Page 51 of These Tears

Though Elias was never a relationship. Just a misunderstanding I’d let root itself behind my sternum.

I know that now, after a few weeks of musing over the whole ordeal.

I’ve realised he’d been a mirage summoned by a broken wish.

Six days ago, Conall quietly – and very carefully – told me that the case against Elias had collapsed. The prosecution had discontinued proceedings, and Stonebrook released him the following day. New evidence had surfaced – enough to cast the killing in an entirely different light. A lifetime of abuse. Elias cornered. Arthur attacking first. Enough, apparently, for the prosecution to back away. And beneath that, more rot: questions about why he had been kept on remand for so long, and who had benefited from keeping him there.

It all somehow circled around the family wealth, which was now beginning to rattle the foundations.

I still don’t know what Conall found that changed the meaning of Arthur’s ruined face, but whatever it was, it had done the trick.

And though it still stings – the notion I’d romanticised Elias until he’d finally shown me his teeth – my heart still goes out to him. Because getting out of prison may have been easy compared with what waits for him beyond Stonebrook.

Whatever tension there is between Isak and him, whatever situationship he was in with Melody that might have led to everything that landed him in Stonebrook… I was sure it was going to occupy him long enough…

To forget everything.

Forget me.

If he ever considered me a factor at all.

A small part of me, however, hoped he’d at least try to contact me after he got out. But it’s become abundantly clear that I am – again – nursing an illusion.

‘When’s the flight?’ Anna exhales and folds a dress into my bag.

I bend down, remove it, and stick a warm jumper in instead.

‘Five in the morning.’ I wince.

Her mouth falls open. ‘Good Lord, woman, you haven’t even packed your shoes!’ She groans as she takes a few steps into the kitchen far enough to drag another hard-cased wheelie bag from the hallway cabinet, and starts opening the shoe rack.

‘Christ, they’ve really done it this time, haven’t they?’ Dad grouses louder, shaking his head at the television.

‘More riots?’ I ask offhandedly as I reach for a pair of leggings and shove the dress back into the pile.

‘No, the fact that our judicial system is flawed. It’s all that bureaucratic nonsense, I tell you. It takes ages to get a bloody replacement licence.’

‘Anna, have you seen the pictures from our last visit to the Reservoir?’ I ask, glancing around the room.

She’s shaking her head as Mum appears in my peripheral vision, glaring at Dad. ‘Well, if you stopped losing it every two months, you wouldn’t have to keep asking the DVLA for another one,’ she supplies.

Helpfully.

As always.

‘What’s got you in such a revolt now?’ She stares at the TV, her oversized white jumper—

I do a double-take. Clear my throat.

My oversized white jumper, that I’d kept in a vacuum bag beneath the bed.

Instead of a reprimand I let out an exasperated sigh.

My head shakes as my eyes latch onto the television.

And I drop every single item in my hand.

Isak Crane’s picture is displayed in the rightmost corner.