Out of Control Read online

  Also by Sarah Alderson:

  HUNTING LILA

  LOSING LILA

  FATED

  THE SOUND

  And, available as eBook originals:

  TORMENTING LILA

  LILA SHORTCUTS

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2014 Sarah Alderson

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Sarah Alderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-47111-575-2

  eBook ISBN 978-1-43914-380-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  www.simonandschuster.com.au

  For Lauren

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  Acknowledgements

  Information on Human Trafficking

  1

  The policeman is looking at me, his head tilted to one side, a deep line etched between his eyebrows. He taps his pen in a slow staccato rhythm on the edge of the desk. ‘What were you doing on the roof?’ he asks.

  I take a breath and try to unknot my cramping fingers, which are stuffed in the front pocket of the NYPD sweater I’m wearing. ‘I was just getting some air,’ I say. I sound like an automaton; my voice is toneless, lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  The policeman’s eyebrows rise. He scribbles something on his pad then glances up, catching sight of someone or something behind me. He stands quickly, tossing his pen on to the paper-strewn desk. ‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ he says, grabbing a mug from among the mess. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  I shake my head and watch him walk away, scratching the back of his neck. He stops on the other side of the room to talk to another detective, wearing a jacket emblazoned with the word FORENSICS. They glance over at me as they talk. I turn away and stare at the wall. I know what they’re saying. They’re saying that I’m a lucky girl. That the fact that I’m alive is ‘a miracle’.

  But if this is a miracle then I don’t think I want to know what kind of god these people believe in. A shadow falls over me. I jerk around. The other detective, the one in the forensics jacket, stands in front of me. My eyes fall to the heavy-looking gun in the holster attached to his hip. I recognise it. It’s a Glock 19.

  ‘Hi Olivia, I’m Detective Owens. Do you mind?’ he asks, indicating the empty chair beside me.

  I shake my head and he pulls out the seat and sits down heavily, as though the weight of a thousand dead bodies is piled on his shoulders. His shirt is as heavily creased as his face. He rubs a hand over his eyes. He has saggy grey bags under them but, now he’s closer, I can see he’s not as old as I first thought; maybe thirty-five, with dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble.

  ‘So, what I’d like for you to do,’ he says in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘is to walk me through what happened this evening.’

  I grit my teeth. I’ve already done this. I’ve been through it three times; once with the cop who answered the emergency call, and twice here at the station.

  ‘Just one more time,’ Detective Owens says apologetically, trying for a smile. ‘I know you’re tired, I know you’ve been through a lot, but we really need your help, Olivia. You’re the only witness. If there’s anything you remember – even if it seems like something trivial, we need to hear it. It might be the clue that helps us find the people who did this.’ He pauses. ‘Because, if I can be honest with you, there’s not a whole lot to go on right now.’

  I nod OK.

  ‘So . . . you get out of bed. What time is it?’ he asks.

  I frown. ‘Around one I think.’

  ‘Can you be any more precise?’

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture the room. There was a clock on the bedside table. I glanced at it when I turned the light out. It was just after midnight. I tossed and turned for at least an hour before I decided to give up on sleep, but I didn’t check the exact time.

  I shake my head at the detective.

  ‘Why’d you get up? Did you hear something? A noise in the house? Did something spook you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, still shaking my head. ‘I’ve not been sleeping very well. I have jet lag.’

  ‘Lucky for you, huh?’

  I don’t answer. I just fix him with a stare. He holds my gaze for a second and then looks away, down at the notebook cradled in his palm.

  ‘So you get up. Then what?’ the detective asks.

  I close my eyes and try to remember . . .

  I cross to the window. It’s sweltering hot, the night air torpid and thick as a quilt, threatening to storm. I’m wearing only a pair of pyjama shorts and a thin camisole top – the same things I’m still wearing now beneath the oversized sweater they gave me at the police station. The house seems to be breathing. There’s a clock ticking downstairs by the front door, the hum of an air conditioner, the ticking tink of the plumbing and the occasional sound of a car sweeping past on the street in front. Away in the distance a car alarm wails. My third-floor bedroom faces the back garden, a thin band of manicured green, walls stretching high on either side, trees blocking the view of neighbouring brownstones. Beneath my window is a jutting ledge, just wide enough for a foothold.

  I don’t think twice before I’m crouched in the window frame, my hands gripping the wooden sill, my bare feet slipping through and finding purchase on the crumbling brickwork. I take a deep breath, flattening my palms against the walls, feeling the familiar tightening in my belly, the rush that feels like stars shooting through my veins. I don’t look down at the ground four storeys below. I look up, at the moon, a dishwater-dirty half-circle shrouded behind cloud, and feel every cell in my body spark to life.

  ‘Keep going,’ Detective Owens says. ‘What happens next?’ he asks.

  I edge slowly along the windowsill, carefully, towards a drainpipe screwed into the wall. When I reach it I grasp it in both hands and then start shimmying up it, using the brackets as footholds. It’s not as high as some I’ve climbed – maybe ten feet before I reach the roof and scramble on to it, breathless, my legs trembling slig
htly. I stand, wiping off the dust and dirt from my hands on my shorts and then I balance on the very lip of the roof, my toes disappearing over the edge, feeling the first patter of rain dance on my bare arms. I stare at the tops of trees ink-stamped across the sky, at the water-stained clouds, and the thought whispers through my mind that I’m insane, that if I fell from this height I’d die for sure . . . but then the thought is swept away by a wave of pure adrenaline. I feel light as air, perfectly poised. There’s no way I could ever fall.

  And then I hear the tinkle of glass breaking somewhere far below.

  My arms whirl frantically as I fight to keep my balance. I tumble backwards on to the roof and crouch down low, my hands white-knuckled as they grip the ledge. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself angrily that it’s just breaking glass, that I’m stupid and just overreacting, and I’m forcing myself to my feet ready to go and investigate when a thud comes from somewhere deep inside the house.

  My stomach folds tight, all my instincts, everything I’ve ever learned from my father and from Felix coming into play: Steady your breathing, don’t succumb to panic, consider your options.

  Maybe, I think to myself, Mrs Goldman woke in the night and spilled a glass of water. Maybe one of them has fallen out of bed. They’re old. It’s possible. I’m jumping to conclusions that it’s something bad. I’m in New York, for God’s sake. It’s safe here. Safer, at any rate. I throw a leg over the ledge and reach for the drainpipe, readying myself to shimmy down so I can go and investigate, and just then I hear two muffled retorts. I freeze. I know that sound. I hear it in my dreams. I force my leg back over the wall and I cower behind the ledge up on the roof, wrapping my hands around my head, blocking my ears and shutting out the sounds that follow, until, what feels like hours later, a police siren shatters the night air.

  2

  Detective Owens writes it all down in his little notepad.

  ‘So you didn’t see who it was that entered the property?’ he asks.

  I sigh. Does he not think I would have told them already if I’d seen anything? ‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Like I said, I was up on the roof.’

  Detective Owens leans back in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip.

  ‘Why would someone do this?’ I finally ask, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘Was it a robbery?’

  He glances at me. ‘Nothing was taken, far as we can tell. From the looks of it, it was a professional hit job.’

  I blink at him in shock, trying to block out the image of the black zippered bags being carried out the house on metal gurneys. ‘Why would anyone want to kill them?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, Olivia. Mr Goldman was a lawyer, prosecuted a lot of criminals. Maybe someone bore a grudge.’

  He hands me a tissue and for a moment I stare at it wondering why he’s offering it to me, then I become aware of the tears sliding down my cheeks. I wipe my face. How can they be dead? Just a few hours ago we were all having supper together around their mahogany dining table. Mrs Goldman had made Parmesan chicken. Mr Goldman drank several glasses of wine before heading back to his study to finish some work. They’d been quizzing me about my final year of school and my plans for going on to study dance. And now they were dead. How was that possible?

  My mind jumps ahead, another thought surfacing. If I’d been in bed, would the killer have shot me too? If I hadn’t been on the roof, if I hadn’t had jet lag, if I didn’t suffer from insomnia . . . I could be dead right now. That was a lot of ifs to bet a life on.

  ‘Why were you staying with Mr and Mrs Goldman?’

  I look up at Detective Owens. ‘They’re friends of my father’s. I mean, they were friends of my father’s.’ The lump in my throat expands, threatening to choke me.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I didn’t really know them all that well,’ I say. ‘I was only meant to stay with them a few days, until my dad got back.’ I’m rambling, trying to block out the image of the bloodstained headboard and the crimson streaks all over the bed sheets.

  ‘Your father is Daniel Harvey,’ Detective Owens asks, ‘is that right?’

  I nod. He appraises me in what seems like something of a new light.

  ‘And he’s currently out the country?’

  ‘He’s away on business. I told your colleague. I think they’re trying to contact him now.’ I glance around. There are several other detectives and police officers in the room, all of them busy. The phones haven’t stopped ringing all night. A blackboard on one wall is covered in chalk markings. At the top it reads HOMICIDE in block letters. There are over a dozen cases listed and beside only three are scrawled the words CASE CLOSED. I watch someone write GOLDMAN in small neat letters in the final row.

  ‘Where’s your father on business?’

  I try to focus on the questions. ‘Nigeria. He’s working for the government. He’s the head of the GRATS task force.’

  Detective Owens smiles reassuringly at me, ‘What about your mother? Have you tried calling her?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know her number. It’s on my cell, which is back at the house.’

  ‘Where does your mom live? We can send a patrol car over so she can come and collect you.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible. She lives in Oman.’

  ‘Oman?’ he asks, his eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline.

  ‘It’s in the Middle East.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I knew that,’ he answers quickly. ‘So, both your parents are out of the country and currently incommunicado. Any other next of kin we can contact? You’re a minor. If we can’t find any next of kin we’ll have to contact child services.’

  ‘No,’ I say, suddenly alert. Child services? ‘I’m almost eighteen,’ I argue. ‘I’ll be fine on my own. I can go to my dad’s apartment. It’s on the Upper East Side. I know the doorman. He’ll let me in.’

  Detective Owens shakes his head grimly at me. ‘Sorry. Rules are rules.’ He stands up. ‘Have a think if there’s anyone you can call to come and get you. I’ll go check in with the crime scene folk, see if we can have one of them bring a few of your things over to the precinct.’

  ‘OK,’ I nod dumbly. I sink back into my chair as he wanders off and try to think of someone who I can call to come and collect me, but I can’t think of a single person. I’ve only been in New York for a week. The only people I knew were the Goldmans. I suddenly feel like resting my head on the desk and crying. I want my dad. I want this nightmare to be over.

  3

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A burly policeman with an enormous gut is trying to edge past the desk I’m sitting at. He’s got his hand firmly locked around the arm of a boy wearing a dark hooded sweater and jeans, who looks barely older than me. I edge over in my seat to allow them to pass and turn to watch as the cop shoves the boy into a chair just a few feet away from me. The boy’s jaw works angrily, his eyes dart once around the room, taking me in with a narrowed look of suspicion before the cop barks something at him that gets his attention. It’s only then that I notice the handcuffs. He hunches over, almost as if he’s trying to hide them from me. I stare at him more closely, wondering what he’s been brought in for. Then I remember we’re sitting in the homicide department.

  ‘Name,’ the cop demands.

  ‘Jaime Moreno,’ he answers quietly, spelling it out. He says it with a slight Spanish inflection so it sounds like Hay-may. As the policeman writes it down, the boy looks over at me briefly and I see something flash in his eyes – pride or anger, I can’t tell which. Maybe it’s both.

  ‘You’ve been read your rights,’ the cop says now. ‘You got one phone call, Moreno. If I were you I’d use it to call your momma and tell her you ain’t gonna be home for a while.’ He stretches, reaches for a pencil. ‘You know, you could make this go a whole lot easier if you started talking.’

  I watch the boy carefully. His face is turned in profile to me. His chin is low
ered and he glowers at the cop through the shield of his lashes but doesn’t say a word.

  The cop leans back in his seat. ‘Fine by me, if you don’t talk,’ he says, undoing the top button of his shirt. ‘No sweat off my sack. I’m not the one who’s facing twenty-five years in a New York State penitentiary. Maybe I wouldn’t be talking either in your shoes. Those some crazy mofos you messing up with. Hell, I’d probably be too busy shitting my pants too if I was the one sitting where you are right now.’ He pushes back from the desk, freeing his belly, stands up and stretches. ‘I’ll just go and see if a cell’s opened up.’

  Once he’s gone, the boy stays sitting there, his shoulders slightly hunched, his jaw working overtime. His lips are pressed together tightly and his hands are clenched in his lap as if he’s praying. I almost feel sorry for him. Then I see the board of open murder cases on the wall in front of me and my sympathy magically evaporates. I hope if this boy’s guilty they lock him up and throw away the key.

  I sit with my back to the boy, my foot tapping, waiting for Detective Owens to return. By the clock on the wall it’s nearly five a.m. I’ve been here three hours, but I’m hoping the detective takes his time as I haven’t yet thought of anyone I can call, and I’m still wracking my brains when I hear: ‘Pssst.’

  I don’t turn around.

  ‘Pssst. Hey.’

  I do a quick scan but the three cops left in the room are all busy and I can’t catch anyone’s eye.

  ‘Please.’

  I turn fractionally towards the boy behind me who’s trying to get my attention. ‘What?’ I ask.

  His eyes flit across the room before landing back on me. He keeps his voice low as he bends forwards. ‘I need a favour.’

  I raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief. What makes him think I’m about to do him a favour? He’s a stranger. And he’s wearing handcuffs.

  As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking – which admittedly, given the look I’m fixing him with, wouldn’t be hard to guess – he raises his own eyebrows right back at me. ‘What happened to innocent till proven guilty?’