Chapter One
The problem with breakdowns is that you rarely see them coming.
Cars. Washing machines. Laptops. People.
It’s always so unexpected, and so very inconvenient.
If Sam could concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, that’s what she’d think about: how she never saw it coming.
One minute she was living the dream, and the next minute her whole world was collapsing around her.
Everything she’d ever known crumbled. Everything that had ever mattered stopped mattering.
Now, she looks back at herself as if she’s been two entirely separate people.
Past Sam and Present Sam. Simultaneously the same and completely different.
Past Sam was a successful police officer who trusted in justice, the morality of the law and her place in upholding it. She conquered Kilimanjaro just for fun, and hunted down rapists and killers with unfaltering enthusiasm. She was sexy and strong, and knew what laughter felt like.
Present Sam sits in Dr. Pete Thomson’s IKEA-chic office, thinking about nothing but the Lindt chocolate balls in the bowl on the coffee table in front of her and trying to ignore the sounds of London’s rush hour outside.
This Sam watches UK Gold endlessly and knows she should shower more often than she does.
She takes her medication and sleeps with no one but Ben and Jerry.
This Sam—the only Sam that’s left—feels like a shell of herself, the kernel rotted away forever.
She knows the doctor is talking to her, but she can’t for the life of her hear him, especially with those gleaming red balls screaming for attention.
Fuck you, Prozac, Sam thinks, and she reaches out to take a chocolate.
This week’s session has been about managing her physical symptoms. Nothing that happened was her fault, the doctor has reminded her.
A breakdown can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere.
But each person who’s experienced what the doctor calls a “negative event” will be left with different emotional and physical symptoms. Sam is still learning to identify and cope with hers.
It’s been a good session, in fairness to Dr. Thomson and those balls—
“Samantha?” he says, penetrating her thoughts with jarring abruptness. She hates it when he uses her full name. It makes her feel so … millennial. She could have told him that she preferred “Sam” in any of their twenty sessions to date, but she could never summon the energy.
“Yes, Doctor,” she mumbles, her cheek distended with the chocolate.
“We were talking about concentration being a major problem still,” he says with a light smile. Sam nods. “And energy levels? How are they?”
She shrugs.
“What about panic attacks?”
Sam shakes her head. She hasn’t had one of those since that day six months earlier, when her colleagues dialed 999 thinking she was experiencing a cardiac arrest.
“Good,” he says. “Headaches? Yes. We know those are an issue. Taking your medication at the same time each day might help there. Occasional tinnitus when you feel stressed. The usual suspects as far as physical symptoms go, really, but remember that you might experience new symptoms you aren’t expecting, and you might feel or do things that are out of character.
When that happens, just remember it’s OK and be kind to yourself… ”
Sam glances at the clock. Their session is nearing its close. The chocolate ball pops and the creamy interior floods her mouth. Maybe she should mention the salt she tastes sometimes. Perhaps that’s something the doctor could help with.
“Samantha?”
“Mmm?”
“I asked how you feel about going back to work?” She shifts restlessly as he brings up their most debated topic of late.
“Your BDI scores are better than ever, you’ve established a good routine, your symptoms are under control.
I really think it could be in your best interest to consider a phased return.
Even one or two days per week could be—”
“Is this you asking?” The melted chocolate muffles her words. “Or Harry?”
“Samantha…” Dr. Thomson rubs his forehead in a rare gesture of frustration. “Yes, Harry is my golf buddy,” the doctor concedes, “but he is also your godfather. He is your oldest friend, not to mention your Chief Inspector. He only wants what’s best for—”
“And you’re my doctor,” Sam says, hating that she sounds so petulant. “You shouldn’t try to persuade me to go back to work just because Harry thinks I should be there.” It’s the same thing she says each time the conversation comes up, which is weekly.
“Samantha,” the doctor says again, and she fights the sudden urge to throw a chocolate ball at his face, hard.
“It would be unethical of me to do that. I am your doctor first and foremost, and in that capacity, I care about you. In that capacity, I also want to challenge you to continue to progress. I fear we’ve reached a plateau, and you’re ready to take the next step in your recovery, which is to return to work.
At some point, you have to face what you’re so determined to avoid.
A phased return really can be beneficial to—”
“No.” Sam pulls both ends of another plastic wrapper and watches the sweet spin open. She palms the ball into her mouth and chews.
“How are you coping financially, Samantha?” Dr. Thomson asks. “Last session you mentioned that you were about to have your sick pay reduced to half salary? You seemed concerned that—”
“I manage,” she says, and it’s the truth—her savings are holding out, but she knows that won’t be the case for much longer.
“How about two, maybe three, days a week?” Dr. Thomson says, raising his voice slightly. “That would be a good starting point?”
Sam does some quick mental maths. If she worked two days per week, she’d qualify for full pay again, instead of the half salary she is now receiving.
She could afford to fix the washing machine or replace the torn lino in the kitchen.
She could hire someone to deep-clean the house; it’d be nice to see the surfaces again, and perhaps they’d discover the source of the smell in the fridge.
She swallows and tries to picture herself walking back into the grand New Scotland Yard building.
“I’m just not ready yet,” Sam says to herself, and the doctor nods. He leans back, scratching his head as if digging for a new angle of attack.
Sam reaches out to take another chocolate, but seeing that there’s only one left in the bowl she hesitates, her hand hovering. She pulls back reluctantly, leaving the gleaming treat for the next patient.
“We’ve talked a lot about your colleague DS Lowry in these sessions,” the doctor starts again.
“Obviously, Harry called in every favor he could to get Lowry out of the Metropolitan Police and far away from you, so you’ll never have to see him again.
It’s a shame he’s still in the police at all, but—”
A loud ringing sound starts up in Sam’s ears.
She closes her eyes but she can still see Lowry’s pudgy fingers sliding along her inner thigh; his dull wedding ring, his bitten fingernails spidering up between her legs.
Despite the fact that the man was trying to touch her without her consent, Sam can still remember the sudden rush of self-consciousness that her tights and underwear might be sweaty from a day’s work.
She tastes a familiar salty flavor in her mouth.
“We had no evidence,” Sam says, her tongue thick.
“It was my word against his. The only option was for Harry to persuade Lowry to leave our team of his own volition. I’m grateful, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready to go back there.
” Sam looks at the clock again. Still another hour before she can take a tablet to subdue the headache that stalks her through her days.
“I know you and Harry did the best you could under the circumstances,” Dr. Thomson says. “My point is that—”
“Doc, this is all too much. Let’s go back to the days when you used to witter on about journaling, or meditation. We once did a whole session on the benefits of walking barefoot on grass. Now, every week you just push me. And so does Harry.”
“We both want what’s best for you, Samantha. Especially Harry. He just wants to help you put this episode in the past and get back to solving crimes. You make this city a safer—”
“Give me a sick note for another month, Doc,” Sam says, standing. The doctor sighs and scribbles illegibly on a scrap of paper, then holds out the note.
“Same time next week, Samantha,” Dr. Thomson sighs. “I’ll have to let Harry know, since he’s footing the bill.”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, snatching the note from him and letting the door slam behind her.
The waiting room beyond the doctor’s office is eerily silent despite being full of people.
A couple clings nervously to each other in the corner, a pensioner stares out of the window while twisting clumps of her hair, and a young man in a smart suit reads a book—How to Get …
Sam can’t make out the rest of the title.
How to Get Rich or something equally desperate, she supposes.
Once upon a time, she’d have lingered to catch a glimpse of the cover before googling it and seeing how many stars it had.
Now, Sam simply doesn’t have the energy to be curious.
She descends the stairs and drags open the enormous front door, squinting into the day.
Outside, the May sunshine washes the gray sky with a hint of yellow.
There’s a cool, light breeze, but Sam is hot from her session and from the oversized Nordic sweater she now wears every day, taking comfort in its bulk.
With a ten-minute walk to the nearest bus stop—a real hike by London standards—Sam plugs in her headphones and navigates to her favorite playlist, full of Slipknot and Metallica, guaranteed to shut out the world entirely and not leave her crying like the Bob Dylan albums that used to be her go-to.
As she walks south toward Holland Park, she decides that she’ll treat herself to a cuppa and a pastry beside the ornate pond that is located at the center of what is, in her opinion, London’s best attempt at bringing the countryside into the city.
Sam loves the huge oaks, overgrown walkways and the way the tiny park manages to feel like a small slice of the Lake District or the Durham Dales, right here in the UK’s capital.
A visit to Holland Park will clear her head of the so-called therapy session and help the tightness in her chest dissipate.
No doubt Dr. Thomson has phoned Harry—DCI Harry Blakelaw, her boss—immediately, to update him.
Harry insists on being kept in the loop.
He calls Sam every Monday lunchtime, without fail, to see how she is doing.
Sam always answers Harry’s calls when they come; she knows that if she doesn’t, her godfather will turn up at her door with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and a concerned look on his face.
The mess her house is in right now, she certainly wants to avoid any home visits from him.
Sam breathes deeply, pushing Harry from her mind, and turns on to Holland Walk, a narrow alleyway with the park fence on one side and a high wall on the other.
At this time of year it’s brimming with vegetation and feels like a secret passage.
Although Sam loves it, she would be surprised if many women ventured down it alone after dark.
A father and young child on a balance bike come toward her and she moves aside, but the man stops. Sam pulls her headphones out.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know that the path up ahead is closed.”
“Oh, really?” she replies. “Thanks for—”
“Something bad’s gone on, that’s for sure,” he confides, and Sam notices his neck is flushed and there’s a glint in his tired eyes.
“The police took my details and everything. Must be something serious. Apparently the entire park is closed, and there are those people in white suits. You know, like that woman on Silent Witness?”
“SOCO,” Sam says, her eyes trailing up the shady path. “Scene of crime officers.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I wouldn’t bother going up. You can’t get through.”
An unfamiliar curl of curiosity unfurls within her, and she lingers a moment. A few more people wander back from the direction of the crime scene, all chatting excitedly. Sam stands, uncertain which direction to take. A couple passes her and she catches their conversation.
“… must be dead for that amount of fuss,” the woman says.
“Probably just an overdose, love, nothing to worry about,” the man replies.
But they wouldn’t close Holland Park entirely for a suspected OD.
Something bad has happened. Something very bad.
Sam walks slowly, and then with more purpose, along the lane.
At the end is the promised police barrier, deep in the shadow of the dense foliage.
A young officer turns pedestrians away. Sam approaches, rifling in her handbag and finding her ID.
She flashes her warrant card at the tall, blonde-haired officer holding a clipboard, who smiles and nods deferentially.
“Suspected homicide, ma’am,” she says, without Sam having to ask. “Young, female victim. I’m afraid it’s a child. Discovered in the early hours.”
“A known misper?” Sam asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer says. “A Missing Person Report came in from the father in the early hours of the morning and the description matches. Formal ID of the body still pending but…”
The officer sniffs. “She was strangled and positioned underneath a big oak tree over there. The man who found her thought the girl was sleeping. It was sort of … arranged, ma’am—the crime scene; organized, I mean.”
“Meaning this might not be the first kill,” Sam muses aloud.
“I couldn’t possibly say, ma’am,” the officer says. “That’s just how it looked to me. I was first on the scene.”
“Who’s running it?” Sam asks.
“Detective Chief Inspector Blakelaw. He’s just left. We haven’t been told who the lead detective will be, yet,” the young woman says.
“Thank you, Officer,” Sam says, but the woman is looking away from her now, wiping her eyes.
“It’ll never get easier, will it?” she sniffs. “When it’s a child.”
“I’m not sure it should,” Sam says with a sad smile.
The officer shakes her head. “She was just walking home.”
Aren’t they always, Sam thinks, and she thanks the officer and walks away, pulling her phone out of her pocket and hitting Dr. Thomson’s name. When he answers, she doesn’t hesitate, worried she’ll change her mind.
“OK, Doc,” Sam says. “I’ll go back to work.”