Archive of Our Own

It was Tuesday, and it was raining.

It rains every day in this godforsaken country, John thought to himself.

The wipers dragged back and forth across the windshield, struggling more than they should have. The radio muttered something about flood warnings, but he’d already heard it twice that afternoon and turned the volume down without really listening.

Tuesday meant paperwork. Tuesday meant Northampton traffic and lukewarm coffee and a case that refused to resolve itself neatly. He’d left the station later than planned, again, because one last thing had needed doing, and then another.

There was always another.

It got annoying some days. John loved his work, he really did, but sometimes, between commuting more than half an hour to work every day and taking care of Izzy, he just couldn’t afford staying two more hours.

Well, today he could.

It hadn’t been planned originally, but when the weather forecast first announced the heavy rain in the afternoon and through most of the night, and there was a warning to try to drive as little as possible, he called Maya’s mother.

She was a kind woman, and when John awkwardly asked if his daughter could stay the night, since he didn’t feel comfortable picking her up from Towcester so late, she agreed quickly.

Maya and Izzy would love a sleepover anyway.

John sighed as he kept driving, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting against the door. The heater hummed quietly, fighting the damp cold that had crept into everything hours ago and refused to leave.

The radio crackled again, the presenter’s voice clipped and overly calm.

“-and we’re now receiving reports of a collision on the A43, traffic at a standstill in both directions. Drivers are advised to avoid the area if at all possible-”

John snorted softly and reached over to turn the volume down another notch.

“Wouldn’t have taken it anyway,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.

He’d learned that lesson years ago. One accident and the whole road turned into a parking lot. Banbury Lane might be slower on a good day, but at least it moved.

His thoughts drifted, as they always did once the worst of Northampton traffic was behind him. He pictured the fridge light spilling out into the dark kitchen, the satisfying hiss of a bottle cap coming off. The couch. The remote. Some half-forgotten crime show he wouldn’t really watch, just let play while his body finally caught up with how tired he was.

God, he was tired.

Rain streaked sideways across the windshield, more frequent than before now, the droplets blurring the hedgerows into dark green smears. Water gathered along the edges of the road, reflecting the dull orange glow of the occasional streetlamp and the bright light of the pickup's headlights.

John eased his foot off the accelerator, the pickup rolling obediently slower.

She’ll be fine, he told himself, not for the first time. Izzy would be halfway through a bag of crisps by now, probably, legs tangled up with Maya’s on the sofa, whispering about something that absolutely did not require whispering. He smiled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little.

The truck cut through a stretch of standing water with a low hiss.

He didn’t worry. The pickup had seen worse.

His thoughts drifted, against his will, back to the board in his office.

Three faces stared back at him from memory alone now. School photos. Different towns, different families, but the same age range. Thirteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

There’d been no witnesses, and no blood, no actual evidence, just bedrooms left exactly as they’d been the evening before, bikes still chained outside, phones charging on nightstands.

John tightened his grip on the wheel.

He hated these kinds of cases. Always had. They were rare, but they happened.

Sometimes, John felt like they were worse than murder, because with murder, there was a killer running around, yes, but the absence of the slow, sickening stretch of time where every hour mattered and still slipped through his fingers, where someone could be getting hurt and he couldn’t find them, were worse.

His sigh fogged faintly in the cab and vanished.

The road curved gently ahead, disappearing between high hedges. Rain pattered against the roof of the cab, steady and insistent. Somewhere farther off, water rushed through a ditch, louder than it should have been.

John drove on, slower now, eyes tracking the pale ribbon of asphalt as it bent out of sight.

John didn’t see the car until the very last second.

The bend opened up abruptly, hedges pulling back just enough for the road to reveal itself – and then red lights flared in the dark. He swore under his breath, slammed his foot down on the brake and wrenched the steering wheel to the right. The pickup lurched, tyres protesting as water sprayed up around them.

“Fuck-”

The truck came to a stop a few meters ahead, engine idling roughly, John’s heart thudding hard against his ribs.

He sat there for a moment, both hands still tight on the wheel, staring at the glow of hazard lights reflected in the rain-slick road behind him.

A car. Just standing there.

Right in the middle of the lane.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

For half a second, maybe even less, he considered just driving on. Calling it in once he was home. Letting someone else deal with it.

It was late. It was raining.

He was tired.

“Christ,” he muttered, already reaching for the indicator.

John pulled the pickup forward a little, far enough to leave space, and flicked his own hazard lights on. The rhythmic click-click filled the cab. He grabbed his jacket, tugged the hood up, and pushed the door open.

Cold rain hit him immediately, seeping down the back of his neck. The water on the road was deeper than it had looked from inside, deep enough to creep up around his boots until it brushed his ankles. He grimaced and waded back toward the other car, careful with his footing.

The street was poorly lit, just a single lamp some distance back, and the inside of the car was pitch-black. He couldn’t see more than a vague shape behind the wheel.

“Hello?” he called out, raising his voice over the rain.

No response.

He stepped closer, rain drumming against the roof of the car, and rapped his knuckles against the driver’s side window. Once. Then again, a little firmer.

The interior light flicked on.

The face that turned toward him was young. Younger than he’d expected. Pale, dark hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, clinging to his forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped together like he’d wiped at them one too many times. He looked scared, then embarrassed, then wary, all in the space of a heartbeat.

The window slid down a few centimeters with a quiet whine.

“Sorry,” the kid said immediately, voice hoarse. He had a slight Italian accent, John noticed. “I- I didn’t see you coming. I’m not trying to block the road, I just-”

“It’s alright,” John cut in, lifting a hand instinctively. “You okay?”

The kid hesitated, shoulders hunching slightly, like the question was more difficult than it should have been.

“I mean. Yeah. Technically,” he said, a humorless huff slipping out. “I’m fine. The car’s not.”

John leaned down a little to hear him better, rain running off the edge of his hood. Up close, the kid looked even younger. Eighteen, maybe. Nineteen at a stretch.

“What happened?” John asked.

He shrugged, a small, helpless motion. “I don’t know. I drove through some water back there and then all the lights came on. It just stopped. Won’t start anymore.” He glanced down at the dashboard, then back up. “I tried calling someone, but I don’t have any reception, and then my phone died.”

As if to prove the point, he held up his phone briefly. The screen was dark.

John straightened slowly, rain soaking into his jeans and jacket, slowly filling up his boots, and looked down the road in both directions. Empty. Quiet. The water was creeping higher by the minute; at least, that was what it felt like.

“Right,” he said. He paused, then added, softer, “You shouldn’t be sitting out here.”

The kid nodded, eyes flicking nervously to the road behind John. “I know. I just don’t really know what else to do.”

There was a beat. Two. John opened his mouth, closed it again.

“Look,” he said finally, the words tumbling out before he could think them through properly, “I live nearby. Couple of minutes up the road. You can come with me, dry off a bit. I’ve got Wifi, you can call whoever you need from there.”

The kid blinked at him.

“Oh,” he said. He looked stunned, and slightly worried. “I-”

Another pause. The rain seemed louder suddenly.

“You don’t have to,” John added quickly, realizing suddenly how weird the situation must’ve felt from the kid’s perspective. “Just- seemed better than standing in the middle of a flooded road.”

The kid looked past him again, at the water pooling around the tyres, at the dark stretch of lane disappearing into nothing.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly, after a moment. “Okay. That would be- that would be really nice, actually.”

John nodded once, already turning back toward the pickup.

“Alright then,” he said. “Come on.”

The kid pushed the door open and stepped out into the rain.

John noticed it – years of being a detective helped with that – the dark patch spreading across the back of his jacket, soaked through like he’d been lying half under the car at some point. Mud streaked one sleeve. His trainers were already ruined.

“Back’s wet,” John said, nodding toward him. “You try to fix it?”

The kid huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. For a bit. Thought maybe it was something obvious.” He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Guess not.”

“Leave the hazards on,” John told him, taking a step toward the pickup. “We’ll call someone to tow it once we’re at mine.”

He hesitated, looking back at the stranded car like he was apologizing to it. Then he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

He climbed into the passenger seat, careful, like he didn’t want to ruin the seats with rainwater. Not that it mattered; it dripped steadily from his clothes onto the rubber mat anyway.

John shut the door and pulled his own seatbelt on, the click loud in the small space.

“Seriously,” the kid repeated, hands clasped tight around the straps of his backpack. “Thank you. I- I didn’t know what to do anymore.”

“It’s fine,” John replied, easing the truck back onto the road. “Really.”

The words hung there.

Rain battered the windshield harder now, wipers struggling again as they dragged water aside. The road ahead was darker than before, swallowed by hedges and shadow and rain. For a while, neither of them spoke.

“So,” John said eventually, clearing his throat. “What’s your name?”

The kid blinked, like he’d been startled out of a thought. “Oh. Uh- Andrea.”

“Alright,” John said. “I’m John.”

“Nice to meet you,” Andrea said, seemingly automatically.

“Yeah,” John replied. “You too.”

Another stretch of silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but dense. A bit awkward.

John reached out and turned the radio up a notch, just enough to fill the cab without demanding attention.

“-further warnings remain in place across Northamptonshire,” the announcer was saying. “Drivers are advised to get home as quickly as possible and to avoid unnecessary travel. Flooding on rural roads can become dangerous very suddenly-”

John glanced briefly at Andrea, then back at the road. “Good advice,” he muttered.

Andrea nodded, eyes fixed on the windshield. “Yeah.”

The pickup rolled through another shallow pool of water, slowly. John adjusted his grip on the wheel, muscle memory doing most of the work. He was trying to drive as carefully as possible now that he had another passenger.

He could feel Andrea watching the road too, body tense, like he was bracing for something to jump out in front of them.

“You from around here?” John asked, keeping his tone light.

“Not really,” Andrea said. “I’m… staying in Brackley at the moment.”

“Ah,” John replied. “Where are you from then?”

Andrea tilted his head slightly. “Italy, around Bologna.”

“Bologna?” John repeated, flicking his eyes toward the hedgerows. “That’s a very nice city. I’ve never been there myself, but I’ve only heard good things.”

Andrea smiled faintly at that, then let his forehead rest briefly against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the rain blurred everything into streaks of grey and dark green and blue.

“So what does bring you to Brackley? Not exactly a number one vacation spot.” John asked, wanting to fill the silence.

Andrea snorted slightly. “It’s definitely not. I’ve just got to do some work things.”

“Work things?”, John repeated, again, but Andrea just hummed, eyes still fixed on the road, so he didn’t push.

The radio kept murmuring on, the truck humming steadily beneath them as John guided it along the last stretch of flooded lane toward home.

They turned the last corner, and the road narrowed until it barely felt like a road at all. The hedges fell away abruptly, opening into a tiny cluster of houses huddled together.

Five, maybe six buildings at most, no shops, and no streetlights beyond a single flickering lamp at the far end. Some lights in the houses were turned on; John knew that Misses Hadley, his neighbor, a friendly but slightly pushy lady in her eighties, was probably still reading in her living room.

John slowed and pulled up in front of the third house on the left.

It wasn’t big. Two stories, light grey brick darkened by years of weather, the ground floor set slightly higher than the road with a short set of concrete steps leading up to the front door. The windows were black, curtains drawn. No porch light, and no welcoming glow spilling out into the night. It was different when Izzy was home.

John glanced briefly toward the side of the house, where the basement windows sat just above ground level, half-hidden by shrubs. Relief flickered through him, quiet and practical.

At least I cleared it out, he thought. If it flooded a little, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

John killed the engine and climbed out, rain immediately soaking into his sleeves again.

Andrea was slower, hesitating just a beat before opening his door. When he did, John caught the way his shoulders tightened.

“You alright?” John asked, already heading for the steps.

“Yeah,” Andrea said quickly, grabbing his backpack again. “Yeah.”

They hurried up the steps and inside, John fumbling briefly with his keys before the lock finally gave. The door opened with a familiar creak, warm air brushing against them. John quickly turned on the light; it flickered slightly before settling on a warm, bright shine.

“Shoes,” John said automatically, toeing his own off as he stepped inside.

“Oh- sorry,” Andrea said at once, already bending down, fingers clumsy as he tugged his trainers off. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” John replied, closing the door behind them and shaking rain from his jacket. “You’re all good.”

The hallway was narrow and cluttered – a shoe cupboard to the left, its door permanently ajar, sneakers and boots spilling out around it, a row of hooks on the wall, coats hanging in their usual places – John’s heavy jacket, Izzy’s bright blue one, a faded raincoat that hadn’t been worn in years.

The walls were crowded with framed photos: Izzy at seven, missing her front teeth; Izzy on a beach somewhere, hair full of sand; a family photo where Lucy’s arm was slung casually around his shoulders, all of them squinting into sunlight.

Andrea stood just inside the door, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him, eyes darting everywhere and nowhere at once.

John picked up their shoes and set them neatly beneath the old heater by the wall, flicking it on with his foot. It rattled to life, groaning before beginning to push out lukewarm air.

“Stay right there a second,” he said, shrugging out of his wet jacket. “I’ll get you something dry.”

Andrea nodded, not moving an inch.

John took the stairs two at a time. The upper floor smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something sweeter underneath, maybe vanilla from one of the scented candles Izzy liked to light in her room.

His bedroom door was half open. Inside, the room was tidy in a functional way: his bed was made, and his desk clear. A framed photo on the bedside table caught his eye – Lucy, laughing, head thrown back, caught mid-moment. He registered it distantly and kept moving.

Later, his brain said. There’s time later.

He stripped off his own damp clothes, pulling on fresh jeans and a clean sweatshirt, then crossed to the wardrobe. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a pair of black sweatpants and a washed-out grey hoodie, the words Los Angeles barely legible across the front.

He hesitated, then added a pair of fuzzy socks and clean boxers to the pile.

Just in case.

When he came back downstairs, Andrea was exactly where he’d left him. Same spot, and same tense posture. He looked up immediately, eyes flicking to the bundle of clothes in John’s arms.

“Thank you,” Andrea said quietly, taking them and clutching them close to his chest. “Really. I-”

“It’s fine,” John cut in gently. “Bathroom’s this way.”

He led him down the short hallway toward the back of the house, stopping briefly to take Andrea’s phone from him.

“Give me that,” he said, holding his hand out. “I’ll plug it in while you change.”

Andrea hesitated, suspicion flashing across his face, quick and instinctive. Then he swallowed and handed the phone over anyway.

“Uh. Okay.”

John noticed the way his fingers lingered for half a second, like he wasn’t sure he’d get it back.

“I’ll be right in here,” John added, already turning away. “Shout if you need anything.”

Andrea nodded, hugging the clothes closer to his chest. “Okay.”

John plugged the phone in on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up briefly before going dark again, and leaned back against the wall. Rain rattled against the windows, steady and relentless. From the hallway, he could hear the soft click of the bathroom lock, and the faint rustle of fabric.

After standing there for a few seconds, John moved through the motions on instinct.

He walked through the low, door-sized arch in the wall, where the dining and living room bled together into one long space.

A wooden table sat closer to the kitchen, chairs pushed back at odd angles because no one ever quite remembered to tuck them in. Farther in, there was an old couch with cushions that didn’t match anymore, a coffee table scarred with rings from too many mugs set down without coasters. A floor lamp stood crooked in the corner, its shade slightly dented.

John stopped by the table.

Magazine out. Chamber clear. The weight of the gun in his hand was familiar as he set it on the dining table, before unfolding the cleaning cloth beside it.

He’d put it away in a minute. After the kid was settled.

John walked back to the kitchen, more out of habit than intention.

It was small, with narrow counters and wooden cupboards that had once been a warm honey color and had dulled with age. The worktop was crowded in a familiar way: a knife block with one slot permanently empty, a half-used roll of kitchen paper, a bowl of different fruits.

The fridge hummed quietly, its surface cluttered with postcards held up by mismatched magnets – places he’d been, places Lucy had wanted to go, cards Izzy had bought simply because they had dolphins or castles on them.

John leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely, listening. The house made its usual noises around him, like the tick of cooling pipes, the distant rattle of rain against the windows.

He told himself not to hover.

The bathroom door opened a moment later.

Andrea stepped out carefully. He’d changed fully, the black sweatpants bunching a little at his ankles, the hoodie sleeves hanging past his wrists. His damp clothes were folded over one arm, backpack slung over the other shoulder. His hair was still wet, but lighter now, water no longer beading at the ends of his curls.

“There’s a mudroom just back there,” John said, nodding behind him. “I’ll throw these in the dryer.”

Andrea hesitated, then handed the clothes over. “Thanks.”

John took them and ducked into the small utility room tucked behind the kitchen. It smelled faintly of detergent and dust. He tossed the clothes into the dryer, shut the door, and turned the dial with a familiar click.

When he came back out, Andrea was standing in the same spot, eyes fixed on the kitchen counter.

His phone.

At the sight of it still there, and properly plugged in, something in his posture eased visibly, shoulders dropping a fraction as relief caught up with him.

“You can go through there,” John said, gesturing with his chin toward the archway. “Make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ll make some hot to chocolate. Once you’ve warmed up a bit, we’ll call someone about the car. And someone to come get you.”

“Okay,” Andrea said. “Yeah. Okay.”

He hesitated only a second before stepping through the arch, disappearing into the dim living room. John turned back to the cupboards, opening one, then another, searching for mugs. Izzy always managed to put everything in the wrong place; he’d have to sort through everything again in a few days.

He found two eventually, mismatched but clean, and set them down on the counter.

He was reaching for the door of the fridge when-

A sharp, sudden gasp cut through the house.

John froze.

The mug slipped from his fingers and hit the counter with a hard clink as he spun around, heartbeat already accelerating, and strode toward the living room.

John rounded the corner just in time to see Andrea jerk backward.

For half a second, nothing made sense – Andrea’s shoulders tight, his eyes wide and fixed on something behind John, his breath coming fast and uneven.

As soon as he saw John come into the room, though, Andrea jerked forward, and his hand closed around the gun on the dining table.

“Hey-” John started, the word coming out sharper than he meant it to.

Andrea moved quickly, clumsy with panic but decisive all the same. He didn’t aim the gun – not that it would’ve mattered, it was unloaded anyway – instead, he dragged it toward himself and stumbled back, putting the solid bulk of the table between them.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor as it tipped over.

“What the fuck is this, man?” Andrea shouted. The Italian lilt John had barely noticed before surged to the surface, voice tight with fear. “What the fuck is this?”

His free hand shot out, finger shaking as it pointed past John – toward the wall.

John turned despite himself.

The board loomed in the half-light. It looked worse from a distance, he realized belatedly. Less like work, and more like obsession.

Three photographs were pinned near the center, printed on plain paper.

School pictures, all of them.

One boy with crooked teeth and a wide grin on his face. A girl with dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her expression serious. Another boy, younger-looking, freckles scattered across his nose.

Red string stretched outward from each photo, looping and crossing in careful lines that led to other things – headlines clipped from local papers, dates written in thick black marker, grainy stills taken from security footage. A map was pinned lower down, corners curling, several towns circled in red. A picture of a car. A house. A bus stop.

Andrea let out a laugh that didn’t sound amused in the slightest.

“You think I’m stupid?” he snapped. “You bring me here, you give me clothes, hot chocolate-” His voice cracked on the last word. “You think I don’t see this?!”

John raised both hands slowly, palms out. His heart was pounding now, loud enough that he could feel it in his throat.

“Andrea,” he said carefully. “I need you to listen to me.”

“Don’t fucking move,” Andrea shot back, tightening his grip on the gun. His knuckles had gone white. “You do this often?! Huh?! You grab kids off the road, play the good guy, the helpful stranger?!”

His gaze flicked over John’s face, sharp and searching. “Must’ve thought you got lucky with me.”

John blinked. “What?”

“You know who I am,” Andrea pressed, breath hitching. “You must. This- this wasn’t random.”

John shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Andrea laughed again, harsher this time. “Bullshit.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.

““I’m a detective,” John said finally, his voice lower and quieter now. “Northamptonshire Police. I couldn’t sleep last night, so- I put that board together because I couldn’t shut my head off. Three kids went missing in the last two months. Different places, and there's no witnesses, no bodies, nothing.”

He swallowed. “I think better when I can see it. That’s all it is.”

“That’s all?” Andrea echoed, incredulous. His eyes flicked back to the photos, then to John again. “You expect me to believe that?”

"I can show you my badge.”

Andrea’s head snapped toward him. “No.” He took a step back, bumping into the fallen chair. “No, don’t reach for anything.”

“I’m not reaching,” John said quickly, freezing mid-motion. “It’s in my pocket. I was just-”

“You could have another gun,” Andrea cut in, voice climbing again. “You could have anything.”

“I don’t,” John said. He took a careful breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Andrea, look at me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Andrea shot back. His eyes were bright now, glassy.

“Okay,” John said, nodding once, more to himself than anything else. “Okay. You’re scared. I get that. Anyone would be.”

Andrea scoffed. “You don’t get it.”

“Maybe not,” John admitted. “But I’m trying.”

He glanced, just briefly, at the gun in Andrea’s hand. The magazine lay on the table, separate, exactly where he’d left it.

That didn’t help how this looked.

“Tell me what you need right now,” John said. “To feel safe.”

Andrea hesitated. His jaw worked, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “You stay where you are.”

“I can do that.”

“And you don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t.”

Another pause. The rain rattled against the windows.

“You said I could call someone,” Andrea said finally. His voice was quieter, but no steadier for it.

“Yes,” John said immediately. “Your phone’s still charging. It’s on the counter.”

Andrea glanced toward the kitchen, then back at John, suspicion still written across his face. “And you won’t try anything.”

“I swear,” John said.

Andrea took a cautious step toward the kitchen.

It was barely a movement from John’s side, one foot shifting, transferring his weight, but it was enough.

Andrea froze mid-step, eyes widening.

“No-” He stumbled back again, breath hitching violently. “No, no, no. That’s what you want, right?!”

His voice rose, sharp and shaking. “You want me to come closer so you can grab me? Drag me downstairs?!”

His gaze flicked wildly toward the hallway, toward the stairs he’d probably seen when coming in earlier, and then back to John, and then back to the board. His breathing was harsh but shallow.

“Do whatever you did to them?”

John’s stomach dropped.

“Andrea, stop,” he said, panic creeping into his voice despite himself. “There is no basement thing-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Andrea shouted.

“Fottuto psicopatico- you think I don’t know how this goes?!”

His chest heaved. “You act nice, you wait until they trust you, and then-” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale. “And then they don’t get to go home.”

John shook his head hard. “I would never-”

Andrea’s gaze snapped past him again, back to the kitchen counter.

The space John had just been standing in.

“Oh my god,” Andrea breathed, horror dawning all over his face. “You were making something.”

John felt cold all over.

“What?”

“The kitchen,” Andrea said, voice trembling now despite his attempt to sound angry. “You were in there. Hot drinks. You were going to drug it, weren’t you?”

“No,” John said immediately, too loudly. “No. Jesus, Andrea- no.”

He took a half-step forward without thinking.

Andrea flinched violently, gun jerking upward in reflex, though it still wasn’t pointed directly at him.

“Don’t move!” he screamed. “Don’t- don’t you fucking move!”

John stopped dead.

His hands were shaking now. He hadn’t even noticed when that started.

“I was making hot chocolate,” he said, slower this time, forcing each word to stay level. “Just hot chocolate. Because- because it’s cold. That’s it.”

Andrea laughed again. “I bet that’s what you always say.”

John opened his mouth, desperate now, searching for something – anything – that would cut through this spiral of fear.

Then his phone started ringing.

The sound sliced through the room like a knife.

Andrea startled so hard he nearly dropped the gun. He swore under his breath, scrambling back another step.

“What- what is that?” he demanded. “Who is that?”

John stared at the phone still lying on the dining table, buzzing insistently. He couldn’t make out who was calling from where he was standing.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I didn’t expect-”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “Is that one of them?” he snapped. “Your accomplice?”

“What? No!”

“Answer it,” Andrea barked. “Now. Put it on speaker.” His voice cracked again, fury barely holding together the panic underneath. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

John swallowed.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, two fingers extended as he reached for the phone. He made a point of not breaking eye contact as he picked it up and turned on the speaker.

“Hello?” he said.

“Dad?”

Izzy’s voice filled the room – too bright and too normal, completely wrong against the backdrop of everything else.

“Hey,” John said, the word catching in his throat despite his best effort to keep it steady. “Hey, love.”

Andrea went very still.

“I just wanted to check in,” Izzy continued, oblivious. “Uh – Maya’s mum said the rain’s getting really bad. You home yet?”

John nodded reflexively, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m home.”

“Good,” Izzy said. “You sounded tired earlier.”

John closed his eyes for half a second. “I was.”

There was a pause on the line. “Is everything okay?”

Andrea stared at him, eyes narrowing, searching his face like he was trying to catch him in a lie.

John forced a small smile into his voice. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Andrea let out a shaky breath, head lowering just sligthly.

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Izzy didn’t fill it the way most thirteen-year-olds would have. She waited, probably thinking.

“Dad,” she said carefully. “Did something happen at work?”

John’s grip on the phone tightened. Andrea’s head snapped up at the question, eyes flicking from John to the phone and back again.

“No,” John said. Too quickly. He forced himself to slow down. “Nothing new.”

Another pause.

“Did you-” Izzy hesitated, then tried again. “Did you find them yet?”

Andrea sucked in a sharp breath, the sound loud in the room. His fingers curled tighter around the gun.

John swallowed. “No.”

Izzy exhaled softly. “Okay.” A moment passed. “Then- you shouldn’t beat yourself up over it. You always do that. It’s not your fault.”

John’s chest ached. “Thanks, love.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, quiet but certain. “You always keep trying.”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t trust his voice.

When he looked back up, Andrea was watching him with renewed intensity. The anger had dimmed, but the suspicion was still there, sharp and wary.

An idea popped into John’s head.

“Izzy,” John said slowly, an idea forming even as his heart pounded. “I think I’ve got someone here who might want to talk to you real quick. Is that okay?”

There was a confused rustle on the other end. “Uh… okay?”

John nodded once, as if to himself. He leaned forward slightly, lowering the phone until it rested flat on the dining table. Then, very deliberately, he slid it across the wood toward Andrea and took a step back.

Andrea stared at it for half a second, then snatched it up.

“Is that really your dad?” he demanded into the phone. His voice shook.

Izzy was clearly startled, but she answered the question anyway. “Yes?”

“What does he do?” Andrea pressed. “Like- his job.”

“He’s a detective,” Izzy said. “With the police.”

Andrea’s eyes flicked to the board again. “Have you seen that- that board in the living room?”

“The case board?” Izzy asked. “Yeah.”

“What’s on it?” Andrea shot back. “What kind of case?”

Izzy hesitated. “Missing kids,” she said quietly.

Andrea’s breathing stuttered. He hesitated, then spoke again, more cautiously this time.

“Do you… do you come home late a lot?” he asked into the phone.

Izzy sounded genuinely worried now. “Yeah. Sometimes. Depends.”

“And when you do,” Andrea pressed, “is it just him? Like – no one else around?”

“Usually, yeah. I mean, it’s just us most of the time.”

Andrea’s gaze flicked toward the hallway, then back to the phone. “What’s downstairs?”

Izzy paused. “Downstairs?”

“The lower floor,” Andrea said quickly. “Down the stairs in the hallway.”

“Oh. The basement,” Izzy said. “Storage, mostly. Old boxes. Uh – dad cleared most of it out last week because it kept getting damp.”

Andrea closed his eyes for a second.

“Does he- does he hit you?” he asked, the words tumbling out rough and unpolished. He looks surprised at his own question.

John balled his hands into fists by his sides, the pure thought of ever hurting Izzy making him nauseous.

Izzy’s voice sharpened. “No. He’d never.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Andrea lowered the phone slowly, his shoulders sagging as something inside him finally seemed to give. He didn’t look at John right away.

John felt his own body loosen just a fraction as well. The pounding in his ears dulled. His hands, still hanging by his sides, stopped trembling.

Andrea slid the phone back across the table without a word.

Izzy’s voice came through again, softer now. “Dad?”

“I’m here,” John said.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” she asked.

John looked at Andrea. He looked even more exhausted than before, still staring at the case board, but there was also something calm on his face now. A bit like realization.

“Yeah,” John said, voice airy. “I think- I think we’re getting there.”

John lifted the phone again, fingers still careful, as if the wrong movement might break what little calm they’d managed to build.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said. “Stay dry, yeah?”

“Okay,” Izzy replied. There was a small pause, then, softer, “Good night, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you too,” John said.

The call ended.

For a heartbeat, the room was completely silent.

Then Andrea’s face crumpled.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other as his breath hitched. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t know, I didn’t- I thought-”

His voice broke, the anger draining out of him all at once, leaving only raw panic behind. “I was just scared, okay? I didn’t know what was happening, and everything looked wrong and-”

He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, eyes shining. “I shouldn’t have- fuck, I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

John stood there, frozen for a moment.

“It’s alright,” John finally said, keeping his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Andrea shook his head, tears slipping free now. “I accused you of-” He laughed weakly, though it sounded more like a sob, then pressed his lips together, shaking.

“You were scared,” John repeated. “Anyone would’ve been.”

Andrea’s gaze flicked to the table, to the gun still in his hand. After a second’s hesitation, he set it down sharply, pushing it away from himself as if it burned.

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he said gently, nodding toward the couch. “Try to relax a bit. I’ll finish that hot chocolate. And if you want, I can call someone for you. No rush.”

Andrea hesitated, then nodded, wiping his face roughly with the sleeve of the hoodie. He moved slowly around the table, every step tentative, before curling up on the far end of the couch. He pulled knees up toward his chest, hugging them with his arms.

John waited until Andrea was settled before turning back toward the kitchen.

He moved on autopilot. Milk into two mugs, microwave, two spoons of cocoa powder each, stir. It was simple, and it was familiar.

By the time he carried the mugs back into the living room, Andrea was huddled deep into the cushions, a blanket wrapped around him like a shield. His eyes lifted when John approached, wary but no longer wild.

John set one mug down on the coffee table, then the other, careful to keep his movements slow.

“Careful,” he said quietly. “It’s hot.”

Andrea nodded, reaching out slowly, fingers closing around the mug. He stared down at the steam curling up into the dim light.

John stayed where he was, hands wrapped loosely around his own mug until the heat started to bite, before he spoke again.

“If you want,” he said, nodding toward Andrea, “I can call someone for you now.”

Andrea hesitated, then nodded.

“Can you call… um.” He cleared his throat. “A friend of mine is also staying in Brackley right now. His name’s George, I can give you his number.”

John took his phone out of his pocket carefully, dialing the number Andrea dictated quickly.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Then it was picked up.

“What?” came the voice on the other end – sharp, impatient, like someone who had been interrupted doing something important. “Who’s this?”

John straightened without thinking, shoulders squaring, a familiar calm settling over him.

“Hi,” he said evenly. “Sorry to call from an unknown number. My name’s John. I’ve got your friend Andrea here.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You have who?” George said, the irritation evaporating into alertness.

“His car broke down on Banbury Lane,” John continued. “Flooding’s bad out there. I brought him to my place so he could dry off and charge his phone.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Is he okay?”

Andrea leaned forward on the couch, blanket slipping from one shoulder, eyes fixed on John’s face.

“He’s safe,” John said. He didn’t really know how else to respond.

“I’ll come get him,” George said immediately. “Send me the address.”

John didn’t even hesitate.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

Silence.

“Excuse me?” George said.

“The roads are flooded,” John went on, voice firm now, clipped in that he’d talk to a person present at a crime scene. “There was already a crash on the A43. Visibility’s bad, water’s pooling in the low stretches, and it’s not letting up tonight. You’d be risking both of you.”

Andrea’s fingers tightened around the blanket.

George exhaled sharply. “So what are you suggesting?”

John glanced at Andrea. Really looked at him – curled inward on the couch, eyes red-rimmed, exhaustion written into every line of his posture.

“He stays the night,” John said. “Just until morning. Once the weather clears.”

The pause this time was long enough that John wondered if the call had dropped.

Then George said, slowly, “Can I talk to him?”

“Of course,” John replied immediately.

He handed the phone back to Andrea without comment and stood up, taking a step away to give him space. Andrea took it with both hands.

“George?” he said. His voice wobbled, then steadied. “Yeah. I’m- I’m okay.”

John turned away before he could hear more, moving back toward the dining table. The gun still lay where Andrea had set it down, magazine separate, cloth folded beside it.

As he picked it up, everything finally clicked.

He wasn’t a big sports person, but he liked listening to the radio when he drove. Long commutes had a way of turning considers-irrelevant things into background knowledge, and motorsport came up often enough to stick - young drivers being signed early, commentators speculating about pressure and talent.

He remembered a teenager’s name being mentioned more than once, as well as one ‘George Russell’, usually followed by the word ‘Mercedes’.

Standing there now, the pieces slid together with a quiet inevitability. The way Andrea had talked about being a catch. The urgency on the other end of the line.

Right.

Jesus.

John forced the thought aside as he carried the gun into the kitchen, setting it down on the counter. He picked up the cloth and began cleaning with slow, methodical movements, keeping himself deliberately busy.

From the other room, Andrea’s voice drifted through, fragmented pieces of their conversation.

“…I know-”
“…yeah, maybe Toto can…”
“…I was scared, okay? I didn’t…”
“…he’s police, George. He’s- yeah. I know, okay-”

John focused on the weight of the gun in his hands. He didn’t go back into the living room, and he didn’t listen any closer.

Andrea appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, phone held out in both hands like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“He’s… he’s going to come by in the morning,” he said quietly.

John wiped his hands on the kitchen towel and took the phone back. “That’s fine.”

George was still on the line.

“I’ll be there first thing,” he said. The tension in his voice hadn’t gone anywhere; it had just tightened into something sharper. “I appreciate you helping him out. Truly.”

“Of course,” John replied.

There was a brief pause. Then, deliberately, “You understand that if anything’s not as he’s said-”

John didn’t bristle. He’d heard worse. “I do,” he said evenly. “And I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Another pause. “Tell me the address.”

John did, dictating it once, then again to be sure. The line went dead a second after they exchanged some awkward pleasantries.

He set the phone down and looked back at Andrea.

The kid hadn’t moved. He stood near the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes flicking between the floor and John’s face nervously.

“You hungry?” John asked gently.

Andrea shook his head immediately. “No. I- I’d just like to sleep, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. I'll call someone to tow the car.”

They climbed the stairs in silence, the house calm around them again. The guest room sat across from John’s own, a narrow hallway separating the two. John opened the door and stepped aside.

The room was simple but clean. A neatly made bed with a dark blue cover, a dresser with nothing on it but a spare alarm clock and a small bedside lamp. The bathroom door stood open, light spilling across the tiles.

Andrea hovered in the doorway.

“There’s a lock,” John said, gesturing. “And the bathroom’s yours. Extra towels are under the sink. Toothbrushes in the second drawer.”

Andrea nodded, swallowing. “Thank you. And-” He hesitated. “I’m really sorry. About earlier.”

John shook his head. “No need.”

He walked back into his own room, grabbing another stack of folded clothes – a pair of jeans he knew were too tight for him anyway, another sweatshirt, clean socks and boxers, a t-shirt – and handed them over. “For tomorrow.”

Andrea took them carefully. “Thank you. Really.”

John nodded, an then lingered just long enough to add, “There’s no second key.”

That seemed to matter most of all.

“Good night,” Andrea said.

“Good night,” John replied.

He stepped back into the hallway. A moment later, he heard the soft, decisive click of the lock turning.

John exhaled.

Downstairs, he moved through the house on autopilot, turning off lamps, checking doors, listening to the rain hammer against the windows. He called a towing service nearby - they couldn't get the car the same night, but they could get it the next morning. When everything was dark, he climbed the stairs again, changed, and sank into bed.

Sleep took him almost immediately, deep, heavy, and long overdue.

The morning light filtered through thick clouds, and even though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the driveway was still slick and glistening. John got up and ready, moving quietly so as not to wake Andrea. He shuffled into the kitchen, grabbed his phone, and called the station.

“Morning,” he said into the receiver, voice steady despite the low hum of anxiety lingering in the back of his mind. “John here. I’ll be doing some casework from home today – reviewing files, going over some reports. Roads are still messy, so it’s better I stay put.”

There was a pause on the line, then a voice acknowledged him. “Understood. Keep us posted.”

John hung up, then leaned against the counter, letting his eyes drift over the kitchen. Even in the dim light, the room smelled faintly of cocoa from last night.

He took a deep breath, hoping that the calm would last.

He decided breakfast should be more than just coffee. A quick glance at his phone and some light research on what a professional athlete might eat in the morning gave him enough direction. He pulled out the oats, measured milk into the pan, and set it on the stove.

The soft smell of the steam as it warmed reminded him of domestic mornings back when Lucy was still alive.

While the porridge thickened, he washed and sliced an apple and banana, scattered a handful of berries across a small plate, and arranged everything neatly at the table. It felt important – he liked little rituals like this, and the care in small acts often translated into a sense of control he didn’t get in the field.

A soft creak from the stairs drew his attention.

Andrea appeared in the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched, hair damp and sticking up in soft spikes. The clothes John had lent him fit better today, sleeves still a bit long, but much less awkward than yesterday.

Andrea’s eyes flicked up, briefly scanning the kitchen, lingering on the bowls and fruit before settling on John.

“Morning,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

“Morning,” John replied. He gestured toward the chair nearest the table. “Sit. You should eat something.”

Andrea gave a small nod and obeyed, sliding into the chair hesitantly. John placed a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him, next to the plate of fruit and a jar of honey.

“Thank you,” Andrea murmured, fingers brushing the edge of the bowl.

John smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. I hope it’s good, I haven’t really had to make breakfast in some time.”

It was true – he preferred not to eat in the morning himself, and Izzy was very self-sufficient.

Andrea dug in, spoon scooping carefully at first, then with growing confidence. Every bite seemed to relax him a little more.

Watching him made John want to make breakfast more often.

“This is really good,” he said after a few mouthfuls, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

“Glad you think so,” John replied, chuckling softly. “And… no talking while chewing. Rules in this house.”

Andrea froze, then flushed a deep shade of pink. “Right. Sorry.”

They ate in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of a spoon or the muted sound of water dripping onto the windowsill outside.

By the time they had finished, even the drizzle had stopped, but the sun was nowhere to be seen, and probably wouldn’t be for some time.

The bell rang sharply, slicing through the quiet.

“I’ll get it,” John said instinctively, standing and brushing his hands on a tea towel. Andrea followed, but John barely noticed.

He opened the door, and froze.

George Russell stood there, casual in a dark rain jacket, hair damp, a faint frown on his face. Behind him, parked neatly in the driveway, was a Mercedes that gleamed even in the gray light, probably five times the value of John’s truck.

His brain stopped working for a moment.

Then Andrea pushed past him, not aggressively, but urgently, and George was already leaning down slightly, arms wrapping tightly around him.

John could see Andrea’s arms pressed into the sides of George’s jacket, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He was trembling slightly, like he was holding back tears. George held him close, breathing quietly, eyes closed, hugging him for a few long, steady seconds.

John stayed at the doorway, awkwardly watching, letting them have it. He felt like it was impossible to intrude on this, like he was just a silent guardian in the background.

When they finally separated, George stepped back just enough to look at Andrea, both hands lingering on his shoulders. “You okay?” he asked softly.

Andrea nodded, leaning a little into the touch. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

George glanced at John, a polite but sharp look that implied recognition and appreciation both. “Coffee?” John offered.

“Thank you,” George said, shaking his head. “But we should get back to Brackley soon.”

John nodded in understanding. He watched as Andrea rushed past him and inside, probably to grab his backpack and clothes from yesterday.

“So,” he said, leaning against the door frame, “you made it through the whole flooding fiasco just fine, right?”

George raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I didn’t have to drive, though, I wasn’t leaving Brackley last night. Andrea told me his car broke down?”

John nodded, hands still tucked loosely in his pockets. “Yeah. Wouldn’t start, was what he said. It should've been towed away already. He was… well, he was soaked and shivering. Didn’t want him sitting out there.”

George hummed once. “Sounds about right. I appreciate you looking out for him.”

John shrugged, smiling faintly. “Just doing my job, from my perspective.”

Andrea returned from inside, wearing his shoes and jacket, as well as his back backpack over his shoulder. George chuckled, his hand lightly ruffling Andrea’s hair. “Still counts. Thank you.”

Andrea paused as he came to a stop next to George, looking between the two men.

“Thanks again,” he said quietly. “For last night, and… everything.”

John gestured toward the door with a small, reassuring smile. “You’re welcome. Really. Take care.”

Andrea hesitated a fraction longer, then stepped forward and hugged John firmly. “I’m sorry again,” he whispered, head resting on John’s shoulder.

When John realized he was on his tiptoes to hug him, he leaned down slightly, also wrapping his arms around him. His hair still smelled faintly of the spare shampoo John kept in the guest bathroom, and his arms were warm where they wrapped tightly around his waist.

George smiled at them, and John patted Andrea’s back. “It’s okay, really. You’re fine.”

When the car pulled away, tires splashing lightly in puddles, John watched until it disappeared down the lane.

Inside, the house felt quieter than it had in days.

He glanced toward the dining room. The case board – photos, clippings, string – still stood. He swallowed, a knot forming in his stomach. The images of missing teens, the lines of connection, the details he had poured over for a whole night, were all still hanging there.

He felt uneasy seeing them now.

He went forward, methodically taking down each photo, removing pins, winding string, stacking papers. By the time the wall was bare, the unease had lifted slightly.

The board would be safer back at the office, where it belonged, away from his living space.

It was Friday, and for once, it wasn’t raining when John stepped outside to retrieve the mail.

Between bills and a postcard from his aunt, a single, unusually thick envelope stood out.

Mercedes-Benz Motorsport, in bold lettering, written on the sender.

He brought it inside carefully, slicing the edge with a small blade.

Inside were two driver cards – both hand-signed, one by Andrea, the other by George.

Beneath them were two letters.

The first was from Toto Wolff. It was obviously well thought through, typed and then printed out except for the signature, and John scanned over it quickly before reading it more carefully.

Dear Mr. Byrne,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I am writing to personally thank you for the assistance and care you provided to Andrea during the evening of the 27th. Given the circumstances, you acted with calm, professionalism, and a great deal of humanity. That is not something we take lightly.

Andrea is a young man under considerable pressure, and while that does not excuse fear-driven reactions, it does make your patience and restraint all the more meaningful. You ensured his safety, treated him with respect, and ultimately allowed him to regain a sense of trust in a moment where that was difficult for him. For that, both personally and on behalf of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team, I extend my sincere gratitude.

I would also like to express my appreciation for your discretion. Situations such as these can easily be misrepresented, and it is reassuring to know that Andrea’s well-being was your priority rather than publicity. We would, of course, be very grateful if this matter were to remain private.

Should you ever find yourself attending a Grand Prix or visiting Brackley, please do not hesitate to reach out. You would be most welcome.

With kind regards,

Toto Wolff

The other was obviously handwritten by Andrea himself, but seemed no less thought through.

Hi John,

I don’t really know how to start this without sounding stupid, so thank you. For everything.

I’m sorry again for how I acted that night. I know I already said it more than once, but I still feel bad about it. You didn’t deserve the things I said or thought, and I hate that fear made me see danger where there wasn’t any. You were trying to help, and I made it harder than it needed to be.

Thank you for taking me in, for the hot chocolate and the food, for giving me space and for your patience. Thank you for calling George, and for listening even when I wasn’t making much sense.

Also, sorry for taking your clothes. If you ever want them back, just say the word.

That night could have ended very differently, and I don’t like thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stopped. I won’t forget that.

Thank you for being kind to a stranger.

Andrea

John sat down heavily at the table, putting both letters down, turning the cards over in his hands.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head, and stuck the cards to the fridge with magnets, right next to Izzy’s school photo.

Then he sat back down back in his chair, sipping his coffee, letting the quiet of the house settle around him.

His emails and calls could wait. For once, he allowed himself to just breathe, finally feeling a feeling of closure.