The Sleepover Read online

  GONE

  As Beth hurries off, I sink down onto the sofa next to a sleeping Molly, taking care not to disturb her. I’m about to head into the kitchen to stick the kettle on when I hear Beth yelling. Thinking she might need moral support, I cross the living room and step into the hall.

  “Nick? Nick?” Beth’s voice is shrill as she dashes across the landing.

  “Everything OK? Can I help?” I call up, trying to decide whether it would look rude if I go up the stairs uninvited. Before I can make up my mind, Beth comes flying down them.

  “Did Nick come down?” Her face is chalk-white, her mouth a pinched line.

  “Sorry?”

  “He’s not in any of the bedrooms. Or the bathroom.”

  “What?” My pulse roars in my ears; my voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

  “The boys haven’t a clue where he is, either. I don’t understand. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air.”

  “He can’t have. He must be hiding somewhere. Maybe the boys had a fight.” I scrabble in the back pocket of my jeans for my phone, my fingers trembling as I search for Nick’s number. The dial tone repeats endlessly and I can feel my palms sweating as I wait for the call to click in, for the electronic drone to be replaced by the sound of Nick’s voice. Any second now . . . now . . . now. Please, please answer, Nick...

  Books by

  SAMANTHA KING

  THE PERFECT FAMILY

  THE SLEEPOVER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE SLEEPOVER

  SAMANTHA KING

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  GONE

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 Samantha King

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  First published in Great Britain by Piatkus, an imprint of Little Brown Book Group.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4767-3

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4769-7 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4769-0 (e-book)

  PROLOGUE

  One year before

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. The old nursery rhyme was wrenched from the depths of memory the second I took the anonymous call. I let it loop repetitively in my brain, filling my head with noise to drown out unthinkable questions, unbearable images; I force my feet to pound the icy pavement in time with the lilting verse, focusing on the rhythm to block out pain as each hammering footfall jars my gritted teeth.

  Fear gives me speed. A hundred feet to go. Fifty. Ten . . . The school gates stand wide; a whispering crowd spills out of them. I charge into it, my terror transmitting a shock wave that instantly parts a sea of blue blazers. Where is he? My legs buckle as I spot what looks like a pile of abandoned jumble. I rush toward it, hopscotching through a treasure hunt of scattered pens, badges, and coins to see gray trouser legs bent at an awkward angle, a bone-white face tattooed with blood.

  Stepping closer, I’m still clinging to denial. But in the tip-tilt of his nose, the soft jaw sloping to a chestnut-cleft chin, I see the lingering traces of my baby boy beneath the crumpled contours of a skinny eleven-year-old. Closer still. My lungs fill up with pain and panic, choking me as I drop to the frozen ground and reach for his hand; it lies stiff and cold in mine. I stroke back his hair and my probing fingertips sink into a thick, sticky mess.

  Rage burns away distress as I stare up at the circle of faces crowding me with ghoulish curiosity . . . heartless voyeurism, I think bitterly. Where were they when my little boy was crying for the bullies to stop? Then I hear a snigger, see a finger point, and suddenly I notice the electronic glow of cell phones trained like snipers on my son.

  “Stop filming him!” I coil myself around Nick, desperate to shield him from the spiteful violation of his pain being videoed for kicks. Pressing our palms together, I weave my fingers through his to warm them. “Everything’s OK, darling. Mummy’s here.”

  Too late, my conscience screams. I should have been with him. I should never have let him go . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Phone me as soon as you’re out, love.” I pull Nick against me in a hug, gripping a little harder than I used to, lingering a moment longer than he likes—trying to disguise my reluctance to let go by pretending to bundle him out of the path of jostling teenagers.

  “Can’t I just meet you at home? Or better still, you could get me a spare key. Everyone else in my class has one.” He takes a step back, rolling his eyes and flicking his bangs.

  He’s been growing his hair out lately, ready to dance the lead in his theater group’s production of Romeo and Juliet in a couple of weeks’ time. His first public performance for a year. The date is ringed in scarlet on our kitchen-wall calendar: a beacon of excitement for him, a red flag of worry for me. After his last starring role, Nick was interviewed by a local paper and dubbed “the boy with flying fe
et”; the following Monday, a clipping of the photo was stuck to his classroom door, the word sissee scrawled over it in pink crayon.

  The bullies may not have been able to spell, but they knew exactly how to hurt. A week later, they rammed their point home with flying fists—just in case Nick hadn’t got the message. He had, loud and clear, and so had I: that was the last time I let him leave the house alone, and Nick didn’t dance again for six months.

  I grit my teeth at the memory, fighting the urge to sweep back a wayward strand of his white-blond hair. Nick hates any public display of affection these days. He only shows his softer side at home now, although lately I’ve seen little evidence even of that. The cloak of reserve he’s learned to wrap around himself at school seems to have become a permanent fixture; sometimes I feel like he wants to disappear inside it completely.

  It’s only on stage that Nick is truly himself, and that is the cruel paradox of life for my shy, whimsical son: dance is his one escape from the harassment that plagued him throughout primary school, yet it’s also the bullies’ favorite stick to beat him with. “Secondary school will be easier,” his new head teacher promised: mixing with older kids who had more consciousness of their own foibles and therefore less inclination to tease others about theirs. I wonder if it’s true; I wonder if Nick would tell me if it isn’t.

  “You know the answer to that, sweetheart,” I tell him now, my heart sinking as I see his head drop. “I don’t want you walking home by yourself. It’s too cold today, anyway,” I add coaxingly. “I’ll bring the car and wait in the usual spot, OK?”

  “Fine.” His new favorite word.

  “Just phone me when you’re out, yes? Rehearsals have been canceled this evening. The weekend starts here.” I try to engage him in a smile. “We can watch a movie, if you like. Your choice. Maybe get takeout for dinner as well.” He continues to stare at his feet, and I kick myself for the careless reminder of happier times: Craig always used to bring home Nick’s favorite pizza on Friday evenings.

  “It’s the sleepover tonight. At Adrian’s.” He looks up now, chin jutting and eyes widening with a faltering blend of hope and unusual defiance.

  “Oh yes?” I keep my tone mild as I see him bracing himself for yet another tussle on the subject that has dominated every conversation for the last two weeks.

  “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m not, love. I know it’s tonight. And you know my answer to that, too.” I reach out to squeeze his arm, wondering if I dare risk another hug, glancing around to check if there are any groups of smirking Year Sevens loitering nearby. “No sleepovers. Maybe soon,” I compromise, feeling guilty as I see his head dip once more. “But not yet.”

  “Soon.” He huffs. “You said that on Fireworks Night. And that was weeks ago.”

  “But that was at Jason’s house.” I try not to let my wariness of the older boy show. Nick might be a gentle soul, but he’s twelve, almost a teenager, and I remember all too well from my own turbulent teens that nothing cements a friendship like being told it’s forbidden.

  “So?”

  “So, um . . . He was going to set rockets off in their backyard, remember?” I tut. “He obviously takes after his dad.” I know I sound a little churlish, but I can’t resist the jibe. I might once have been best friends with Jason’s mum, but even then there was no love lost between me and her husband. The only good thing about not seeing Katie anymore is that I no longer have to be around Colonel Nathan Baxter.

  “He was just messing about, Mum. It’s called having fun.” Bright blue eyes roll in exasperation again. “Jase is OK. He just acts tough. He’s nothing like . . . the others. Anyway, he’s not invited. But Samir’s coming. You’d like him.” One soft eyebrow quirks. “He’s an ace at computing. And he’s the school chess champion.”

  “Is he, indeed? Well, that’s good to know. Still—”

  “And just because you’ve fallen out with Jason’s mum . . .” Noticing a few glances being directed our way, Nick lowers his voice. “It’s not fair to keep me from hanging out with him.”

  “Darling, that’s not what I’m doing. I don’t want to keep you from being friends with Jason,” I lie, avoiding his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry about the sleepover.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. Really,” I tell him, and this time I’m speaking the truth. I’d love nothing more than for Nick to find a nice group of trustworthy friends; I want more than anything for him to enjoy the fun and freedom he should be having at his age.

  It goes completely against the grain for me to be this clingy. I’ve always encouraged Nick to be his own person, right from when he was a little boy, with his golden hair and tiny feet dancing almost before he could walk. I used to call him “my little sunbeam.” I had no fear when he started school. It never occurred to me that my child was different from anyone else’s, or that those differences mattered. His slight otherworldiness was charming; the fact that he hated ball games but loved dance and imaginary play was endearing. He would make friends, and school would be a place of happy adventures.

  Only it wasn’t, and ever since that terrible morning a year ago I’ve pulled down the shutters—and I know I’ve forced Nick to do the same. It scares me that he’s showing signs of wanting to open them again. I’m not ready to let the world back in.

  “So let me go,” he persists.

  “Maybe another time, OK? Please try to understand.” I justify the crack in my voice with a cough, then blow my nose for good measure, pretending it’s just the wind making my eyes water. The playground is glazed with a hard frost, and the snow-heavy sky hangs low. I hate this weather; each breath reminds me of that desperate flight through the streets, my lungs burning as they dragged in icy air and blew out raw, exhausted sobs.

  “Everyone else has sleepovers all the time.” Nick puffs out a sigh. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’ll have one, too, love. I promise. One day. But right now I’d rather keep you at home where I know you’re—”

  “Fine,” he cuts in. “I get it.”

  “See you at three thirty!” I call after him as he strides off, shoulders hunched. “Don’t forget to phone me!” He doesn’t turn around. “I love you,” I add quietly.

  Despite his resistance, I will never, ever wave goodbye to Nick again without saying those words. Once he’s safely in his classroom, and I’m sitting at my desk at work, I know I’ll be fine. Parting is the hard bit, triggering memories of the one day he left home before I had a chance to tell him I loved him—the morning he ran out of the house before I could change my mind about him walking to school alone for the first time.

  I was arguing with Craig about it when I heard the front door slam, and I still have bad dreams most nights, waking up sweating and convinced I’ve heard that same bang. Lately, Nick’s shadowed eyes at breakfast have made me wonder if he’s having nightmares again about that day, too, or if there has been trouble at his new school. But he’s gone quiet on me, and even though I suspect the silent treatment is emotional blackmail to pressure me into allowing him to go to the sleepover, part of me dreads a more serious reason.

  Is it all happening again? He says not, and his form teacher, Mr. Newton, assured me he’s making friends and settling in well. But I can feel Nick changing—growing away from me. He used to tell me everything; now I suspect he only tells me what he knows I want to hear. Like Samir being the school chess champion. Next he’ll be telling me they’re only planning to play Scrabble and be in bed by eight o’clock.

  “Have a good day!” I call out croakily, needing to say it even though I know he’d rather I didn’t. He’d rather I didn’t come to the school at all: it draws attention to him, he complains, and he’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  Finally, Nick turns and lifts his arm in a half-wave. I smile and then sigh, shrugging as I catch the eye of another mum on the receiving end of an equally standoffish goodbye from her daughter. She smiles back, but I can see t
he inquisitiveness in her eyes. This school was supposed to be a fresh start, but gossip is like floodwater: it always finds its way. And rumors are like bullies: once they’ve latched on to you, they are impossible to shake off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two things greet me as I open the front door. The first is an official-looking envelope on the doormat; the second is a broken boiler. I realize the ancient appliance has finally died the second I step into the hall through a cloud of my own breath. The house is so cold that I almost turn around and go straight back to work. But it’s my afternoon off; I’m determined to fill it with something entertaining before I go to collect Nick.

  “You never know. Maybe this is a party invitation,” I joke to Marzipan, Nick’s tortoiseshell cat, who blinks disdainfully at me from her usual perch on the bottom stair. “My thoughts exactly,” I say, bending to pick up the envelope, knowing full well it’s more likely to be a letter from Craig’s lawyer.

  It’s the only way we communicate these days. Even our awkward doorstep chats have ended since Nick asked to put Craig’s visits on hold while he adjusted to secondary school. Whenever I mention it, he says he’s too busy, and while it’s true that dance rehearsals dominate every spare moment, I’m surprised at his reluctance to see his stepdad. They used to be close, and, despite my differences with Craig, I’d never keep Nick from seeing him.

  But I don’t want to think about my ex-husband now. I’ve got a whole two hours to myself; I want to enjoy them. Tucking the letter into my coat pocket, I pull out my phone instead, trying to decide who I might call on for coffee and a chat. I’m scrolling through my contact list when the landline rings. “Don’t run off. That’s probably for you,” I tease Marzipan, as she disappears haughtily into the kitchen.