Good Girl, Bad Girl(113)

“Do we have eyes?” she asks.

“We had a sighting in the kitchen, before the blinds were lowered,” says Edgar.

“What about ears?”

“The directional microphones aren’t picking up much.”

Lenny looks at me. “Phone her again.”

I dial Evie’s mobile. It goes to her voicemail. I try again. Nothing.

“Can we get Aiden here?” I ask.

“He’s on his way.”

Lenny motions towards the tactical response officers who are taking up positions behind hedges and parked cars and in neighboring properties with windows that overlook the house.

“What would you do?” she asks.

“Give her more time. She’s a middle-aged mother of two, not a wanted terrorist.”

Lenny gazes at the house as though contemplating tomorrow’s headlines. “OK, but first I want confirmation that Evie Cormac is unharmed.”

Grabbing a bullhorn from the front seat of her car, she signals for me to follow.

The birds have gone quiet and traffic noise drops away, leaving a soundtrack of our shoes crushing seedpods on the footpath. We reach the front gate. Lenny raises the megaphone.

“Mrs. Whitaker? I know you can hear me. I’m DCI Parvel. We met a few weeks ago.”

We wait. Watching. Nothing moves behind the curtains.

“Your son is on his way, but I can’t help you unless you help me. I need proof that Evie Cormac is safe and unharmed.”

The front door opens a crack. Felicity yells, “She’s safe.”

“I’ll need more than your word for it.”

The door opens wider and this time Evie emerges, dressed in her red flannelette pajamas, printed with penguins. She’s barefoot and looks younger than eighteen. Younger than fourteen. Too young.

Felicity Whitaker has her arm wrapped around Evie’s neck, crooked at the elbow, using her as a human shield. She’s holding a bottle of clear liquid in her right hand. She holds it aloft and begins emptying it over Evie. Fluid splashes across her head and shoulders . . . into her eyes. Evie screams, trying to cover her face. What is it? Paint thinners? Gasoline? Turpentine?

Evie tries to drop and roll, but Felicity holds her upright and tosses the empty bottle away. It bounces down the steps and rolls onto the grass. She pulls a cigarette lighter from her pocket and holds it against Evie’s cheek.

“You know what I want.”

The door closes.





65




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ANGEL FACE




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My eyes are burning. My mouth, my nostrils, my ears, every hair follicle is on fire. It’s like red-hot wires have been driven through my pupils straight into my brain. I use my pajama sleeves to wipe at my eyes, but the liquid is all over me, soaking the fabric, clinging to my skin.

Dragged backwards along the hallway, I’m dumped in the library, where I curl up on the floor. More liquid is splashed across the desk and bookshelves, the fumes scalding my throat, making me gag.

“Why are you doing this?” I scream.

“They aren’t listening.”

“That’s not my fault.”

She grabs my hair again.

“How many entrances?”

“Two. Front and back.”

She pulls me from room to room, where she closes the blinds and curtains, checking the windows are locked.

“Water,” I plead. “My eyes.”

We’re in the kitchen. She holds my head over the sink and turns on the tap. I splash water onto my face but still can’t see properly. Bottles and cans are scattered across the floor. She has emptied the shelves in the laundry and kitchen, examining the labels, keeping some bottles and discarding others. I spent hours tidying those shelves, putting paints on one side and cleaning products on the other with the labels facing out.

She makes me sit down and unspools a roll of masking tape, wrapping it around my wrists and up my forearms.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m not Dr. Haven’s daughter. We’re not related.”

“You’re living here.”

“I’m visiting.”

“You must mean something to him.”

The statement jangles something inside me. Does Cyrus care about me? He must do. He didn’t send me back to Langford Hall. He let me have Poppy. Darling Poppy. Poor Poppy. She’s whining from the back steps, wondering why she’s being ignored.

In a different life, in a different house, I listened to dogs barking as Terry was tortured to death. He stopped begging after a while. Then he stopped talking, which infuriated them even more. He groaned and cried, and I wished they would hurry. I wished they would finish. I wished his suffering would end.

I’ve heard people die before. Some hardly made a squeak, while others fought like drowning cats in a sack. My father. My mother. My sister. They left me alone with the nameless men and the faceless men. Only they do have names and they do have faces. And I remember every one of them. Next time I will pull the trigger. Next time I won’t hesitate.





66




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CYRUS