Fifteen minutes later I double-park outside the café and run inside. Adrienne’s not there. The waitstaff look at me, bewildered, as I bark questions at them. One of them finally speaks up.
“The girl with the pink hair? She left over an hour ago, by herself. The woman with her left a few minutes later.”
I feel the knot in my stomach clench. More than an hour ago. Alone. She could be anywhere by now. I run back outside and get into my car, and make myself sit and think for a moment. They must have had a fight. Remembering Adrienne’s liking for walking when she’s upset, I drive back toward the house, circling every block as I go, looking for a girl with pink hair. She’s nowhere in sight.
When I reach the house I pound up the steps and open the front door. “Adrienne?” I shout into the silence. “Adrienne?”
Cursing myself for an idiot I call both Adrienne and her mother’s phones again but get no response. The vile letters and pictures depicting Adrienne’s death and torture swirl in my mind. Please be all right, babygirl.
My phone buzzes and I see Adrienne’s name flash up on the screen. I groan, half in irritation and half in relief. But when I read the message I realize it’s not from Adrienne at all, and my blood runs cold.
* * *
My eyes open slowly and the light is harsh and fluorescent, blinding me. The sheets beneath my fingers feel stiff from over-laundering, so unlike my own soft cotton sheets. The mattress feels wrong, too. It’s hard beneath my back.
There’s a dark shape in the corner, and as I move, it lengthens.
Suddenly someone’s standing over me. “Adrienne, you’re in hospital. You were suffering from severe hyperglycemia but they’ve given you insulin and corrected it now.” The speaker doesn’t sound very reassuring. His voice is tight with emotion.
I sit up, or try to at least. I feel groggy, and hands capture my shoulders and press me back down again. It’s Dieter. His face is gray with worry.
“Dieter,” I say, the terror of recent memories flooding back. Being locked in the storage room without my insulin or my phone. The terrible thirst, the shaking, the worry that seemed to escalate the dizziness and panic. Who would find me locked in the basement on a Saturday? Who had done this? “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all right,” he says, but he’s not looking at me and I feel like he’s not even listening to me.
A door opens and I hear high heels clip-clopping across a linoleum floor. A breathy voice says, “Darling, you’re awake. How do you feel?” My mother looks the same as she did at brunch except her eyes are hollow with worry. Her hands reach for my right one and hold it too tightly.
“I’m okay,” I say, and I do feel okay, really, apart from being a little groggy and tired. What’s worse is the memory of those last conscious hours, and seeing what I’ve put Dieter and my mother through.
“Your blood sugar climbed too high and you slipped into unconsciousness,” she explains, “but they were able to correct it quickly after you were found.”
Dieter flinches at the mention of unconsciousness, then looks down.
I struggle into a sitting position and look around. It’s a private room with a window looking out onto a car park. There’s a drip in the back of my left hand. The bedside table next to me is empty except for a plastic jug of water and a cup. Dieter’s standing on my left, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets.
My mother and Dieter just look at me, waiting for an explanation. I’m going to get in so much trouble for this. Not so much from my mother, though I can see how much I’ve upset her. It’s Dieter whom I’ve disobeyed, and I can feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves.
“Can I have some water?” I ask, to delay speaking a little longer. Dieter pours it out and I sip it.
“Mr. Vanderbroeck says you were locked in a storage room at the college, darling,” my mother prompts. “But what happened?”
I take a deep breath, looking down at the cup in my hands. “Well...after I left you, Mum, I saw a message on my phone from one of the girls at school who needed help with the exhibition. Dieter wasn’t expecting me to call for ages so I thought I’d just get it done. The Slade’s not so far away from the café, you know. When I got there all the paintings had been taken down and their wires cut. Celeste had said she wanted to rearrange them but had ruined the look of it all.” I grimaced. “She really had. But she wasn’t there. I thought I’d just do it all again, so I went downstairs to get more wire and...”
“The door closed behind you? Was there no handle on the inside? That’s outrageous health and safety practice,” she says.
“No, I think—I’m pretty sure, actually—someone closed it and locked me in. I’d left all my things upstairs.”
My mother stands up, rigid with anger. “Was it someone at the Slade? What sort of people are they letting in? They could have killed you.”
But her anger is only making me feel worse. Maybe I’ll feel angry later, but right now all I can think is that this is my own stupid fault. “Mum, can I talk to Dieter alone for a few minutes?”
She looks up at him as if she’s forgotten he’s there. “Yes. Yes, all right, darling. I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”
She leaves, and we’re alone together. The silence stretches.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“The, um, whoever locked you in seemed to have a change of heart and texted me from your phone.”