Good Girl, Bad Girl(112)
Lenny turns to me: “Do any of the neighboring properties overlook the front or back of the house?”
“The front, yes.”
“OK. We need a floor plan. You might have to sketch one. What room are they likely to be in?”
“The kitchen maybe. It’s at the back.”
We’re getting closer to Wollaton Park. My pager beeps. It’s another message from Evie.
Where are you?
63
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
Mrs. Whitaker is fussing over me, looking for frozen peas in the freezer.
“I don’t normally, I mean, I never hit Aiden or Tasmin. I don’t know what came over me.”
Her eyes are jittering from side to side like she’s high on something. I’ve seen someone overdose before. And I’ve seen loads of kids suddenly kick off because they’re angry or hearing voices, but nothing like this.
“I’ll wait upstairs,” I say.
“No.”
“I should get dressed.”
“Stay here.”
“But I need the loo.”
I cross my legs as though I’m busting.
“There must be one downstairs.”
I reach for my phone, but she takes it from me.
“What if he calls?” I ask.
“I’ll answer it.”
The loo is off the laundry. I lock the door and glance at the window. It’s too small for me to crawl out. Maybe I can stay here until Cyrus arrives.
“I can’t hear anything happening,” she says from the far side of the door.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Piss or get off the pot.”
My phone is ringing. She answers, asking, “Where’s Aiden?”
I don’t hear the reply, but it must be Cyrus.
After another pause, she knocks.
“He wants to talk to you. You have to tell him you’re OK.”
I unlock the door and step out. Cyrus is on speakerphone.
“Hey,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Has she threatened you?” asks Cyrus.
Mrs. Whitaker interrupts. “She’s fine. Where’s Aiden?”
“You can come out and see him.”
“No!”
“He didn’t hurt Jodie. You don’t have to protect him. He’s giving the police a statement, that’s all.”
She curses under her breath. “No statements!”
“You can’t make demands.”
“I WANT MY SON!” she screams, grabbing a knife from the wooden block beside the stove.
“Please, stay calm,” says Cyrus.
“DON’T TELL ME TO BE CALM!”
“She has a knife!” I yell, ducking under her arm and bolting for the door. She grabs my hair and hauls me back, making me cry out in pain.
Cyrus has heard it all.
“Don’t hurt her,” he pleads. “Evie? Evie? Can you hear me?”
Mrs. Whitaker holds the knife to my neck. “Answer him.”
“I’m here.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales with relief, but doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s like he’s lost for words. Finally, he says, “Let me come inside, Felicity.”
“Not without Aiden.”
“How about we do a swap? Take me instead of Evie.”
“No.”
“She’s just a kid.”
“So is Aiden.”
“The police aren’t going to let him walk into a house where you’ve threatened someone—not when you’re holding a knife. Talk to me.”
“Get me Aiden. Then we’ll talk.”
64
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Police cars have been parked diagonally across the road to create a staggered series of checkpoints, each one closer than the next. The outer ring is a hundred yards from the house where uniformed officers are keeping spectators behind barricades. Most of them are neighbors who are no doubt filling the vacuum of uncertainty with breathless rumors of terrorism or a domestic siege.
“The hostage negotiator is still forty minutes away,” says Lenny.
“I’m trained,” I say.
“You’re personally involved.”
“I know the layout of the house. I know Felicity Whitaker.”
“I’m not giving her a second hostage.”
“What if she agrees to release Evie?”
“She just refused.”
More police are arriving. Men dressed in black wearing body armor and helmets, carrying rifles, battering rams, and shields. The head of the tactical response team is straight out of Hollywood casting, with chiseled features and a Clooneyesque haircut.
“We’ll be ready in fifteen,” he tells Lenny, who remains in overall command until negotiations are deemed to have failed.