Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

not much of a TV person, anyway. I'll work out, or read, or something else. So I take the remote, and I point it at the box and..."

Abbie shook her head as though overcome by the memory. She was holding her hand up from the table as if clasping an invisible remote.

"You're taking the mick," said Ndidi.

Abbie pretended to be shocked. "No. I couldn't turn it off. I watched four episodes in a row. That day I learned I'm a reality TV addict. An unattractive personality trait, much like your desire to murder lanky people named Gary."

"I was not—"

Ndidi stopped himself. For a moment, Abbie had thought he was going to release an animal roar and toss the table across the room. Maybe he would have tried to murder her, even though she wasn't called Gary.

He got ahold of himself. Placed his palms on the table and took a calming breath, but it had been close. Abbie had almost pushed him too far. She had to remember not to work against herself. Had to notice when harmless fun was becoming something that might lead to her being trapped behind bars for the next couple of days.

Too long, in other words.

Having calmed himself, Ndidi said, in a flat, measured tone, "I was never going to murder Gary. I understand why you’ve drawn the conclusions you have, but I’m not who you think I am. I lost my temper and made a mistake and these—“ he jabbed the file again, “—are not because I want a second chance to attack Gary. They’re because I can’t go to jail.”

“Understandable,” said Abbie. “Cops don’t fair well behind bars for obvious reasons.”

“It has nothing to do with me,” said Ndidi. “It’s all about her.”

Opening his wallet, Ndidi ripped free a picture and slammed it onto the table, shoving it towards Abbie.

“A couple of weeks ago, my wife of seventeen years walked out on me. No note, no warning, no nothing. One day she was there; the next; gone.”

Before she knew what was happening, Abbie had lain a single finger on Ndidi's picture. Half expecting the detective to snatch it back, she slid the photo towards her. Ndidi did nothing.

“This is your daughter?” said Abbie.

“My beautiful little girl,” Ndidi confirmed. “Seven-years-old and motherless. So I’m not framing you and forcing you out of town because I’m scared for myself. I’m doing it because I can’t risk leaving my Isabella without a parent. I won’t. For that little girl, I would do anything.”

Her heart rate climbing, her throat constricting, Abbie could do nothing but nod. At least at first. All her focus went into keeping her face blank—into showing nothing of what she felt beneath the surface.

With a cough and a nod, Abbie managed to snap herself from paralysis and push the photo back to Ndidi.

"She's beautiful," Abbie said. "You must be very proud."

Nodding, Ndidi said, "She's the best thing I ever did. The best thing I'll ever do. I am proud, and I want to make her proud of me, too."

"She will be.” Abbie paused. “Idrissa..." and stopped herself. Ndidi had been replacing the photo in his wallet. At Abbie's word, wrought with emotion—she had lost control for a moment—he paused, looked at her.

"Yes?"

Abbie didn't know what to do for the best. She'd let the fear slip in, which was stupid. Idiotic. Now her startled cry was out there she had to support it with something, but she didn't know whether it was best to tell Ndidi the truth.

In the end, she couldn't stop herself.

"I think your daughter might be in grave danger."

There. It was in the world now—an unsubstantiated claim. And the worse thing was, Abbie couldn't substantiate it. Telling Ndidi she had dreamed of little Isabella was not likely to produce the result Abbie wanted. She had to think of something else. That shouldn't be too difficult. She'd been here many times before.

"Ndidi," she began. The photograph of Isabella had disappeared. Detective Ndidi slipped his wallet back into his jacket.

"You need to listen," said Abbie. Then someone knocked at the door.

Ndidi didn't pause to ask Abbie to explain herself and fast. He didn't tell her he'd be back in a moment. Without a word, he rose, walked to the end of the interview room, and threw open the door.

Another detective stood outside.

“Moore. What is it?" said Ndidi.

Abbie welcomed the distraction. It gave her time to consider how she was going to explain herself. How she could get Ndidi to trust her. Whether he was good or bad, his daughter would almost certainly be innocent, and Abbie needed to act.

"We've been looking for you," said Detective Moore. "Forty-five minutes ago, we received a call from a residential property. They'd heard an altercation taking place at their next-door neighbour's. There were raised voices followed by something the caller believes to have been a gunshot. Then a speeding car. The caller missed the number plate."

Abbie looked up. She had an idea of what she could say as soon as Ndidi returned to the table.

"What do you need me for?" said Ndidi.

"When the police arrived, they broke down the door and found no one inside except a girl in her late teens or early twenties. Currently unidentified, she'd taken a single bullet to the head. She must have died instantly."

"I still don't understand what this has to do..." Ndidi couldn't continue. His throat was dry, his voice had been hoarse. In some way, he already knew.

"The caller was your neighbour, Idrissa," said Moore. "We believe the deceased is your au pair."

Abbie closed her eyes. Put a hand to her heart. She knew what was coming.

"Your daughter..." said Moore. "Id, we believe the killers have taken your daughter."

Nine

Okay, so Abbie had made a mistake.

There was utter silence in the room for several seconds. The detective at the door looked concerned, afraid. Abbie placed her palms on the table and planted her feet. She had the feeling she might need to move. Fast.

For those first few seconds, Ndidi was