Good Girl, Bad Girl(111)
“Who’s that?”
“My dog.”
“Where are you going?”
“To let her inside,” I say. “She won’t hurt you.”
“No! Leave her.”
The blanket has dropped from my shoulders. She looks at my pajamas.
“Are you his daughter?”
“What?”
She speaks slowly as though I’m retarded. “Are . . . you . . . his . . . daughter?”
“No. He’s . . . I’m . . . I’m a foster child.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Dead.”
The bluntness of my answer surprises her.
“What happened to her?”
“It doesn’t matter. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“I could make coffee.”
“No.”
She’s pacing back and forth, knocking her fist repeatedly against her head, as though trying to dislodge a thought. She’s mumbling. Poppy barks. I glance at the clock above the sink. Why hasn’t Cyrus called?
“Call him?” she says, pointing to my phone.
“I told you—he doesn’t have a mobile. I know it’s weird. He doesn’t have a landline either.”
“Don’t bullshit me, girlie. Call him.”
“I’m not lying.”
I realize that she’s going to hit me before it happens but can’t stop the blow. She backhands me across the face, knocking me sideways so that my head strikes the doorjamb. I slide down the wall, seeing sparks when I blink.
She takes hold of my ponytail and jerks my face around.
“Call him! Tell him not to bring the police. I want Aiden. Nobody else.”
62
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
I glance at my pager and see Evie’s number.
You have to bring Aiden home, says the message. A moment later, a second one arrives: No police.
I glance at Lenny.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Can I use your phone?”
I call Evie’s number, listening to it ring. She answers.
“Cyrus?”
“Is everything OK?”
“Bring him back! Now!” snarls Felicity Whitaker.
“Felicity?”
“I want Aiden.”
“He’s talking to the detectives.”
“Stop him!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Tell him to shut up!”
“He’s at West Bridgford Police Station. Why don’t you come here and talk to him?”
“Bring him here.”
“I can’t do that.”
Silence for a long time, but I can hear her breathing.
“Are you there, Felicity? Let me talk to Evie.”
“Aiden’s done nothing wrong,” she blurts.
“I know.”
“Tell the police.”
“I will. Put Evie on the phone.”
“No! You’re not listening. Bring Aiden now.”
“He’ll be home soon.”
“Bring him, or she gets hurt . . . I’ll do it. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill myself. Bring Aiden, or she dies.”
The line goes dead. My heart is suddenly where my brain should be, the blood pounding behind my temples. Vaguely I’m aware of Lenny yelling orders across the near-empty incident room, calling for a tactical response team. No sirens. Radio silence.
In between firing off commands, she is asking me questions about Felicity Whitaker and the layout of the house. How many entrances or access points? Are the windows locked or unlocked? Could she be armed? How did she seem?
“Upset,” I say.
“Irrational?”
“Yes.”
“What about the girl, Evie—is she likely to panic or stay calm?”
I hesitate, trying to think. I remember the incident at Langford Hall when Evie disarmed Brodie. Back then she had been so calm it had bordered on serenity.
“She’ll look to escape,” I say.
We’re talking and moving, descending the stairs, into the parking area, where three unmarked police cars are waiting. Lenny pulls body armor from the boot of the first car and throws a black vest in my direction.
“It that really necessary?”
“You wear it, or you stay here.”
There are more questions on the journey, most of them about Felicity’s state of mind.
“Does she have any history of mental illness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why take a hostage?”
“She doesn’t want Aiden talking to the police.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s worried this will jeopardize his future. He’s been offered a place at Cambridge to study law on a full scholarship.”
“Sleeping with his cousin won’t jeopardize anything.”
“Jodie was underage.”
“And he’s not much older.”
Lenny takes a call. I can hear only one side of the conversation.
“No helicopters . . . A drone? How noisy is it? . . . OK. Yeah . . . Evacuate whoever you can without alerting Mrs. Whitaker. Do it quietly.”