I Know Who You Are(38)

I block her path. “No, I’m sorry. I’m on my way out.”

“It won’t take long. I wanted to update you about the stalker you mentioned.”

She has my attention now, but I still can’t be late to meet my agent, not today. “So, update me.” I keep the front door half-closed.

She smiles again. “All right. First, I just wanted to show you some more footage we’ve obtained. It’s from the day you reported Ben missing.” She takes out her trusty iPad and gives it a swipe. “Here is some CCTV footage of the bank, at the exact time your account was emptied and closed.”

I stare at the screen and see the back of a woman who looks just like me walk up to a counter. “I told you, she dresses like me—”

“She had your passport as a form of ID.”

I hesitate. “Well, then it must have been fake, I—”

“We checked the emails that you claimed were sent to you by someone calling themselves Maggie O’Neil. We traced the IP address and discovered that you had sent them to yourself. From your own laptop.”

I can’t speak at first. The suggestion is ludicrous, I haven’t been sending myself emails, why would I? “You’re mistaken,” I say, hearing my voice crack a little as I do.

“We traced the IP address. There’s no mistake.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Is your passport missing?”

I think for a moment, then remember that it wasn’t just Ben’s passport that had disappeared from the drawer where we keep them. “Yes, it is!”

She sighs. “Does anyone else have access to your home?”

“No. Wait. Yes, we used to have a cleaner.”

“Used to?”

“She returned her key, but she could have made a copy.”

“Why did you fire her?”

“I didn’t fire her … we just stopped using her.”

Because I’m a private person and didn’t like the idea of someone snooping around my home, touching my things.

Croft stares at me long enough for my cheeks to flush with color, but I’ve learned not to say more than I need to.

“Do you think your ex-cleaner is your stalker?”

It seems unlikely, but I still consider the possibility. Maria was a little older than me, but about the same height. She changed her hair color more often than most people change their sheets, but she had access to my clothes and my passport. I suppose we might look the same from the back. But it can’t be her, she always seemed so … nice.

“We also checked the search history on your laptop,” Croft continues without waiting for my conclusions. “Someone, presumably you, was looking up divorce lawyers … or do you think that might have been your former cleaner too? Perhaps she doesn’t have internet at home.”

That was me. But I didn’t call any of them. I was just upset. How dare Croft invade my privacy in this way. I let them take my laptop in good faith, and once again she’s using everything against me.

“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Sinclair?”

I don’t answer.

“According to our records, you do. Do you think that the amnesia your husband mentioned might have made you forget that too?”

No. I remember everything. I always have.

“It’s not a crime to own a legally registered gun.”

“That’s right, it’s not. Can I see it?”

I hold her stare. “If you had anything real on me, you would have arrested me by now.”

She smiles, takes a step closer. “You’re right, I would.”

“Have you even heard of innocent until proven guilty?”

“Yep, sure have. I’ve heard of God and Father Christmas too. I don’t believe in them either. We’d like to search the property again, if it’s convenient.” She looks over her shoulder at the two police vans. The side doors are open and I can see several officers inside each one.

“It isn’t convenient, and don’t you need a warrant to search my home?”

“Only if you refuse to give us permission.”

“Then I suggest you get one.”





Thirty-one


Essex, 1988

“I’ve got you some new tapes,” says Maggie, walking into my bedroom. She smells of hairspray and her number five perfume all at once. She’s wearing a yellow suit today, and for some reason the shoulders are padded to make them look bigger than they are. I’m pleased about the new tapes. I’ve listened to all the old ones over and over, and I know all the stories by heart.

“Now, these tapes are very special.” She slides one of them into my Fisher-Price cassette player and presses Play. A strange voice comes out of the machine.

“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”

Maggie hits the Pause button. “Well, go on then, do what she says.”

This story tape doesn’t sound fun at all. I open my mouth, but I’ve already forgotten what I am supposed to say. Maggie tuts. She hits another button, and when the sound of the tape rewinding stops, she presses Play again. I try hard to remember this time.

“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”