{"product_id":"the-keeper-isbn-9780143134527","title":"The Keeper","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Gripping, devastating...Breathtaking' Clare Mackintosh\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Powerful and chilling, with a shocking twist' \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e________________\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe's been looking in the windows again. Messing with cameras. Leaving notes.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSupposed to be a refuge. But death got inside.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eWhen Katie Straw's body is pulled from the waters of the local suicide spot, the police decide it's an open-and-shut case. A standard-issue female suicide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the residents of Widringham domestic violence shelter where Katie worked don't agree. They say it's murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill you listen to them?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn addictive literary page-turner about a crime as shocking as it is commonplace, \u003ci\u003eKEEPER\u003c\/i\u003e will leave you reeling long after the final page is turned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e'Moor's clever, literary thriller is a compelling story . . . A writer to watch' - \u003cb\u003eIndependent (London)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Still have a \u003ci\u003eGirl on the Train\u003c\/i\u003e-shaped hole in your life? Add \u003ci\u003eKeeper\u003c\/i\u003e to your list. Moor's debut is a feminist whodunnit' \u003cb\u003e-\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSunday Times (London)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Compelling, tense and pacy' \u003cb\u003e- \u003ci\u003eObserver (London)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Vastly impressive . . . Deeply affecting and superbly told, it demands to be read' - \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eDaily Mail (London)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'This is a thriller, but its pacy insights make it one that you need to read' \u003cb\u003e-\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan (UK)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'A fabulous new writer' - \u003cb\u003eRichard Osman, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Thursday Murder Club\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jessica Moor is a new young writer I believe in. She’s smart, she’ll reach a different generation, she has plenty to say that is political and necessary. And she can tell a story. She’s versatile, unafraid . . . with a voice of her own.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jeanette Winterson\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOranges Are Not the Only Fruit\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWritten on the Body\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jessica Moor marshals her material cleverly. . . . Her portraits of the women and their backstories are varied and credible; they made me want to shout out in anger.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Val McDermid\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Place of Execution\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reading \u003ci\u003eThe Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e is a visceral experience . . . cleverly reminding us that for some women simply existing in a man’s world is more dangerous than anything else.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Araminta Hall\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eOur Kind of Cruelty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Keeper \u003c\/i\u003eis extraordinary. Humane, compelling, and absolutely furious in the best possible way. I read the last chapters with my hand clapped over my mouth.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Flynn Berry\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eA Double Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e is wickedly paced and utterly chilling, making space for the interior lives of its victims and their gradually shrinking worlds, all the while exposing the failures of the systems that are supposed to protect them. As compulsive as it is heartbreaking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rosie Price\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eWhat Red Was\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A timely and thought provoking novel that explores issues of power and control with a sensitive and deft touch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Nuala Ellwood\u003c\/b\u003e, internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMy Sister’s Bones\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sharp, incisive writing, and frighteningly believable characters. And what a twist.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Simon Lelic\u003c\/b\u003e, internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe New Neighbors\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pacy, absorbing and electric in its detail, \u003ci\u003eThe Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e is compassionately, furiously true. Men should read this book, and I’d be shocked to meet a woman who doesn’t find some part of herself here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Beth Underdown\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Witchfinder’s Sister\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Extraordinary and compelling.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Cara Hunter\u003c\/b\u003e, internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eClose to Home\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Intense and compassionate . . . it made me feel seen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Hanna Jameson\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Last\u003c\/i\u003eJessica Moor grew up in southwest London. She received a degree in English literature at Cambridge University before working in the culture and charity sectors and obtained an MA in creative writing from the University of Manchester. She lives in Berlin.\u003cp\u003e1.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie leans over the bar. She shouts her order in the ear of the bored-looking bartender, whose long ponytail is as pretty and silky as a girl's. She and her friends have only been in the club for an hour; the watery assault on the senses and calculated euphoria have started to wear off, but they aren't yet so drunk that they've been enveloped by generosity and money has stopped mattering. It's a wrench to bellow the order for seven drinks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe's starting to feel a bit sick. She didn't have dinner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlong the bar, a boy is smiling absently at her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe's the kind of boy she'd never normally look at uninvited. His face looks like it was painted in bold brushstrokes - blond hair, almost cherubic features. Yet the soft-full lips and long lashes are assembled against high, flat cheekbones, languid bedroom eyes. He looks like he was composed with a purpose, rather than being, like everyone else, the product of random genetic entropy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe's beautiful. So beautiful that Katie doesn't bother to ask herself if he's her type. He's everyone's type, surely. An objective work of art.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe smiles at her more distinctly, his eyes coming into focus. They're green, not the expected blue. They cut through the club-haze, looking straight at her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr maybe not. Maybe that's just a trick of the light. Katie looks hurriedly away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Forty-two pounds, please.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe barman holds out the card machine. En garde.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy the time Katie's finished fumbling with her PIN and has returned her debit card to her bra, the beautiful boy is gone. She takes the tray of mojitos to the cramped grouping of leather pouffes where her friends sit, two to a pouffe. She yells above the noise that she's going outside for a minute, and leaves, taking her drink with her. She can sense the disgruntled looks shooting from smoky eyes and catching into her back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe feels guilty. They haven't all been together like this since they graduated and came back home. Most of her friends are on day release from their relationships - serial monogamists, all of them. Seven years at a girls' school will do that to you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eItÕs February. The quiet, wintry air settles KatieÕs senses, a cooling shower on her overheated skin.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe drifts towards the edge of the smoking area. Really, it's just a section of alleyway behind the club with a couple of empty glasses on the floor. For years it's been ruled over by the same gregarious Polish bouncer, who used to remember her name. There are no ashtrays or seats, only men in sweaty polyester shirts and squeaky brogues, smoking roll-ups and leaning unnecessarily close to speak to eager-looking girls. Their edges seem blurry against the night, as if they might float away like large, pale balloons.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie watches it all. No one seems to see her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe has always done this - wandered off by herself on nights out. Her friends are used to it. Perhaps it's an odd thing to do, but it helps her and it doesn't seem to harm anyone else. It soothes ... something. To call the something an anxiety attack would feel too self-absorbed. But there is definitely something in her that needs soothing. Especially today.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBeing here - being home - drags Katie's heart down, but for now she doesn't have a choice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Home' is on the outer fringes of what can reasonably be considered London, though the association is more by map than spirit. It's a twenty-five-minute train journey from the centre of things, although rush hour stretches out that timespan indefinitely. Here, a lone suicide on the train tracks can throw a whole swathe of London's workforce into an agony of grumbling, packed as they are on to the slender margin of a single railway line. People move here for the good schools, and stay because the property prices dart upwards, just as surely as gravity pulls everything else down. Fresh graduates return to their parental homes like flocks of migrating birds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNothing can go too badly wrong here. It's difficult to leave. Or maybe it's just easy to stay.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBeing home means being out. Out-out, even though this group of friends made far more sense in the context of ibuprofen in school bags, borrowed class notes, a seemingly endless sense of imprisonment. Being in a bar with them, drinking the alcohol they'd once coveted so distantly, wearing the short skirts they'd been forbidden from - it doesn't feel quite right.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut they've all trickled back home, so here they are. Every day they head into the City to populate Excel spreadsheets in different offices, telling themselves that it's somehow connected to their degrees, or else just that it's experience. Going out-out seems like the obvious thing to do with these early pay cheques. Now Christmas is entirely over, they might as well come to terms with the fact that this, for the time being at least, is where they are.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie doesn't smoke, but she wishes she did. It would give her something to do, and save her from wondering if people think she looks odd out here by herself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Hi.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man who steps in front of her, seemingly from nowhere, is thin and dark, maybe an inch or two taller than her. His build is wiry - he probably weighs less than her - but he seems to take up space in a decisive way that she's immediately drawn to. He looks at her with a directness that makes everyone else's eyes seem veiled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I'm Jamie.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe smiles at her, holding out his hand with a formality that she assumes is ironic.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Hi, Jamie.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe feels like she's being set up for a joke that won't include her. She waits a couple of beats too long before replying.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I'm Katie.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe doesn't say anything further, but seems to wait, his mouth smiling and his body relaxed, his eyes following the lines of her face as if examining a map. She shifts, her ankles twisting slightly above her pencil heels. She wonders if her face is red.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I didn't see you inside.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'No.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I wasn't enjoying it much. Came out here. I'm guessing you were feeling something similar?'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe nods.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'But you must have been enjoying it a bit, or else you'd leave.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe smiles, because that's an answer in itself to statements like those.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Maybe going to clubs is worth it,' he says, 'even if only so you can find the people who aren't into clubs either.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe laughs. She doesn't find his comment funny, but he grins as if he's expecting a laugh, so she provides it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey amble in the usual circles of half-drunk conversation. She asks the usual questions. Come here much? What do you think of this DJ? She forgets his answers almost as soon as he gives them, focusing instead on the timbre of his voice. It's deep and strong and very discernibly male, accented a few layers of privilege below her own.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'What do you do?'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe question slips out just a second or two before she's thought about it properly. She shrinks inside. That question wasn't on the setlist. She's made this mistake before, and men have looked at her with seasoned disappointment, as if she has just signalled to them a fundamental incompetence at living in the moment.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut Jamie doesn't seem to mind.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I'm a prison officer. Well. Juvenile facility.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe folds his arms. His movements have the studied sharpness of a newly trained actor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Yeah?'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe this line of conversation is an unexpected rope that she can pull herself along.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Do you like it?'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'No. But the pay's decent.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Yeah.' She laughs. 'I know the feeling.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'That's life, I guess. But it'll get better, I know it will.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis eyebrows are thick and surprisingly black, which gives an air of resolution to all his expressions. He seems like someone who keeps his ideas hard and simple, like daggers that can be drawn cleanly from their sheaths.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie likes that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey keep talking. Her attention, such as it is, sways when the beautiful boy from the bar comes outside and stands alone at the other end of the smoking area. Half is caught following the disintegrating column of ash between his long fingers. Maybe Jamie will excuse himself before it burns away completely.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut he doesn't, and the beautiful boy doesn't linger, and Katie and Jamie talk on.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt a break in the flow - if you could call it a flow - she suggests that they go back in. Jamie frowns. She wonders if she has somehow misread him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut then, to her surprise, he takes her hand and leads her back inside. His grip is warm and dry and firm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs they go down the stairs together, her mind works through a series of possibilities, like trying a set of keys in a lock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could abandon Jamie now and go back to her friends.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could accept one drink from him and then make an excuse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could drink with him into the night. Dance with him, her hands resting on his slim shoulders, a fuzzy heat growing between her thighs as she allows herself an occasional glance at the beautiful boy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could get a taxi home with her friends, like they all agreed at the beginning of the night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could go home with Jamie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could take him by the hand and lead him to a dark corner of the alley behind the club. She could sink to her knees before him and let his hands rest on her head as she takes him in her mouth, like he's giving her his blessing for a religion she's not yet sure she believes in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJamie taps Katie on the elbow. She turns around and he hands her a glass of clear liquid over ice. He didnÕt ask her what she wanted so sheÕs not sure what it is, but she smiles at him and takes a sip, identifying only something strong and chemical.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I got you a double,' he says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe resolves, before she's too drunk to resolve on anything, that she's going to keep drinking, and that she's going to fuck him. She decides it now, before she can get too caught up in the question of whether or not it's what she really wants.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey talk. Or rather, he talks. She says little, focusing on enunciating her few words clearly. She nods and smiles and occasionally lets her hand brush against his thigh. He doesn't seem to understand what she's inviting him into and looks her square in the eye every time they touch. It surprises her how unimpressed he seems. He doesn't appear to particularly enjoy her touch, but he doesn't step away either. After a few minutes he puts an arm around her shoulders, continuing to yell something that she can't hear over the music.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen, without warning, he puts a hand on the back of her head and crushes his mouth against hers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe opens her lips, as if obeying a cue. His tongue makes a measured, inspecting progress around her mouth. Her body seems prepared to let him in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe doesn't keep buying her drinks. He doesn't even keep kissing her for long. Once the terms of their embrace have been set, he goes back to talking. About how he's thinking about going into the army.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie is sobering steadily, but she doesn't let the ebbing warmth around her eyes force her to consider whether she's making a mistake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOver Jamie's shoulder, she sees her friends swaying towards the exit and disappearing up the stairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey return a few seconds later, their faces dressed up with expressions of pantomime horror. They gesture at her to join them. She flaps a hand at them behind Jamie's back as if to say, Go on! Her friends leave, eyebrows raised. Katie allows the same hand to slide around Jamie's waist and pull him closer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJamie frowns at her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'You know, I'm not that kind of guy.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer hand, which was sliding down towards his bum, stops abruptly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'And you don't seem like that kind of girl either.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe pause is filled by the throb of the music. Katie feels a slow cascade of shame burning through her chest. She withdraws her hand, and Jamie catches it. He takes it in both of his own and spreads the fingers, inspecting it carefully as if assessing its worth. He looks at her and smiles. For the first time, he seems really good-looking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Let me get to know you. Properly.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie doesn't say anything. It didn't feel like the kind of request she needs to answer out loud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Can I walk you home?' he asks. He laces his fingers into the hand he's captured.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe doesn't want to walk home. She's wearing high heels and it's over a mile. Besides, she isn't sure what they'd talk about on the way. Suggesting they get a cab would feel somehow tone-deaf, and she doesn't think he'll want to sit with her on the night bus, exchanging the banalities of increasing sobriety while she tries to avoid spearing McDonald's chips on her heels.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Trust me. I'll be worrying about you if you go off by yourself.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe laughs, but he doesn't.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Look, I'm not going to try it on with you, if that's what you're worrying about. Just want to deliver you to your door, safe and sound.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy is she making this so much more complicated than it needs to be? If there was anything to worry about with Jamie, then she shouldn't have accepted the drink he gave her. But she did, and there's no harm done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'I can get a cab,' she says, even though she doesn't mean it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Not a chance. Do you know how many women are raped by unlicensed minicab drivers?'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe makes to take a little step from him, but his hand is resting in the small of her back and it seems to stop her from moving, though he's not actually exerting any force.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe nods, though she's not sure what part she's agreeing to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e'Let me just go to the loo quickly.'\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe grins and leans forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. It feels more abruptly intimate than all their previous contact.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere is no quickly, of course.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKatie stands in the queue for a single bathroom stall, watching as the girls around her, clearly strangers, move into a slurring sisterliness as they wait. One of them puts a little white pill in her mouth. She catches Katie's gaze and holds out her hand. Katie shakes her head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe stands in front of the mirror, looking deep into her own irises. To see if they are any different from usual.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut she sees only herself - only the usual blankness. Her eyeliner has flaked off and is lying in the creases of skin underneath her eyes. Her face looks greyish in the bathroom light, underneath the red flush from the hot club. The swaying glow is nearly gone.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301175513317,"sku":"NP9780143134527","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143134527.jpg?v=1767740035","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-keeper-isbn-9780143134527","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}