Good Girl, Bad Girl(88)
I turn to Aiden. “Did you know?”
“I’m her cousin, not her babysitter.”
“You didn’t notice her coming and going?”
“I’m not here,” he replies, pointing into the garden, where a small egg-shaped caravan is parked against the back fence. A power cable snakes across the lawn to the house.
“How did Jodie get in and out?” I ask.
“I’d leave the sliding door unlocked on the patio,” replies Tasmin.
“What about the night she disappeared—did you leave it unlocked?”
She lowers her head and bites her bottom lip, leaving white marks in the indentations.
“Did you forget?”
“No.” A teardrop hangs on her lower lashes, growing fatter before it falls. “I wanted to punish her for leaving me alone at the fireworks . . . not taking me along.”
“You weren’t to know,” says Aiden, putting his arm around her shoulders.
“If I’d left the door unlocked, she wouldn’t have tried to walk home. She wouldn’t . . .”
Tasmin can’t finish and Aiden doesn’t know how to comfort her.
A door key slides into a lock and the front door opens. Bryan and Felicity Whitaker carry bags of groceries into the hallway, still arguing about something that must have started in the car. They stop abruptly.
“What are you doing here?” asks Bryan, his eyes sparking with anger.
“I’m talking to Aiden and Tasmin.”
“Without our permission.”
“Aiden is an adult.”
The groceries are dumped without ceremony on the floor. “I don’t want you talking to my children without us being here. I don’t want you putting words in their mouths.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
Everybody is on their feet and the sitting room feels small. Felicity has gone to Aiden, putting her arm around his waist. She went to him first, not Tasmin, who is clearly more upset.
“Jodie was pregnant and planning to run away,” I explain. “I thought she might have talked to Tasmin.”
“You think our daughter deliberately withheld information,” says Bryan.
“No.”
“That’s what you’re inferring.”
“It’s all right, Bryan,” says Felicity. “Let it go.”
“He accused me of molesting Jodie.”
Tasmin makes a gagging sound and Aiden laughs sarcastically. I don’t know what makes Bryan Whitaker angrier—my presence or the reactions of his children. He’s not a big man, but he makes himself larger, lunging at me.
Felicity intercepts and pushes him back, warning me to leave.
I take a business card from my jacket pocket and give it to Aiden and Tasmin.
“This is my address and my pager number. If you think of anything—get in touch.”
“You’re not welcome here,” yells Bryan. “Don’t come back.”
Felicity catches up with me before I reach the footpath. She pushes hair from her eyes, blinking wetly.
“You have the wrong impression of this family, Dr. Haven, if you think we’d do anything to hurt Jodie.”
46
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
The pizza is cold by the time it arrives. I have a slice and leave the rest to Keeley, who eats noisily, letting cheese hang from her lips. In between mouthfuls, she guzzles glasses of pink wine from a box, treating it like cordial. Where does the food go? There’s nothing of her.
During the afternoon, an Uber driver had delivered two plastic bags containing clothes for me—a short suede skirt, red tights, knickers, socks, and a fitted white blouse with a Peter Pan collar—all of them new. The knickers are black and lacy and a size too small. I have never worn a thong before. At Langford Hall they issue the girls with grandma knickers from Marks & Spencer and sports bras that never fit properly.
Keeley wrinkles her nose as she examines each new piece of clothing, holding it between her thumb and forefinger as though she might catch something. The only thing she seems to covet are the patent-leather ankle boots.
She’s sitting on the bed, waiting for me to finish showering.
“Where are you from?” I ask over the spitting water.
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
There is a pause. “Sheffield.”
“Do you have family?”
“There’s me and Mum and two half brothers. They must be two and four by now.”
“You ever see them?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“My stepdad.”
The answer doesn’t need elaboration. I’ve known at least a dozen girls from Langford Hall whose parents had split up and a new partner pushed them to leave. It’s like when a new lion takes over the pride. He kills the cubs or forces them out, clearing the way for his own progeny. That’s one of my daily words: “progeny.” It means descendants or children.
Turning off the shower, I reach for a towel and catch a hated glimpse of myself in the mirror. The bruises on my ribs are starting to yellow at the edges and have turned a deep purple at the center. They only hurt when I touch them.