Chapter 50
Charlie tilted the driver’s seat as far back as it would go, every bit as uncomfortable as you’d imagine a six-foot-two man might be if he was spending the night cramped in a small old sports car.
He offered up silent thanks to his father for being of the car rug generation, glad to have something for warmth at least. Not that it was cold, but the suggestion of comfort was welcome all the same.
He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the lingering trace of Jojo’s scent as he’d pulled it over himself, and he’d closed his eyes and allowed the rug and the car to feel like his father’s arms around him.
What he wouldn’t give. To the rest of the world Jojo Francisco had been a firecracker of a man, raconteur and fierce competitor, but to Charlie he’d been father, best friend, and protector-in-chief.
Charlie hoped that if he could see his son right now, he’d approve of the decisions he’d made of late.
He’d parked the car far enough away from the fancy-dress shop for Kate not to spot him, but still close enough to keep watch for anyone suspicious in a balaclava.
She’d told him she wanted to handle things her way and he absolutely respected that, and there was every chance she’d already done enough to put a stop to things.
But he wasn’t prepared to gamble where Kate was concerned.
Setting the alarm on his mobile for five a.m .
, he closed his eyes and tried to find a position where the gearstick wasn’t jabbing his knees.
—
Kate slept badly and woke well before her five a.m .
alarm, too full of nervous energy to lie in bed and let her mind race down dark avenues.
She’d usually pick up her phone and doomscroll in these situations, but she held steady to the pact she’d made with herself the day before.
She was going to wait until after she’d opened up the shop at nine o’clock, then make coffee and dive into her phone.
By that time she’d know for sure if her TV appearance had worked.
If balaclava man turned up again today, she’d made the decision to say enough is enough and involve the police.
A hopeful part of her wanted to feel she’d seen him off herself, although even that scenario had its downside.
She’d always wonder who he was, what had driven him to such lengths.
She couldn’t face food, and coffee tasted like ash in her mouth.
She showered and clock-watched, putting the radio on for company as she pulled her hair back in a low bun and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Looking in the mirror, she added a slick of mascara and gloss, armor because she was done cowering.
She was ready to sit outside, and if balaclava man dared to come again this morning, she was going to film him and file a police report.