But I can’t. Because from that point on, he knew everything about me. Everything.
I should never have gone home with him that night.
But I did.
And here I am.
35
SCARLETT
I nip up the stairs and check on Hattie. She’s asleep.
Now is my chance. If they’ve been rummaging through my personal belongings, then I shall return the favour.
There are four bedrooms up here. Justin and Beth’s, Hattie’s and two other rooms I haven’t been in. I pull the handle on the door next to Hattie’s room. At first, I think it’s locked, but it’s just the lock catching. I slowly open the door. I stop in the doorway.
The double bed is unmade. A man’s T-shirt hangs off the open wardrobe door. Two walls are lined with shelves, and in the middle of the room is a rug with a square piece of wood on top, holding a constructed Lego model of a horse’s stable and miniature figures on horseback, mid-jump. I step inside. It must be Connor’s room. There’s something creepy about it. Or is that the finger of righteousness prodding my shoulder, telling me I have no business being in here? The shelves are full of assembled Lego models from a bonsai tree to theTitanic. Ilook around in awe. Daisy loved Lego. It’s all she added to her Christmas list when we were kids.
I leave the room and go to the one opposite. A spare room nicely decorated with a double bed and wardrobe. There’s nothing in here of interest.
I take a deep breath before entering the marital suite. Everything is immaculately tidy, clinical almost. A photo of Connor and Beth rests on one bedside table, and a book on hypnotherapy on the other. This must be the side Justin sleeps on. I quickly open each drawer, but there are only a few personal items, nothing of interest. I go across to Beth’s. Again, nothing.
I leave the room and check on Hattie again and go quickly down the stairs. Blue appears, startling me. He wags his tail. ‘Come with me, boy.’ I click my fingers, and he trots beside me to the kitchen. I head for the bowl on the countertop. I spot the keys at once. The plastic tab on the keyring says office. I glance over my shoulder before leaving the kitchen. Blue sits by the kitchen door, watching me intently. ‘Come with me, boy.’ I beckon him. It would be a comfort to have him with me. But he doesn’t want to come.
I stride across to the stable block, sweat dripping down my back. I can’t resist the urge to keep looking back at the house, and at Beth and Justin’s bedroom window with its closed blinds as if I need to check that no one is standing there watching me. It’s a bizarre thought. They definitely left in their car. I watched Justin drive away, just to make sure. Blue is still watching me. Even the dog knows something I don’t.
I stop mid-step. Perhaps they’re watching me remotely. I scan the grounds for cameras, even though Beth told me they don’t have any.
A weather thermometer hangs at the bottom of the stairs, reading in excess of thirty-seven degrees. Thirty-seven, in theUK. That has to be a record. I take the stairs two at a time to what I assume is his office, the way Justin did earlier.
Snooping around other people’s personal property is totally out of character for me. But Daisy is constantly in my thoughts, the image of her helpless body by that canal, reminding me of why I’m doing this. And I keep going.
With shaking hands, I unlock the door and enter the sparse room. A single desk holding an iMac and a landline phone. He clearly operates a clear-desk policy. I run to the phone and pick up the receiver, but it’s dead, not even a dialling tone. Damn. I look around the room. The only other piece of furniture is a black metal filing cabinet with three drawers. Two walls are hung with abstract prints. The third has pinboards plastered with photos of Justin at work. I count the pinboards. Eight! How odd.
I turn to his computer. If only I could get inside that. The chances are slim, but you never know. I slip behind his desk and sink into the executive leather chair. The kind that costs a mint. Everything screams expensive. It even smells luxurious: leather and wood. If money had a scent, this would be it. I fire up the iMac. While I wait for it to boot up, I step over to the window and take a look outside. What an incredible view: the house, the lake, the open farmland and the woods beyond. I glance at the house. All seems peaceful.
The iMac comes to life. A screensaver dominates the screen – Justin, Beth and Connor on holiday somewhere hot. They are in their bathing costumes, standing on an exotic beach that extends into the distance for miles. Beth’s fuller figure and Connor’s teenage body tell me it’s an old photo. I try a few passwords – their names, the company, Blue. I sigh. It was worth a try. I drum my fingers on the desk and look towards the filing cabinet. I bet it’s locked.
It is. But on the keyring, I find two more silver keys, one bigger than the other. I try the small one. It turns! I examine each suspension file but find only company-related contents: financial information, venue details and all kinds of marketing materials. Hot topics forA Meeting of Mindsperhaps, but nothing useful for me – just more dead ends, more frustration. I look at the third key. What about the stables? I know they don’t keep horses in there. Beth confirmed that, but I wonder why Justin went in earlier.
The pinboards draw my attention. I approach them. Floorboards creak with each step. The noise reverberates around the room, sending a shiver through me. Up close, the photos overlap each other. Justin on stage, mostly. Plus others of him with women of a certain appearance and age, and that faraway look of being somewhere else. This feels more like the creep I’ve been wanting to uncover. My hands tremble as I shift photos aside to reveal more snapshots.
I freeze. Hidden among the photos is a selfie of Justin with another young woman.
My sister.
36
BETH
‘You’d better call the hospital,’ Justin says. ‘Look at this mess.’
I stare at the line of traffic jammed on the slip road leading to the motorway. My fingers move before I can stop them. I scratch my arm. The constant itching has become unbearable. It rushes beneath my skin like tiny sparks that explode every couple of minutes. He keeps telling me to stop it. But he doesn’t understand. It’s impossible not to scratch, even though I know it’s making it ten times worse. I knew this would happen if I reduced the meds as the consultant advised. The revised dosage has sent me backwards. I should’ve stood my ground. Told the consultant that it wasn’t what I wanted.
But it’s not just the meds. It’s the situation Justin has created at home – that’s what’s making it worse.
That girl in our home.
