Read Online The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Jensen
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you, Ali .’ I tell myself not to read too much into it. The gesture could have been born out of pity, from a place of friendship. It shouldn’t feel like a beacon of hope. But somehow it does.
The journey passes in a flash, and I’m almost home when I hear it, the alert tone on my phone, and it’s a relief – I must have dropped it in the car – I no longer have to replace it. That’s one less thing I have to do today.
Eager to catch up with my messages, my foot squeezes the accelerator, colours blur as cars rush by, until, at last, I screech into my driveway, the car at anodd angle, but I cut the engine anyway. My hand stretches under the seat, fumbling around for my phone, and I find my clutch bag that I had on Saturday night.
The screen lights up as I press the home button on my mobile. There’s only six per cent of battery left. There’s a string of notifications but it’s the last one that catches my eye and, as I read it, I feel a sharp stab of fear. It’sfrom Instagram. A comment on one of my photos, although I know I haven’t uploaded one for ages.
WTF have you been up to, Ali??
12
After Branwell has been outside for a wee, he reacquaints himself with the lounge, nose twitching into every nook and cranny. I plug my phone into its charger and open my Instagram account once more, ignoring the messages asking what I’ve been up to, and study the strange photouploaded instead. It was posted on my account in the early hours of Sunday morning, presumably by me. It’s dark and grainy, a complete contrast to the Saturday sunshine brunches and shades of autumn dog-walking pictures I used to post, Matt and I crammed into the corner of the shot, grinning at the phone held in his outstretched arm. Scrolling through my account I can’t see anything else I don’trecognise among the endless photos of the chameleon sea; grey and angry, mutinous clouds bunched overhead; blue and sparkling under a clear blue sky. My favourite photo is perhaps the message Matt carved into the damp sand with a stick Branwell had found:
I Love Ali
I’d had to step backwards to see it clearly, crunching blackened seaweed underfoot,the wind whipping my hair. Saltwater stinging my eyes. Branwell yapping at the roaring waves, paws damp as he darted forwards and backwards. Matt’s arms around my waist, my head resting back on his shoulder. Feeling utterly loved. Utterly content. The perfect day. I can’t quite bring myself to delete my account but it’s too painful to look at, and that’s why I find it hard to believe I have postedthis photo. I double tap it, frowning as it fills my screen.
There’s not much to see. There are shades of grey at the front of the photo that fade to a choking blackness. There’s a rectangle to the right of the screen that’s a different contrast to the rest of the shot. Something looming ominously towards me. I draw the phone closer to my eyes. I think it’s a building. What could be inside?Or who? Fear prickles in my stomach along with something else, a hint of recognition. Did I take this photo, and why did I post it with such a cryptic caption?
dark things happen on dark nights
No wonder people are curious. Desperate for answers I call Chrissy. ‘ Sorry, too busy being fabulous. You know what to do. ’ But when I try and leave a voicemaila mechanical tone tells me her inbox is full. I rattle off a text instead.
I’ve found my phone! Are you having a good time? Where are you?
Frustrated, I open Facebook and, ignoring my notifications, search Chrissy’s name to see if she’s posted anything that might lead me to her. As her page loads I notice she’s changed her header photo. Previously,it was us at Jules’s birthday barbecue, James flipping burgers in the background, wearing an apron designed to make him look like a woman in suspenders and stockings. Her new image has ‘choose love not hate’ in swirling pink letters. And I roll my eyes, wondering who she’s choosing to love this
The journey passes in a flash, and I’m almost home when I hear it, the alert tone on my phone, and it’s a relief – I must have dropped it in the car – I no longer have to replace it. That’s one less thing I have to do today.
Eager to catch up with my messages, my foot squeezes the accelerator, colours blur as cars rush by, until, at last, I screech into my driveway, the car at anodd angle, but I cut the engine anyway. My hand stretches under the seat, fumbling around for my phone, and I find my clutch bag that I had on Saturday night.
The screen lights up as I press the home button on my mobile. There’s only six per cent of battery left. There’s a string of notifications but it’s the last one that catches my eye and, as I read it, I feel a sharp stab of fear. It’sfrom Instagram. A comment on one of my photos, although I know I haven’t uploaded one for ages.
WTF have you been up to, Ali??
12
After Branwell has been outside for a wee, he reacquaints himself with the lounge, nose twitching into every nook and cranny. I plug my phone into its charger and open my Instagram account once more, ignoring the messages asking what I’ve been up to, and study the strange photouploaded instead. It was posted on my account in the early hours of Sunday morning, presumably by me. It’s dark and grainy, a complete contrast to the Saturday sunshine brunches and shades of autumn dog-walking pictures I used to post, Matt and I crammed into the corner of the shot, grinning at the phone held in his outstretched arm. Scrolling through my account I can’t see anything else I don’trecognise among the endless photos of the chameleon sea; grey and angry, mutinous clouds bunched overhead; blue and sparkling under a clear blue sky. My favourite photo is perhaps the message Matt carved into the damp sand with a stick Branwell had found:
I Love Ali
I’d had to step backwards to see it clearly, crunching blackened seaweed underfoot,the wind whipping my hair. Saltwater stinging my eyes. Branwell yapping at the roaring waves, paws damp as he darted forwards and backwards. Matt’s arms around my waist, my head resting back on his shoulder. Feeling utterly loved. Utterly content. The perfect day. I can’t quite bring myself to delete my account but it’s too painful to look at, and that’s why I find it hard to believe I have postedthis photo. I double tap it, frowning as it fills my screen.
There’s not much to see. There are shades of grey at the front of the photo that fade to a choking blackness. There’s a rectangle to the right of the screen that’s a different contrast to the rest of the shot. Something looming ominously towards me. I draw the phone closer to my eyes. I think it’s a building. What could be inside?Or who? Fear prickles in my stomach along with something else, a hint of recognition. Did I take this photo, and why did I post it with such a cryptic caption?
dark things happen on dark nights
No wonder people are curious. Desperate for answers I call Chrissy. ‘ Sorry, too busy being fabulous. You know what to do. ’ But when I try and leave a voicemaila mechanical tone tells me her inbox is full. I rattle off a text instead.
I’ve found my phone! Are you having a good time? Where are you?
Frustrated, I open Facebook and, ignoring my notifications, search Chrissy’s name to see if she’s posted anything that might lead me to her. As her page loads I notice she’s changed her header photo. Previously,it was us at Jules’s birthday barbecue, James flipping burgers in the background, wearing an apron designed to make him look like a woman in suspenders and stockings. Her new image has ‘choose love not hate’ in swirling pink letters. And I roll my eyes, wondering who she’s choosing to love this
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