Page 17 of Death Kiss

The next point makes me smile. There isn’t an obvious link, but that blurry newspaper photo shows they met.

I post Bill on the board, intending to research him in the morning, but finding myself in Ellie’s messages again.

ME: Do you know who Bill Corrigan is?

ELLIE: No, should I?

ME: Not sure yet. Maybe.

There’s a delay before my phone lights back up.

ELLIE: Another missing guy? He’s much older than Sam, though.

ME: Because so far, you’re the only person I have to grill.

ELLIE: Oh great. Sounds like you’re so close to figuring out where Sam is…

SEVEN

LIAM

Nothing quite like the atmosphere in a dining room with your girlfriend’s parents, who see you like pond scum. Kat and I stand near the table, looking at the three place settings.

They had only invited Kat to dinner, probably to talk her out of dating me, but Kat insisted we should come as a couple. To be a united front until they learn to accept us.

I have a feeling I’d be more likely to become Prime Minister than for them to approve of me.

For all their money and pomp, they certainly don’t appear to be conforming to general decency. Neither makes a move to grab another plate.

Their disregard makes me feel like a kid sent home from yet another family. The lack of blood ties making me lesser, as always.

Kat’s fingers thread into mine, reassuring me of her acceptance. The only one that truly matters.

‘You seem to have forgotten to lay the table for four,’ Kat says.

‘We only invited you, Katherine.’ Kat’s mother flicks her gaze toward me before sliding away.

‘And I told you that we were both coming.’ I squeeze Kat’s finger, knowing how hard she finds it to stand up to them.

‘I assumed he was dropping you off.’

‘Well, he’s not.’ Kat pulls me toward the table, dragging a chair over beside her set place. I sit where she directs, facing Mr Elliott, who looks utterly unfazed. The awkwardness of it all feels like a long-clawed mole raking its way through my stomach, yet he looks ready to tuck into some soup.

‘Good evening,’ I say, trying to relieve some of the tension in the air.

Mrs Elliott’s mouth draws into a thin line before she nods to a black-shirted man I hadn’t even noticed in the corner.

We sit in silence thick enough to make playdough shapes until the man comes back with three plates. It’s alien to me that this is how Kat grew up. In a dining room bigger than the cottage Dad and I lived in, with people who cook and serve hot meals rather than rooting around half-eaten tins of food or nibbling around the blue bits on bread.

Kat picks up her cutlery and splits everything on the plate in half, passing the fork to me in between each bit so we can both eat. Not that I feel hungry in any way. We’re only here because Kat’s parents said they had important news for her. I’m half expecting them to cart out some slick-haired finance bro in a bow with an engagement ring.

For Kat, obviously.

I hate that the dinner is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. It’s just a roast dinner, but like on crack. The meat is so tender it falls apart on my tongue, the sauce delicate yet full of flavour.

Damn. Shame you can’t ask for seconds when you aren’t even offered firsts.

It makes the carbonara I make for Kat a joke by comparison.