“You already are.”
He releases me, strokes my hair back from my face in a gentle gesture, and goes to get some coffee. I’m left staring after him.
By eleven, the camp is packed up and we’re on the move. As we head out of town, we pass a sandwich board outside a corner store. Black lettering surrounded by a thick red border, proclaims, WELSH RIPPER PLEADS GUILTY TO RAPE, MURDER OF THREE.
I suck in a breath. Cale sees it a moment after I do. He slows Jareth to a walk, gazing at the sign. Then he looks up and clicks his tongue, urging his horse into a trot. Several of the troupe reach across from their horses or down from the wagons to wordlessly pat his shoulders.
I don’t get a chance to talk to him properly until two nights later. First we have to get settled in the new town, and the next day Anouk, Elke and I spend the morning selling tickets. C
ale disappears in the afternoon. I think it must be to call his parents, and I see him heading back into his wagon, his face tense and closed.
Later that night we stand together in the dark, waiting for our cue to go on for our knife act. His hand sneaks over to mine and squeezes it, and my heart races. I look up, but he’s staring determinedly ahead, as if nothing is passing between us. His black hair gleams in the dim light. I wish I had any experience with men. I wish I’d been on a date, or even been kissed, because then I might know if there’s any hope that Cale might feel about me the way I feel about him. That fumbled not-quite kiss with Cale is the closest I’ve ever known to the real thing.
After the show, I wait backstage for it to be over and everyone to trickle back to their wagons, trusting that Cale will be one of the last to leave. Thankfully he is, and he comes toward me when he sees me waiting to one side.
He heaves a great sigh and gives me a wan smile, and I can tell he’s thinking he’s glad the day is over. He pulls the hair tie from his short ponytail and his black hair tumbles around his face. My fingers itch to reach up and run my fingers through the silken strands.
“How are you feeling? Have you talked to your parents?” I ask.
He grimaces. “How I’m feeling, I don’t really know. Mum and I talked, but it wasn’t a good talk. She was crying a lot. She says it’s her fault that we all got our hopes up, and that she misunderstood the detectives.”
I think of kind, motherly Mrs. Hearn blaming herself for the travesty in court. Feeling the grief over Mirrie’s death all over again, but even sharper this time, because she’s ashamed of accidentally misleading her husband and son. “It wasn’t her fault. If she thought that Sharrock was going to plead guilty, it’s the police’s fault. She only had what they said to go on.”
Cale lets out a gusty sigh. “That’s what I told her. There was a big fuck-up in the way they communicated with her and Dad. Mum believed that because he bragged to an undercover cop it meant that he was going to plead guilty.”
“Then it’s the detectives’ fault,” I retort angrily. “They should have explained to her that they didn’t have a signed confession or whatever they needed, or that Sharrock wasn’t necessarily planning on pleading guilty in court.”
Cale’s mouth quirks again as he looks at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You remind me of Mirrie sometimes. She took after Mum and would always speak her mind. I’m more like Dad. Placid. Just wanting an easy life.”
I look at him from beneath my lashes. I don’t know about that, because I’ve seen Cale’s temper flare up. He’s just as ready to stand up for what he believes in as much as I am.
“But he did confess,” I insist after several minutes. “He told the undercover cop he did it. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
We stand at the tent flap together, gazing up at the stars. “Apparently not. When the police questioned him about it, he claimed he was making it up.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Cale’s face hardens. “Neither do I. He killed her, but he won’t confess. I have my suspicions why.”
“You do?”
“The other women he killed were just that—women. Mirrie was only fourteen. She looked older, more like eighteen, which is why I think he went for her. It makes him a child sex offender as well as a murderer. I think he’s afraid of what would happen to him in prison if he was convicted.”
I’ve heard that child sex offenders get beaten up or killed in prison. If Cale’s right, Sharrock is never going to have a change of heart and confess. He’ll be looking out for his own skin. How callous can you be, to come clean for some of your crimes but not others, because you’re worried about yourself? But then, he’s a murderer and rapist. Callous doesn’t even begin to describe him.
I put my head on Cale’s shoulder in sympathy, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight against his side.
“What’s going to happen now?” I ask.
“The prosecutors are going to decide if they have enough evidence for a trial to go forward. There’s his alibi to check, and witness statements. Better forensic techniques. We just have to be patient.”
He doesn’t sound hopeful, and I don’t feel hopeful, either. Maybe they can prove that he doesn’t have an alibi for the murder, or put him in the area when Mirrie died, but it’s not much. And it was so long ago.
“Are you going to be okay?”