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I read the paragraph twice more and even then, I’m not sure I’ve understood correctly. Ned rented this house? I read it again. No, that’s the story I must tell, when I’m asked. But why? And who is going to ask me? I read the rest of the letter, then read it again, barely able to comprehend what I’m reading, what I’ve been asked to do. It’s only on the third reading that I finally understand.
Our kidnapping wasn’t a kidnapping at all.
PART TWOTHE RECKONING
CHAPTER ONE
It’s 7 a.m. I stand at the sink, holding the letter in one hand, a lighted match in the other. I push away the fear that I might not have memorized the instructions properly, that I might not be able to carry them out. I have to. I need to.
I put the match to the corner of the letter, feel the heat approaching my fingers as the yellow-blue flame gathers momentum, then watch, mesmerized, as the paper blackens and curls. At the last moment, I drop the sheets into the sink and quickly run water over them, washing the charred remains down the drain, along with the match. I replace the box of matches in the drawer where I found them and move around the kitchen, noting where everything is, the kettle, the fridge, opening cupboards and other drawers, taking in the contents.
I walk to the French windows that had presented such hope to me when I’d tried to escape, and look out. There’s a large paved terrace with a swimming pool, and suddenly, I experience a weird sense of déjà vu. I know this terrace, this pool.
My heart racing, I pull open the sliding doors and step out, barely registering the fresh air, the warmth of the early morning sun on myskin. I see the distinctive gray-and-yellow-striped sun loungers, the bar at the end of the pool, the stools tucked neatly under the counter, smell the tang of the sea in the air. Stunned, I sink onto one of the sun loungers. This is the house in Haven Cliffs where Ned and I had lunch with Lukas. If I’d needed more proof that Lukas was behind our kidnapping, this was it.
Aware of time marching on, I go back to the kitchen and into the hallway. Opposite the kitchen is a door; I open it and find a dining room. Farther down the hallway, on the left, are the double doors I passed when I tried to escape. Behind them is what I’d imagined, a huge sitting room. On a low rectangular table inlaid with onyx, there are magazines and books; books that belong to me, taken from my bedroom at Ned’s. One of my wraps is draped casually over the arm of the nearby sofa. There’s also a mug, a stain of coffee still visible in the bottom.
Following the instructions, I familiarize myself with the rest of the house. Opposite the sitting room is a wide staircase to the upper floor. I ignore it and move along the corridor and find a wood-paneled library with a study tucked behind it. And opposite the library, next to the sitting room, the room where I was held.
I open the door, stand in the doorway. The board has been removed from the window, the room is no longer in darkness. It’s nothing like I had imagined. In my mind, it was shabby, its walls yellowed with age. But the walls are smooth, painted in the palest of greens, an echo of the foliage I can see through the window.
In front of the window there’s a mahogany writing desk. An ornate lamp stands on it. In the corner where my mattress was, there’s a comfortable armchair, upholstered in dark green, and a low wooden table with another lamp. A small bookshelf, filled with neat rows of books, stands against the opposite wall. It seems impossible that this beautiful study was my home for four weeks—two weeks, I correct myself. My mind is tripping on how they did it, why they did it. But I don’t have time, not now.
I cross to the little bathroom. With the light streaming in from thewindow in the other room I don’t need to go all the way in and lock the door to be able to see that the cake of soap is gone. I bend to look in the cupboard; it’s bare. I check the wall behind the door; the scratches I made and my calculations on the door itself have been sanded away. There’s nothing, no trace of me at all.
Except. Back in the main room, I walk over to the wall where I smeared my blood. It’s still there. It did happen. It was real. There’s still a trace of me in this room.
I return to the hallway. The door to the basement is farther along but I can’t face going down to see the room where Ned was held.
I hurry upstairs, find the main bedroom. The bed is unmade, two suitcases, half-packed, lie open by the wardrobe. Clothes—some belonging to me, some to Ned, I presume—are draped on one of the chairs that sit in the bow window. I see my handbag, which I haven’t seen since I arrived at Ned’s house after Vegas, on the floor by the left-hand side of the bed, and on the bedside table on the right-hand side, a phone which I recognize as Ned’s. The door to the en suite is tantalizingly open. More than anything, I crave a shower. But first, I lie down on the left-hand side of the bed, move my body around in the sheets, then get up.
The bathroom is damp and steamy, it must be where Ned had his shower. I touch the navy towel draped casually over the rack; it’s still damp. There’s a pile of clean towels. I throw one over the shower door, strip off my pajamas. Stepping into the shower, I turn on the tap and position myself under the cascade of steaming water. I let it gush over me, into my ears, my mouth, down my body onto my feet, then reaching to the array of bottles aligned along a shelf, I shampoo my hair, soap my body, and scrub my skin until it zings. I don’t want to get out, I want to stay under the water forever. But after a few more minutes I reluctantly turn off the tap, wrap the towel around myself, and step out of the shower. Walking over to the mirror, I peer at my face. It looks thinner, paler, and there are dark smudges under my eyes. But I still look like me.
Next to the bathroom, I find a walk-in dressing room, one side with the amount of clothes—my clothes—that I would have brought for atwo-week vacation, the other side with Ned’s. I choose a pair of white shorts and a T-shirt, push my feet into a pair of my sneakers, find my brush in the bathroom, detangle my wet hair.
Back in the bedroom, I sit on the bed, put my bag on my knees, and riffle through the contents. The first thing I see is a passport. I check the name quickly; even though I’ll no longer be dead, I want to be sure I can still be Amelie Lamont. The photograph is one I took not long before Papa died.
There are other things in the bag, things that were there before—tissues, lip gloss, my purse, the keys I’ve always kept for my childhood house in Reading—and things that weren’t—a set of keys with a remote attached, and my phone. I take my phone, switch it on, and see that it’s fully charged. The only people I messaged on a regular basis were Carolyn, Justine, and Lina, and occasionally Vicky, if I was running late for work. There are countless messages from Carolyn. I scroll to the one she sent on the twenty-sixth of July, in response to the photo I’d sent her from the plane.
Amelie, if you haven’t taken off yet, call me. It’s urgent. Something has happened that you should know about x
It breaks my heart to read the following twenty or so messages, all from Carolyn, all asking me to call urgently. She must have been so worried when I didn’t reply. But I understand now; I hadn’t left my phone on the plane, Ned had taken it and, at the same time, had damaged my computer.
I find a message from Carolyn on August 2, the day after my wedding to Ned, sent after she called me at the hotel to tell me of his assault on Justine.
Amelie, is it true? Did you really get married to Ned? It’s all over the news.
Then, the following morning, other messages, followed by:
I know you’re probably not getting these messages, otherwise you would have phoned me. But if you are getting them, please at least message me back. I need to know that you’re OK.
And then a message, supposedly from me, sent to Carolyn from my phone two days after Ned and I arrived back in the UK.
Hi Carolyn, thanks for your concern but I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m busy right now. Please don’t worry, I’m fine, really happy to be married to Ned. I’ll call you soon.
No wonder Carolyn hadn’t believed it. I would never have told Carolyn that I was too busy to see her.
There aren’t any messages from Justine, and I have to fight back tears. If what I think is true, she would have already been dead by the time I left for Las Vegas.
