The Night They Vanished, page 22
“No, Dad, you can’t. It’s not true—none of it is true! You’ll get him fired, or sent back to prison, when all he’s ever done is talk to me, all he’s ever done is be my friend.”
“Why on earth would I believe you’d want to be friends with him?”
“Because I don’t have any other friends.” I shout it and the tears spill over. “Because I’m the weird girl with the skirt that’s too long, who doesn’t wear makeup, who’s never allowed out, who doesn’t have a phone, who never does anything wrong. Nobody likes me. Nobody.”
“That is not an excuse.”
Oh, he says it so coldly and something curls up inside me and dies.
“Fuck. You,” I say as coldly as him.
Mum gasps at my words, but Dad’s expression doesn’t change. He starts punching a number into the phone. “Get upstairs. Get upstairs now. I don’t want to see your face anymore.”
I run upstairs and lift the corner of my mattress to pull out my phone. I dive across the landing and lock myself in the bathroom, my hands trembling as I look at the string of texts from Ethan. I’m sorry I lost my temper. R u ok? Hope you didn’t get in trouble. Text me back when you can. I take a massive risk and call Ethan instead of texting, talking in a fast and frantic whisper as soon as he answers.
“Ethan—stop, listen. My dad found us out and he’s got it all wrong. I told you he would. He thinks we’re together and he’s calling Owen and the probation service. He’s going to get you in trouble. I had to warn you.”
“Sash—calm down. It’s okay. It’ll be fine. We haven’t done anything wrong—there’s nothing for me to get in trouble for.”
“But he’s going to lie. He’s going to say we’re together and I’m underage and—”
He laughs. “Christ—history repeating, or what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s okay. Seriously, Sash. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself. I’ll sort this out; I’ll put them all straight. Stay safe, hunker down. I’ll contact you soon, okay? Keep your phone safe and hidden and I’ll—”
“No, don’t. I don’t think… I don’t think we should speak anymore.” I hear a creak on the stairs and almost wet myself in panic. “I have to go. Someone’s coming.” I end the call and turn off the phone. I put it in my pocket, pulling my jumper down, checking in the mirror to make sure it can’t be seen.
I flush the toilet and run the tap, taking a moment to try to calm down before unlocking the door to find Dad waiting outside. Did he hear me talking?
“Pack a bag,” he says. “I’ve spoken to the head office of the new holiday park. They’ve agreed we can settle in early. I’ll drive you and your mother there today and then come back and organize the full move alone.”
“Today?”
“We’re leaving in an hour.”
An hour? I’m supposed to pack up my life, say goodbye to the house that’s been my home for my entire life, in an hour?
But actually… what do I have to take? What do I have to say goodbye to? I pack some clothes and toiletries, making sure my phone is carefully hidden, packed at the bottom. My school books, some favorite novels… I hesitate when I take out the hidden photos, the ones of Hanna when she was my age. They’ve been my hidden lifeline to a sister I’ve never really known for so long, but she cut that line with what she did on my Facebook account. So, instead of putting the photos in my bag, I put them on the windowsill and leave them there. So what if Dad finds them and realizes I had them? I’m already in all the trouble. And if they were photos she kept hidden too, those images of her drinking and smoking and kissing, well, what does it matter to me if Dad thinks even worse of her? I don’t care.
I zip up the bag and turn away with my teeth clenched. I don’t look back as I leave the room and close the door behind me.
I come downstairs with my bag; the whole thing still seeming unreal. Mum’s in the kitchen, putting the kettle, cups, and bits of food in a box. I don’t know where Dad is.
“Are you really going to do this?” I say.
Mum carries on filling the box. “Do what?”
“Just… leave. No notice, no goodbyes. Just because Dad says so.”
She stops filling the box and looks at me. “Sasha, this is about more than just your actions. I don’t expect you to understand.” She sighs and shakes her head. “What do you expect me to do?”
What do I expect her to do? I guess I expect her to do exactly what she’s doing—follow orders, do what Dad says with a smile and no complaints. What she’s always done, like we’re still living in the 1950s. What I want her to do, though, is quite different… There was a girl in Year Eleven, on the last non-uniform day, who got sent home for wearing a T-shirt that said “F*** the Patriarchy.” So, I guess what I want Mum to do is say exactly that to Dad, only without the asterisks, and refuse to leave.
I can’t do anything—I’m fourteen, I don’t want to do a Hanna and run away. Where would I go and what would I do? No—university is my escape, but that’s four years away. But Mum, she’s a grown woman. She has a say.
“What about your New Year get-together with your book group?” I ask. “It’s your turn to host—you’ve been planning it for ages.”
Something flickers across her face for a moment, but then Dad walks into the room and it’s gone.
“They’ll understand,” she says quietly to me.
“Are you both ready?” Dad says.
Mum nods and smiles at me. “It’ll be great,” she says. “To have the opportunity to get settled in early. We’ll be all ready when your father gets there with the moving van.”
I turn and walk out without saying another word. The patriarchy is very much alive and well in our house. I don’t even know why I’m so angry about it. I’m not leaving behind an unfinished life here; I don’t have a boyfriend or a group of friends to miss. I don’t have a job or anything really tying me to this place. But Mum does. If she won’t stick up for me, I wish she’d at least stick up for herself.
Chapter 32
HANNA—Tuesday 8 a.m.
I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing. I’m warm and still wrapped in Adam’s arms and I try to extricate myself without waking him, but he wakes up with a jerk, sitting up, his hair sticking up everywhere.
“Sorry,” I say, smiling, as I reach down and pull out my phone from my hoodie pocket. My smile vanishes when I answer and it’s DC Norton on the other end.
“We have the name of the ex-offender your sister was linked with. Can you come in so we can try to establish any links between you?” There’s a pause. “And we’ve found another connection from that list of names you gave us.”
I get out of bed after the call ends, talking over my shoulder and telling Adam what the detective said as I pull on my jeans. He’s already up and getting dressed himself by the time I turn around.
“I’ll come with you. Let me make you some tea. Or coffee? I have travel cups if you don’t want to wait.”
I don’t even want to wait that long, so we’re out of his flat within ten minutes but I stop dead and swear as we hit the pavement.
“Fuck. My car is at Dee’s.”
“The police have still got mine.”
I waver for a second, trying to decide if it would be quicker to pick up my car or try to find a taxi. I start walking in the direction of Dee’s flat. Adam catches up with me and as he does, his hand reaches over and grabs mine and we walk the rest of the way like that, hand in hand, still half-fogged with sleep, my insides full of butterflies.
“Let me drive,” he says, holding out a hand for the keys as we get to Dee’s street. “You’re too distracted.”
“I’m not going to know him,” I say as Adam starts the car. “Whoever this guy is, I’m not going to know him. I don’t know anyone who’s been to prison.”
Adam taps the steering wheel as we wait at a red light. “But… did you used to? Know anyone who might have ended up in prison?”
I look out of the window as we turn left, rather than at Adam, thinking of the older boys and girls I hung out with in my bad old days. I already know it’s not Carrie, and I’m guessing it’s not Stephen—I don’t think ex-convicts can join the police force. It could be Lee or Owen—I have no clue if they’ve been in trouble in the years since I left home. And what about the others, the ones on the periphery, who were already supplying the drugs and feeding us underage kids alcohol? Any one of them could have ended up in trouble with the police—beyond the minor trouble we did get into. Hell, if I hadn’t left, if Dee hadn’t helped me drag myself out of my pit, I could have ended up in prison. The drugs could have become more than recreational, the shoplifting could have become a bigger crime, the graffiti could have turned to serious criminal damage. Who knows where I could have ended up? I left them all behind with my old life, but it’s certainly possible—more likely probable with some of them—that one or more of my old party-going friends could have ended up with a prison sentence.
But why would they do all this? That’s the sticking point. Yes, I can imagine some of them ending up in prison, but none of us knew much about each other beyond what we liked to drink and who we liked to dance to. None of them cared enough about me to go on some weird revenge trip, fifteen years later. Christ—would any of them even remember my name? And as for hanging out with Sasha? A fourteen-year-old girl? No, it doesn’t make sense.
I’ve talked myself out of the possibility of it being anyone I know, but it doesn’t stop me being nervous as we pull up at the police station. Adam takes my hand again as we walk across the road and I’m glad of the comfort.
We’re shown to the same interview room we were initially seen in and offered coffee, which we both gratefully accept. Under the table, our hands stay gripped together.
DC Norton comes in clutching his own cup of coffee in one hand and a folder in the other which he puts on the table.
“Thanks for coming in, Hanna. You too, Mr. Webster—it will be good to share the information with you as well, in case you have any connections we’re not aware of.” He pauses to open a folder. “The first connection—and one you’ve already flagged with the names you gave us before—is Owen King. He owns a small landscaping and property maintenance company and the owners of the holiday park awarded him the contract for the upkeep of the site.”
I lean back and let out a shaky breath. Back then, Lee and Carrie were friendly enough with me as Jacob’s girlfriend, but Owen never got beyond grumpy or hostile with me. He didn’t even try to pretend in front of Jacob. It was one of the things me and Jacob used to argue about—he wanted to spend what I thought was too much time with his friends. They were so tight-knit, particularly the three boys… Lee was okay, but I never wanted to spend time with Owen. And if he disliked me, he hated my dad after Jacob died. And now he’s working for him?
“It’s him—it’s got to be him,” I say. “He hates me, and my family. And he’s been there for months… it has to be him.”
“We’re bringing him in,” DC Norton says. “We’re looking at his van and we have a warrant to search his house.”
“But what about the ex-offender? That’s not Owen, is it?”
DC Norton shakes his head. “It’s someone who works for him.”
He takes a photograph out of the folder—it’s a man in his mid-twenties, short fair hair and a lean face. There’s a small scar cutting through one of his eyebrows, and his eyes are dark, a startling contrast to the light hair. If I saw this man in a pub, I’d definitely look twice, because he looks dangerous, and dangerous—until now, until Adam—has always been my Kryptonite. But mostly, what I feel as I look at the photograph is relief. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen this man before, so he can’t have any connection to me—this ex-offender who’s been seen with Sasha is not the one who’s doing all this.
Although I probably shouldn’t feel relief, should I? Because if it’s not this man, who the hell is it? Owen King? Really?
“His name is Ethan Taylor,” DC Norton says. “Recently released from prison after a four-year sentence for various fraudulent computer crimes. He was working part time as a groundskeeper at the holiday park under the employ of Owen King.”
Adam frowns. “If he was in prison for computer crime, could he be involved? Working with Owen King?”
“We’ll be speaking to both of them.”
I frown, looking at the photograph again.
“What about the other murders? The Bentley sisters?”
There’s too long a pause. “There are connections we are… investigating.”
I look at Adam and he shrugs. What the hell does that mean? Who the hell is Ethan Taylor and why would he be helping Owen?
Chapter 33
SASHA—December, two months earlier
The new house is crap. A horrible modern box on a huge, unfamiliar holiday park. It’s smaller than our old house, still three bedrooms but all the rooms are smaller. Dad’s going to hate working here. Unlike home, because I can’t think of this new place as home, the holiday park is open from March right through until November, and whatever Dad says about it being bigger and having more staff, he’s still going to be working more and harder here than he was before. Why would he do this only a few years before he wants to retire?
And Mum… How is she going to be happy here in these square rooms with their perfectly straight magnolia walls and wall-to-wall beige carpet? Mum likes original features and polished wood, built-in storage and our old range cooker. None of our furniture goes. It’s going to look weird here. This is a house made for Ikea furniture, not antiques.
Dad dropped us off with our hastily packed bags, turned straight round, and went back to supervise the real move. There’s already some furniture here, left by the old tenants: a cheap pine table and chairs in the kitchen, a couple of beds, a hideous cream leather sofa in the living room.
“Why did you agree to this?” I ask it again after Dad has left, watching Mum potter about, looking in the boxes and bags she brought with us for the kettle and teabags. I’m still carrying around that anger and frustration. She looks at me with her eyebrows raised.
“I don’t just mean the suddenness of it. Why did you agree to move here in the first place?” I say. “You loved the old house. We all did.”
“Your father didn’t,” she says, filling the kettle with water. “He hasn’t been happy there in a long time.”
“But what about you? Don’t you get a say?” I don’t mention myself. I can’t pretend I was really happy before. I can’t say this new place looks like any kind of improvement, but still. “What was it—adopting me was your thing and now you owe him forever? You don’t ever get a say anymore?”
Mum sighs, pouring milk in our cups before putting it away in the gleaming, empty fridge. “That’s not how it is. Not at all. It’s just a house, four walls and a roof. We can make this place a home.”
“What, this ugly, cold box?”
“Yes. The old house was full of too many bad memories.”
“Bad memories for Dad. Ancient memories. You loved it there.”
“No, Sasha. Not just bad memories for your father, for me. Me.” She looks at me and shakes her head. “I liked the house, yes, but I care more about our family’s happiness than I do about a house. You don’t remember—you were only a baby when Hanna left. But I remember everything that happened, how it tainted what should have been a happy home. And I’ve watched it eat away at your father over the years. I’ve watched it change him. I think—I hope—he’ll be happier here. He’ll learn to relax again. A fresh start is what we all need—including you, Sasha. This is an opportunity, not a punishment.”
Is she telling me or telling herself? Because it wasn’t just a house. She had friends there, a nice little group from the church who’d meet for book group nights and regular monthly lunches. But Dad said, Pack a bag, we’re going now, and she did it. Walked away from all of them. It’s okay for me, I didn’t have a group of friends, neither did Dad. But Mum… If there was ever a time to bring out the “F*** the Patriarchy” T-shirt…
“I think you should have fought harder to stay,” I say quietly, and for a fleeting second, I see sadness on her face, but then her expression hardens.
“This is not a war. This is not a battle we are fighting against your father,” she says. “You have to realize—your father acts out of fear and love. What you’re rebelling against… he’s not acting this way to punish you. He’s scared for you—he already lost one daughter. He loves you and wants to protect you.”
“But he didn’t lose a daughter. Hanna’s still alive.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I know what she means, but that doesn’t mean I accept it. What—I’m supposed to be happy to be basically locked in my room until I’m eighteen, only let out for school, because Mum says it’s about love, not punishment? I feel another surge of anger—this is another thing to lay at Hanna’s door, isn’t it? Dad’s doing all this because of what Hanna did, because he’s terrified I’m going to go the same way.
I look away. “Can I go out for a walk? Or has Dad alarmed the house so it goes off if I leave?”
“Don’t do this, Sasha.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say as I pull the front door open. “I didn’t do anything before, either, that’s the point. You’d think Dad would know better than to listen to gossip and lies, rather than believe me when I say I didn’t do anything. And don’t tell me this isn’t a punishment.”
I feel guilty as soon as I slam the door behind me. Mum’s only doing what she always does: trying to keep the peace, trying to make the best of things. My anger isn’t at her. I just get frustrated. And maybe, for once, I’d like her to be honest and say, Yes this is shit, isn’t it? Maybe I’d like to sit and have a good cry with her, and then I’d feel like we’re in it together and that, actually, we could make the best of things, and make this new life work. Maybe then we’d both feel a bit less lonely.
“Why on earth would I believe you’d want to be friends with him?”
“Because I don’t have any other friends.” I shout it and the tears spill over. “Because I’m the weird girl with the skirt that’s too long, who doesn’t wear makeup, who’s never allowed out, who doesn’t have a phone, who never does anything wrong. Nobody likes me. Nobody.”
“That is not an excuse.”
Oh, he says it so coldly and something curls up inside me and dies.
“Fuck. You,” I say as coldly as him.
Mum gasps at my words, but Dad’s expression doesn’t change. He starts punching a number into the phone. “Get upstairs. Get upstairs now. I don’t want to see your face anymore.”
I run upstairs and lift the corner of my mattress to pull out my phone. I dive across the landing and lock myself in the bathroom, my hands trembling as I look at the string of texts from Ethan. I’m sorry I lost my temper. R u ok? Hope you didn’t get in trouble. Text me back when you can. I take a massive risk and call Ethan instead of texting, talking in a fast and frantic whisper as soon as he answers.
“Ethan—stop, listen. My dad found us out and he’s got it all wrong. I told you he would. He thinks we’re together and he’s calling Owen and the probation service. He’s going to get you in trouble. I had to warn you.”
“Sash—calm down. It’s okay. It’ll be fine. We haven’t done anything wrong—there’s nothing for me to get in trouble for.”
“But he’s going to lie. He’s going to say we’re together and I’m underage and—”
He laughs. “Christ—history repeating, or what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s okay. Seriously, Sash. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself. I’ll sort this out; I’ll put them all straight. Stay safe, hunker down. I’ll contact you soon, okay? Keep your phone safe and hidden and I’ll—”
“No, don’t. I don’t think… I don’t think we should speak anymore.” I hear a creak on the stairs and almost wet myself in panic. “I have to go. Someone’s coming.” I end the call and turn off the phone. I put it in my pocket, pulling my jumper down, checking in the mirror to make sure it can’t be seen.
I flush the toilet and run the tap, taking a moment to try to calm down before unlocking the door to find Dad waiting outside. Did he hear me talking?
“Pack a bag,” he says. “I’ve spoken to the head office of the new holiday park. They’ve agreed we can settle in early. I’ll drive you and your mother there today and then come back and organize the full move alone.”
“Today?”
“We’re leaving in an hour.”
An hour? I’m supposed to pack up my life, say goodbye to the house that’s been my home for my entire life, in an hour?
But actually… what do I have to take? What do I have to say goodbye to? I pack some clothes and toiletries, making sure my phone is carefully hidden, packed at the bottom. My school books, some favorite novels… I hesitate when I take out the hidden photos, the ones of Hanna when she was my age. They’ve been my hidden lifeline to a sister I’ve never really known for so long, but she cut that line with what she did on my Facebook account. So, instead of putting the photos in my bag, I put them on the windowsill and leave them there. So what if Dad finds them and realizes I had them? I’m already in all the trouble. And if they were photos she kept hidden too, those images of her drinking and smoking and kissing, well, what does it matter to me if Dad thinks even worse of her? I don’t care.
I zip up the bag and turn away with my teeth clenched. I don’t look back as I leave the room and close the door behind me.
I come downstairs with my bag; the whole thing still seeming unreal. Mum’s in the kitchen, putting the kettle, cups, and bits of food in a box. I don’t know where Dad is.
“Are you really going to do this?” I say.
Mum carries on filling the box. “Do what?”
“Just… leave. No notice, no goodbyes. Just because Dad says so.”
She stops filling the box and looks at me. “Sasha, this is about more than just your actions. I don’t expect you to understand.” She sighs and shakes her head. “What do you expect me to do?”
What do I expect her to do? I guess I expect her to do exactly what she’s doing—follow orders, do what Dad says with a smile and no complaints. What she’s always done, like we’re still living in the 1950s. What I want her to do, though, is quite different… There was a girl in Year Eleven, on the last non-uniform day, who got sent home for wearing a T-shirt that said “F*** the Patriarchy.” So, I guess what I want Mum to do is say exactly that to Dad, only without the asterisks, and refuse to leave.
I can’t do anything—I’m fourteen, I don’t want to do a Hanna and run away. Where would I go and what would I do? No—university is my escape, but that’s four years away. But Mum, she’s a grown woman. She has a say.
“What about your New Year get-together with your book group?” I ask. “It’s your turn to host—you’ve been planning it for ages.”
Something flickers across her face for a moment, but then Dad walks into the room and it’s gone.
“They’ll understand,” she says quietly to me.
“Are you both ready?” Dad says.
Mum nods and smiles at me. “It’ll be great,” she says. “To have the opportunity to get settled in early. We’ll be all ready when your father gets there with the moving van.”
I turn and walk out without saying another word. The patriarchy is very much alive and well in our house. I don’t even know why I’m so angry about it. I’m not leaving behind an unfinished life here; I don’t have a boyfriend or a group of friends to miss. I don’t have a job or anything really tying me to this place. But Mum does. If she won’t stick up for me, I wish she’d at least stick up for herself.
Chapter 32
HANNA—Tuesday 8 a.m.
I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing. I’m warm and still wrapped in Adam’s arms and I try to extricate myself without waking him, but he wakes up with a jerk, sitting up, his hair sticking up everywhere.
“Sorry,” I say, smiling, as I reach down and pull out my phone from my hoodie pocket. My smile vanishes when I answer and it’s DC Norton on the other end.
“We have the name of the ex-offender your sister was linked with. Can you come in so we can try to establish any links between you?” There’s a pause. “And we’ve found another connection from that list of names you gave us.”
I get out of bed after the call ends, talking over my shoulder and telling Adam what the detective said as I pull on my jeans. He’s already up and getting dressed himself by the time I turn around.
“I’ll come with you. Let me make you some tea. Or coffee? I have travel cups if you don’t want to wait.”
I don’t even want to wait that long, so we’re out of his flat within ten minutes but I stop dead and swear as we hit the pavement.
“Fuck. My car is at Dee’s.”
“The police have still got mine.”
I waver for a second, trying to decide if it would be quicker to pick up my car or try to find a taxi. I start walking in the direction of Dee’s flat. Adam catches up with me and as he does, his hand reaches over and grabs mine and we walk the rest of the way like that, hand in hand, still half-fogged with sleep, my insides full of butterflies.
“Let me drive,” he says, holding out a hand for the keys as we get to Dee’s street. “You’re too distracted.”
“I’m not going to know him,” I say as Adam starts the car. “Whoever this guy is, I’m not going to know him. I don’t know anyone who’s been to prison.”
Adam taps the steering wheel as we wait at a red light. “But… did you used to? Know anyone who might have ended up in prison?”
I look out of the window as we turn left, rather than at Adam, thinking of the older boys and girls I hung out with in my bad old days. I already know it’s not Carrie, and I’m guessing it’s not Stephen—I don’t think ex-convicts can join the police force. It could be Lee or Owen—I have no clue if they’ve been in trouble in the years since I left home. And what about the others, the ones on the periphery, who were already supplying the drugs and feeding us underage kids alcohol? Any one of them could have ended up in trouble with the police—beyond the minor trouble we did get into. Hell, if I hadn’t left, if Dee hadn’t helped me drag myself out of my pit, I could have ended up in prison. The drugs could have become more than recreational, the shoplifting could have become a bigger crime, the graffiti could have turned to serious criminal damage. Who knows where I could have ended up? I left them all behind with my old life, but it’s certainly possible—more likely probable with some of them—that one or more of my old party-going friends could have ended up with a prison sentence.
But why would they do all this? That’s the sticking point. Yes, I can imagine some of them ending up in prison, but none of us knew much about each other beyond what we liked to drink and who we liked to dance to. None of them cared enough about me to go on some weird revenge trip, fifteen years later. Christ—would any of them even remember my name? And as for hanging out with Sasha? A fourteen-year-old girl? No, it doesn’t make sense.
I’ve talked myself out of the possibility of it being anyone I know, but it doesn’t stop me being nervous as we pull up at the police station. Adam takes my hand again as we walk across the road and I’m glad of the comfort.
We’re shown to the same interview room we were initially seen in and offered coffee, which we both gratefully accept. Under the table, our hands stay gripped together.
DC Norton comes in clutching his own cup of coffee in one hand and a folder in the other which he puts on the table.
“Thanks for coming in, Hanna. You too, Mr. Webster—it will be good to share the information with you as well, in case you have any connections we’re not aware of.” He pauses to open a folder. “The first connection—and one you’ve already flagged with the names you gave us before—is Owen King. He owns a small landscaping and property maintenance company and the owners of the holiday park awarded him the contract for the upkeep of the site.”
I lean back and let out a shaky breath. Back then, Lee and Carrie were friendly enough with me as Jacob’s girlfriend, but Owen never got beyond grumpy or hostile with me. He didn’t even try to pretend in front of Jacob. It was one of the things me and Jacob used to argue about—he wanted to spend what I thought was too much time with his friends. They were so tight-knit, particularly the three boys… Lee was okay, but I never wanted to spend time with Owen. And if he disliked me, he hated my dad after Jacob died. And now he’s working for him?
“It’s him—it’s got to be him,” I say. “He hates me, and my family. And he’s been there for months… it has to be him.”
“We’re bringing him in,” DC Norton says. “We’re looking at his van and we have a warrant to search his house.”
“But what about the ex-offender? That’s not Owen, is it?”
DC Norton shakes his head. “It’s someone who works for him.”
He takes a photograph out of the folder—it’s a man in his mid-twenties, short fair hair and a lean face. There’s a small scar cutting through one of his eyebrows, and his eyes are dark, a startling contrast to the light hair. If I saw this man in a pub, I’d definitely look twice, because he looks dangerous, and dangerous—until now, until Adam—has always been my Kryptonite. But mostly, what I feel as I look at the photograph is relief. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen this man before, so he can’t have any connection to me—this ex-offender who’s been seen with Sasha is not the one who’s doing all this.
Although I probably shouldn’t feel relief, should I? Because if it’s not this man, who the hell is it? Owen King? Really?
“His name is Ethan Taylor,” DC Norton says. “Recently released from prison after a four-year sentence for various fraudulent computer crimes. He was working part time as a groundskeeper at the holiday park under the employ of Owen King.”
Adam frowns. “If he was in prison for computer crime, could he be involved? Working with Owen King?”
“We’ll be speaking to both of them.”
I frown, looking at the photograph again.
“What about the other murders? The Bentley sisters?”
There’s too long a pause. “There are connections we are… investigating.”
I look at Adam and he shrugs. What the hell does that mean? Who the hell is Ethan Taylor and why would he be helping Owen?
Chapter 33
SASHA—December, two months earlier
The new house is crap. A horrible modern box on a huge, unfamiliar holiday park. It’s smaller than our old house, still three bedrooms but all the rooms are smaller. Dad’s going to hate working here. Unlike home, because I can’t think of this new place as home, the holiday park is open from March right through until November, and whatever Dad says about it being bigger and having more staff, he’s still going to be working more and harder here than he was before. Why would he do this only a few years before he wants to retire?
And Mum… How is she going to be happy here in these square rooms with their perfectly straight magnolia walls and wall-to-wall beige carpet? Mum likes original features and polished wood, built-in storage and our old range cooker. None of our furniture goes. It’s going to look weird here. This is a house made for Ikea furniture, not antiques.
Dad dropped us off with our hastily packed bags, turned straight round, and went back to supervise the real move. There’s already some furniture here, left by the old tenants: a cheap pine table and chairs in the kitchen, a couple of beds, a hideous cream leather sofa in the living room.
“Why did you agree to this?” I ask it again after Dad has left, watching Mum potter about, looking in the boxes and bags she brought with us for the kettle and teabags. I’m still carrying around that anger and frustration. She looks at me with her eyebrows raised.
“I don’t just mean the suddenness of it. Why did you agree to move here in the first place?” I say. “You loved the old house. We all did.”
“Your father didn’t,” she says, filling the kettle with water. “He hasn’t been happy there in a long time.”
“But what about you? Don’t you get a say?” I don’t mention myself. I can’t pretend I was really happy before. I can’t say this new place looks like any kind of improvement, but still. “What was it—adopting me was your thing and now you owe him forever? You don’t ever get a say anymore?”
Mum sighs, pouring milk in our cups before putting it away in the gleaming, empty fridge. “That’s not how it is. Not at all. It’s just a house, four walls and a roof. We can make this place a home.”
“What, this ugly, cold box?”
“Yes. The old house was full of too many bad memories.”
“Bad memories for Dad. Ancient memories. You loved it there.”
“No, Sasha. Not just bad memories for your father, for me. Me.” She looks at me and shakes her head. “I liked the house, yes, but I care more about our family’s happiness than I do about a house. You don’t remember—you were only a baby when Hanna left. But I remember everything that happened, how it tainted what should have been a happy home. And I’ve watched it eat away at your father over the years. I’ve watched it change him. I think—I hope—he’ll be happier here. He’ll learn to relax again. A fresh start is what we all need—including you, Sasha. This is an opportunity, not a punishment.”
Is she telling me or telling herself? Because it wasn’t just a house. She had friends there, a nice little group from the church who’d meet for book group nights and regular monthly lunches. But Dad said, Pack a bag, we’re going now, and she did it. Walked away from all of them. It’s okay for me, I didn’t have a group of friends, neither did Dad. But Mum… If there was ever a time to bring out the “F*** the Patriarchy” T-shirt…
“I think you should have fought harder to stay,” I say quietly, and for a fleeting second, I see sadness on her face, but then her expression hardens.
“This is not a war. This is not a battle we are fighting against your father,” she says. “You have to realize—your father acts out of fear and love. What you’re rebelling against… he’s not acting this way to punish you. He’s scared for you—he already lost one daughter. He loves you and wants to protect you.”
“But he didn’t lose a daughter. Hanna’s still alive.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I know what she means, but that doesn’t mean I accept it. What—I’m supposed to be happy to be basically locked in my room until I’m eighteen, only let out for school, because Mum says it’s about love, not punishment? I feel another surge of anger—this is another thing to lay at Hanna’s door, isn’t it? Dad’s doing all this because of what Hanna did, because he’s terrified I’m going to go the same way.
I look away. “Can I go out for a walk? Or has Dad alarmed the house so it goes off if I leave?”
“Don’t do this, Sasha.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say as I pull the front door open. “I didn’t do anything before, either, that’s the point. You’d think Dad would know better than to listen to gossip and lies, rather than believe me when I say I didn’t do anything. And don’t tell me this isn’t a punishment.”
I feel guilty as soon as I slam the door behind me. Mum’s only doing what she always does: trying to keep the peace, trying to make the best of things. My anger isn’t at her. I just get frustrated. And maybe, for once, I’d like her to be honest and say, Yes this is shit, isn’t it? Maybe I’d like to sit and have a good cry with her, and then I’d feel like we’re in it together and that, actually, we could make the best of things, and make this new life work. Maybe then we’d both feel a bit less lonely.
