mug down.

Simon glanced at the big clock hanging on the kitchen wall. He placed it so that you could see it from any part of the open plan living area. It was 5:38.

He couldn’t go to work. He was too exhausted to concentrate on anything. That was an excuse. He was scared shitless about what people would think. Would they be wondering why he’d been called in and not anybody else? Would they be casting glances his way and whispering?

He’d worked so hard not to stand out. To be an anonymous office worker that nobody gave a second thought to. Now this? Everyone would know, wouldn’t they? Then, anytime something odd happened, they’d go back to wondering about him.

The anxiety he thought he’d overcome was bobbing just below the surface, and he couldn’t control it. He didn’t want to admit it, but he needed help and he had only one place to get it.

At 9am on the dot, Simon phoned Dr Nobel’s office for an appointment. Thankfully, the receptionist said he could see her right away. Then he phoned the office and took the rest of the week off. Since he’d already planned and booked all his holidays, he wondered whether they’d be okay with it.

‘Are you alright, Simon?’ Sarah asked, much to his surprise.

‘Fine,’ he muttered, ‘just exhausted.’

‘Take whatever time you need.’

Simon stared in surprise at his mobile once he’d hung up. He’d expected more suspicion and push back. Was it a good sign or a bad that Sarah had given him the leave without question?