Page 78 of Serenity Falls

I sighed. ‘Well, I’m prepared to step up and resume my position as head judge.’

‘I’m not sure if—’

‘No. I won’t let you try to talk me out of it. With everything poor Freya is going through, giving up my time is a small sacrifice.’

I put the phone down and smiled.

I was pleased with myself, and maybe that was my downfall. Pride, as they say, often comes before a fall.

I wanted to spend some time congratulating myself, but I still had work to do. Now I knew that Freya was at the hospital, I needed to enact the second part of my plan: sneaking back into her house and swapping the contaminated lens solution for a less potent variety.

Injecting bleach into a bottle and substituting it while she was out yesterday had been simple. I’ve been in Freya’s home before. I’ve been in the homes of all the committee members, whether they’ve invited me or not.

I just needed to take away the contaminated bottle and pop the original back. I was very careful when I injected the bleach, but someone smart might still deduct that the bottle had been deliberately contaminated.

Now, you might be wondering how I get away with my house visits. After all, most homes in Serenity have security systems, and I’m certain that the bracelets also track movement in or out.

Fortunately, one of the engineers who installed the security systems wasn’t so hot on safeguarding his own secrets. When I found out about the young women whose systems he was servicing on the side, we made a deal. I wouldn’t tell his wife if he showed me all the weaknesses and blind spots in Serenity’s set-up.

As for the bracelets, like I said, I have problems with my joints – hypermobility. When I was younger, I won awards as a gymnast. Now, my stretchy joints give me more pain than pleasure. But they can still be useful. For example, I can bend my thumb joint right back over my little finger. Not something that is required very often, but it does make it relatively easy to slip off a bracelet that is supposed to fit snugly around the wrist.

That night, I felt full of nervous energy. At 10.55 p.m. I slipped off my bracelet and placed it on the coffee table. The streetlights went off at eleven, and so did the lights in most people’s houses. There are very few night owls in Serenity Falls. Except me. I’ve always had trouble sleeping.

I went upstairs to get changed into a black sweater and pants. I rarely wear trousers but, for my night-time sojourns, they’re more practical. Finally, I pulled on my gloves and packed my bag with a replacement bottle of contact lens solution, the spare key from Freya’s, which I had taken earlier, and a flashlight.

I let myself out and walked briskly down the street. Freya’s house was only four blocks from my own. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear, the moon high and bright, illuminating the streets so well I didn’t even need my flashlight.

I love the night. Sometimes, even if I’m not on a house visit, I’ll just head out for a stroll. Well past the curfew. But then, I have no strings on me. Serenity at night is always so peaceful. Never anyone about. You’d think that there might be a few rebellious souls prepared to break the curfew rules. But no, every single house is in darkness. Every single person tucked up tightly in bed.

It’s a tad odd, when you think about it. But still, all the better for me. I can take in the town undisturbed. In fact, it’s such a beautiful night, once I have completed my business at Freya’s house, I decide to take the scenic route back home, past the lake.

This is my mistake.

If I hadn’t, if I had only taken the usual route, then I would never have seen them.

It’s the noise I hear first. Usually, the streets of Serenity are silent. Or virtually silent. Obviously, nature sticks to its own schedule and curfews. The call of mockingbirds or the chatter of katydids and crickets. But this noise was not animal, bird nor insect. A low, steady rumble. The sound of an engine. A large engine.

I frowned and slowed my pace as the far end of the lake drew into view, some inner sixth sense telling me to stick close to the shadows of the trees and bushes. I paused.

Parked on the banks of the lake just before it melted into the woods was a large flatbed truck with a lifting crane on top. The rear end of the truck was backed right up to the edge of the water and the crane raised high over it. On the end of the crane hung a small green car. Even stranger, standing around the truck were four figures clad in white hazmat suits.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. Oh my. Had they just pulled the car out of the lake? Had someone had a terrible accident, or maybe tried to kill themselves? There was only one person in Serenity I knew who drove a green car like that.

But even as this thought crossed my mind, something told me that this wasn’t what I was seeing here. The car didn’t look damaged or wet. There was no water or lake weeds dripping from it. No tyre tracks churning up the grass. The truck was standing on thick strips of perforated rubber.

Then, as I watched, one of the white-clad figures raised a hand. A signal. The crane suddenly let go of the car and it dropped into the lake with a huge splash. For a moment, the car bobbed gently upon the surface, but slowly it began to sink, front first, then the rest of the green body until it was completely swallowed by the dark water.

What on earth? My stomach churned unpleasantly. This was wrong. All wrong. I didn’t want to see any more. I am a firm believer that there are some things in life you are better off not knowing, and this was definitely one of them. Time to make my exit out of the park and back along the route I should have taken. I would just forget all about this and … that’s when one of the figures turned and lowered their hood.

22

Blackouts. I’ve had a few. Certainly not too few to mention.

It’s one of many things I don’t miss from my drinking days. Waking with the horrible feeling that something bad has happened but my brain has tried to spare me the humiliation and edited it out of my memory. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Fortunately, because I tended to drink at home, it was usually nothing catastrophic. A fridge door left open. Half-cooked food burnt in a saucepan. A strange stain on the sofa.

Then came the morning I came downstairs to find a cigarette had fallen out of the ashtray and burnt a hole in the carpet (but mercifully not ignited the whole house). That was it – the wake-up call, the horror of what could have been finally curtailed my nightly consumption.