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It stuns me, the news that Amos Kerrigan, the man who I’m sure disposed of Justine’s and Lina’s bodies, is dead, until I realize that he had to be killed, because he was the link between the murders and Ned. In a search for a motive for Lina’s and Justine’s murders, a theory is put forward—perhaps by someone wanting to steer the investigation even further away from Ned—that Amos Kerrigan was a drug dealer and that the two women had threatened to denounce him to the police. A stab of bitterness at the efforts to protect Ned cuts through the crushing numbness that has invaded my body.
I sift through my emotions, my throat swollen with unshed tears. It’s good that Lina and Justine have been found, and can now be laid to rest. But who will organize a funeral for Lina? If she doesn’t have a family, who will be there to say goodbye? And Justine? Will her family come from France, or will her funeral be in Bordeaux, where she came from?
I don’t know what happened toExclusivesafter Ned’s death; I haven’t been in contact with anyone at the magazine since I left for Las Vegas with Ned and came back married to him. What must Vicky and the other staff have thought when they heard the news of our marriage? I hadn’t found any messages of congratulations on my phone. Maybe they’d thought me a gold digger, who had tricked Ned into marrying me.
I find the new laptop I bought, log in to Facebook, and bring up theExclusiveshome page. I don’t expect to find anything except a notification that the magazine has been shut down, due to Ned Hawthorpe’s death. But to my surprise, it still exists, and is now run by Vicky. My heart goes out to her. She must be feeling terrible, she will know now that the messages she received from Lina, saying she was back in Lithuania, weren’t written by her, but by someone else.
I scroll down, reading the posts. There’s already an outpouring of grief for Justine and Lina and a colleague has asked about a funeral ormemorial service. As the day progresses, there is talk, not just on theExclusiveswebsite, but on various platforms around the world, of a vigil, and I’m glad their story has touched people’s hearts.
My phone rings. It’s Paul Carr.
“How are you, Amelie?”
It’s a hard question to answer when I don’t know how much he knows.
“I’ve been better,” I say.
“I’m sure. I imagine you knew Justine Elland and Lina Mielkutefrom your time at the magazine.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Can I do anything?”
“No, thank you. It’s kind of you to phone, I appreciate it.”
“Well, you know where I am.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
I hang up, wondering if he phoned me on his own initiative, or if he’d been asked to check on me by the kidnappers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’m standing in Boots, trying to find shampoo, when I realize I’m in the men’s section. It’s so bright in here, I can feel a headache coming on. I hoped I’d feel better, now that there has been closure for Justine and Lina. But I can’t shake the mountain of grief that has built up inside me, or cope with the guilt I feel over the deaths of Lina and Carolyn. And then there’s Daniel, Carolyn’s partner. I should have called him, but I was too scared to, too scared I’d blurt out the part I played in Carolyn’s death. Because if Carolyn hadn’t come to Ned’s house the day of the press interview, she’d still be alive.
Without thinking, I pick up a shower gel and open the lid, press the air out of the bottle and breathe in. It smells of eucalyptus. I close the lid and pick up another bottle; it smells more orangey. Before I know it, I’m working along the bottles of shower gels and shampoos, sniffing the contents then pushing them back onto the shelves, looking for the scent that keeps haunting me: cut grass and citrus. The smell of my captor.
The smell of Lukas.
The bottle I’m holding clatters to the floor. Turning, I run to the door, pushing past a woman holding the hand of a toddler.
“Hey!” she calls out.
But I don’t stop, I can’t.
Outside, I turn in desperate circles, trying to find my way out of the mall. I’m on the verge of tears and I can see people looking at me as they pass by.
“Are you alright, dear?” An elderly woman stops in front of me, her hand on her shopping cart.
“Yes, I’m—I’m just a bit lost,” I stammer. “I can’t find the way out of here.”
“You go down there, past the café. There’s an exit there.”
“Thank you,” I say, breaking into a run. “Thank you.”
I run through the exit and keep running until I can’t run anymore. I double over, pull in large gulps of air. I don’t want it to be true—but it’s staring at me in the face. I had imagined Lukas masterminding our kidnapping from his home in Vilnius. But he had been there all the time, in the house in Haven Cliffs. He was my captor.
My mind feels as if it’s coming apart as I walk the rest of the way home, my head down, my shoulders hunched up around my ears. It must have been why he never spoke to me, in case I recognized his voice. I reach the house, stand in the hallway a moment, letting the silence wash over me. I move to the kitchen, sit down at the table, and take my phone from my pocket. My hands are shaking as I google Stockholm syndrome:
