Page 5 of Into the Dark

My heart stops beating in my chest. As in, for a second, my brain and heart stop doing what they’re supposed to do and I just hang there for a minute. Then everything rushes back in at once and starts to work double-time trying to catch up.

I shake my head. My ears feel hot. “No way. He wouldn’t. Kev wouldn’t do that, Fred.” I scrub my hand over my mouth and look around the room for something to inspire me. When I look back at Freddy, he’s watching me. “You’re sure?” I ask him. “I mean, how do you know for sure it’s Kev?”

He sighs. “We got a bent one on the inside. He told us one of our own, someone close to you and me, has been talking. Someone involved with the Bradford deal, maybe the Cartwright fuckup too. Some other shit as well. It’s him. He’s always been a loose cannon, Jay. You know that.” He watches my reaction closely with this odd look on his face. It’s unsettling as fuck.

Is he lying to me? Does he know it’s me? Is this a test?

Five minutes ago, I was convinced I was being paranoid. Convinced my imagination was fucking with me. Now, I literally have no idea what’s going on. I’ve always been able to read Fred; I know how his mind works. Yet right now, I’m only eighty percent sure I’m safe. The other twenty percent is telling me I’m already dead and he’s playing me, calling my bluff, to find out what I’ve told them.

Then I realize I’m wrong. He can’t know. Because he wouldn’t play this game with me.

I’d be dead already.

I sit back in the couch and rub my eyes with both hands as I let out a heavy breath that isn’t for show. “Fuck, Fred, I can’t believe this. I just…” I shake my head. “I mean, he’s been distant lately, going off, taking things on himself, doing his own thing, but I just figured it was his dad, you know. He’s on the way out, apparently. But this? No way.” I shake my head.

Fred sighs heavily. “I know. I’m sorry. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

I nod slowly. “I appreciate that, Fred. So what are we going to do?”

There’s no hesitation on Fred’s part. “He’s gone. He’s finished.”

Of course he is. He’s innocent. Of a thousand things he’s guilty, and for a thousand more he should get what’s coming to him, but of this he’s innocent. He doesn’t deserve to go out like this. As a traitor and a grass. This isn’t him. This is all on me.

Then, like that night five weeks ago when I decided to make the deal, the idea comes to me.

“You should let me do it,” I hear myself say.

Freddy’s eyes widen a little in surprise.

“I should be the one to do this. I should sort it.” My voice is strong and clear. “Just let me find out what he’s told them first. He trusts me. Give me a few weeks.”

Fred looks uncertain, like he’s gonna disagree.

“We’ll keep him out of anything big, but if we know what he’s told them, we know what to prepare for. Let me find out what they know first. He trusts me.” Just like you do. “Then I’ll take care of it.”

Fred sits back in the chair again, thinking hard for a few long seconds, but then he nods once. “Okay. I’ll find out how deep that little shit has put us. I’ll try my guy on the inside too. As soon as we know what they know, he’s gone.”

I nod gravely. “Leave it to me, man. Leave it to me.”

Fucking hell.

How much higher can this shit pile get?

The smell is the main thing I love about France.

It smells like Shere, only warmer and sweeter. The fragrance of a hundred million grapes ripening over the landscape infusing with the air. It smells distinctly French, almost like I could get drunk on the air itself.

The shop isn’t far from the house, just over two miles, but Mum doesn’t trust French drivers and pleaded with me for over an hour to take the car instead of the bike. But then Dad and Nick accurately pointed out the only car accident on this particular stretch of road in the past ten years involved her running into a ditch, and so she dropped her argument and disappeared out to the patio, flustered.

I’m taking the bike because I need the quiet. Because spending a fortnight in a house with five other people is hard work, especially when they’re my family. Because trying not to think about someone who still lives in every cell and nerve ending of my body is exhausting. Because trying to pretend I’m not bleeding from a hole in my heart is bloody suffocating.

Delmar’s shop is somewhat bustling when I arrive. It’s small, and so with the seven or so people milling about right now it looks crowded.

“Ah, Alex! Bonjour ma belle!” he shouts as I come in. Delmar is about seventy with a weather-beaten complexion and a slightly reddened nose.

I wave back, feeling a little self-conscious as several pairs of eyes turn in my direction. Squeezing my way around the narrow circumference of the shop, I place all the things Mum asked me to get in the basket one by one. As well as some things she didn’t ask me to get: a copy of Vogue, a box of those macarons Nick likes, and some lip balm for Tash because she’s been stealing mine since hers ran out two days ago.

By the time I’m done, the store is empty but for the guy chatting animatedly in French to Delmar by the counter. There’s something about the way he uses a lot of hand gestures and holds himself that confirms he’s a native. Medium height. My French isn’t fluent enough to catch everything, but they seem to be talking about the land and produce and the weather. A vintner then, maybe. He doesn’t look much like one—more like a businessman than a grape farmer, in fact.