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Chapter 47
Thursday 1st April
She stares at me, her body frozen to the spot, and for the first time since she walked into the room her expression is one of uncertainty.
‘What … what are you talking about?’ she says.
‘Mary was a friend of mine,’ I say. I take another step backwards, and I’m in the doorway now. She doesn’t move, her brow crinkled. Her radio is crackling again, and downstairs I can hear hammering on the front door, someone shouting, but she seems oblivious to all of it, her face a picture of confusion.
‘I grew up very much like you did, by the sound of it, Steph,’ I say. My heart’s still pounding so hard I feel light-headed, but for the first time I feel a tiny sliver of hope.
She’s listening. If I can just keep her listening to me for a little bit longer …
‘I never knew my dad, and my mother was a drug addict. My upbringing … it was awful, Steph. I was taken into care when I was nine, and I moved from foster home to foster home, and, well, it was hard. Maybe not as hard as yours, but still … horrible. And then I met Mary, and her dad, Gregor, and I got a taste of a different life. A life with money. A life of privilege. I didn’t plan for it to happen, but I went to stay with her for the weekend and the house caught fire. And, well, when I woke up in hospital, everyone assumed I was Mary. We looked quite alike, you see, and I was wearing her identity bracelet, and my face was burned and all bandaged up and … they just thought I was her. And so I thought about it and realised I just might get away with it …’
‘You’re not Mary Ellis.’
She says the words slowly, her eyes narrowing.
‘No,’ I whisper.
‘So who are you, then?’ she asks.
I swallow. It’s been so many years since I’ve said it out loud.
‘My name is Amanda Archer,’ I say quietly. ‘Gregor died in the fire, and Mary did too. But everyone thought it was me who’d died. My name is on the gravestone next to Gregor’s. I’m a nobody, Steph. I stole my life. I stole my inheritance. It’s all a big fat lie.’
For a moment there’s silence, both of us just looking at each other, and I think what a weird pair we are: the police detective who’s actually a serial killer, and the daughter of a famous author, who’s actually a massive fake. And then she shrugs.
‘OK. Well, that’s a freaky little coincidence, isn’t it? I could have usedthatlittle nugget of information rather nicely, if I’d known. You’re a bit smarter than I thought, aren’t you, keeping that juicy secret. But it doesn’t make any difference, not really. Fine, so life might not have started well for you. But you still benefitted, didn’t you? This house, your money in the bank, all of it. You still have it all, with no effort.’
‘No!’ I yell the word, and her eyes widen.
‘No effort? Do you know what it’s like, pretending to be someone else every day of your life? Living a lie, wondering if someday somebody will find out and it will all come tumbling down?No effort?’
Her eyes widen, and she smirks.
‘Ah, poor little rich girl. Give me a break.’
She’s looking at me with contempt now, her tone scathing, and for a moment I want to tell her that yes, I agree with her.
She’s right. It started badly, but I have had it easy for the past fourteen years. I know that. I have no reason to complain. None. Maybe it’s payback time. Maybe I do deserve to die, for what I’ve done. But I don’twantto die, not here, not like this …
‘I don’t like doing this indoors,’ she says, unexpectedly. ‘It’s too enclosed, too warm. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? I get claustrophobic indoors, especially when it’s stuffy. That’s why I like to kill outside. Much more fun. Much morepleasant.’
I swallow hard and see that there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead now, and that her eyes look glassy, as if she’s not quite well.
‘But hey, needs must. Bye bye, Mary. Or Amanda. Or whatever,’ she says, and she takes a step towards me, and then another, the trophy raised above her head. In an instant, her face changes again, eyes flashing with fury, the madness back, and suddenly I know with a deep, sickening certainty that it’s all over. I tried, I failed, and time has run out.
I shut my eyes, pressing my knuckles into my sockets, waiting for the blow, for the pain, for the inevitable darkness. And then I hear a grunt, and a rustle, and a groan, and a heavy thud, and I slowly move my fists away from my face, and my mouth falls open in shock.
Because Pete is standing there. Pete, still white-faced, blood stains across his shirt, swaying slightly on his feet. One hand is clutching the door frame, and in the other he’s holding a glass dome, an ornament of some sort. I blink, trying to focus. It’s a snow globe, the snow globe he keeps in a drawer in his room and brings out every Christmas. The snow globe he bought in a little store just off Central Park in New York – our favourite city. It’s streaked with something red, and my gaze continues downwards to where Steph is now lying on the landing carpet, groaning softly, blood running down her forehead.
‘Pete.Pete.’
My voice cracks.
‘I love you,’ he whispers, and he drops the snow globe and stretches out his arms. I step into his embrace, just as I hear shouts followed by an enormous bang from downstairs, and the sound of wood splintering.
