Finding Grace(47)

Grace was weird like that. She loved notebooks, paper and glittery pens; always made a beeline for Paperchase when they went into town with their mums.

Olivia lifted the diary out and inspected it, feeling a twinge of disappointment when she realised, exactly as Grace had told her, that it was one of those with a tiny padlock.

Olivia had one herself in her desk drawer, though she’d never used it. Her auntie had bought it her for Christmas last year, but she’d mislaid the key and hadn’t got around to looking for it yet. She preferred typing on a keyboard to writing by hand, and if she was going to keep a diary, she’d rather get one of those cool electronic ones that you could put a password on.

She stuck a fingernail in the top of the closely packed pages and caught a tantalising glimpse of Grace’s handwriting. She couldn’t see enough to read anything, but it looked like her friend had written a lot.

She placed the diary back in the rucksack and stuffed the items on top again so it was invisible, like before. After refastening the bag, she pushed it, this time with her foot, as far as she could back under the bed.

If Grace found out she’d been snooping, she’d probably never speak to Olivia again.

But if Grace didn’t return home soon, Olivia would be forced to say something, wouldn’t she? And what then?

She didn’t want to get into trouble with her parents, and especially not with the police.

No. It was best she said nothing at all. For now.





Thirty-Four





Lucie





Sunday night





Blake snorts and turns over in his sleep, and I snap awake. My heart is hammering; my palms are damp.

I’ve tried my damnedest to bury this stuff for sixteen years, and yet here it all is; every detail, every nuance has been filed away and retrieved by my unconscious mind, as if it just happened yesterday.

These are the early chapters, the setting, the build-up. My mind is presenting the terrible story like a perfectly structured novel, but I can’t stand revisiting the horror of what came later. I just can’t face it.

I’m a different person now. That girl – the monstrous person I became at university – it wasn’t me, not really. I was coerced and controlled until I forgot about everything that was important to me.

I wish I could go back and draw a line between the person I was and the person I became. They have blurred into the fabricated person I am today.

I was forced to make a decision back then. I had to. Under the circumstances, I think the outcome I chose was the one most people would’ve opted for.

Some might say how apt it is that I’m suffering now. They might say it’s only right that I’m finding out for myself the pain of losing the thing I love the most.

‘Luce?’ Blake rouses from his slumber and props himself up on one elbow. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Go back to sleep.’

‘I haven’t been asleep, not properly. I’m just resting, just trying to—’

‘You’ve been fast asleep. Snoring, in fact.’

‘Listen, Luce. I want to say something.’ His voice is dry and croaky. I know he’s suffering like I am; we just deal with it differently. ‘I want to say that I love you and Grace and Oscar so much it hurts. I want you to know that.’

It feels like this might be a preamble to him saying something else: a confession about the money, or that he’s having an affair? Something I might not want to hear, anyway.

I turn on my side so I’m looking right at him. ‘I know you do. I love you too.’

‘I know this is the hardest thing to deal with, but I don’t want us to end up hating each other. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘That won’t happen,’ I say.

‘People can be cruel at times like this. They can stick the knife in, put doubt in our minds about each other.’

‘Tell me about the cash, Blake. You’ve brought it into our home and I’ve a right to know where it’s from and who it belongs to.’

His eyes bore into mine. He takes a breath and his fingers brush away a wisp of hair lying across my cheek.

‘It’s really important we’re truthful with each other,’ I say gently. ‘However bad things get, I’d rather hear it from you than from someone else. We owe each other that much.’

The irony of my words hits me like a truck, and I squeeze my eyes shut with the shame of what I just said. God help me if he ever finds out how I’ve concealed the truth of past events from him.

I wait. Two or three seconds seem like an eternity.

‘It’s not my money.’

‘How much is there, Blake?’

‘Just over fifty grand. But it’s not mine.’

So I was right about the amount. Over fifty thousand pounds of someone else’s money, salted away in a drawer. That’s the definition of dodgy in anyone’s book.

‘You say it’s not yours, but tell me why it’s in our house. Is this why you suggested that we can afford a holiday all of a sudden?’ I say bitterly. The idea that he’d take us, his family, on a holiday using dodgy money sickens me to my core. This is not the action of the man I love and trust.

‘Are you even listening?’ He’s getting snappy now. ‘It’s nothing to do with the holiday. I don’t spend money that isn’t mine.’