Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(100)

What was it doing outside Cyrus’s house? I stepped closer, trying to peer inside, leaning through the open side door. I saw Lilah staring back at me from the darkness. Eyes wide. Mouth taped shut.

A hand closed over my mouth, cutting off my scream. My legs were kicked out from beneath me and I was lifted and thrown into the truck. I fought. Biting at fingers. Kicking at shins. I felt the needle prick my neck and heard the tape being ripped from a spool, across my mouth and my eyes.

Briefly, I glimpsed the man’s face before the darkness closed around me. I saw the man who drove Daniela away. He is sitting opposite me now. No disguises. Not hiding any more.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘You can call me Rennie. What’s your name?’

‘Evie.’

‘Are you a fair person, Evie?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m asking if you understand the difference between right and wrong?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you think people should be punished for doing the wrong thing?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Justice. Fairness. Accountability. Young people understand justice better than adults. Their minds haven’t been poisoned.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘And you will, but first I need you to do something for me.’

He smiles without showing his teeth, but I know he’s telling the truth.

‘Did you kill Maya?’ I ask.

‘She got away and fell down the stairs. She was dead when I found her.’

Again, he’s not lying. He stands up. I cower.

‘I will not hurt you. I would never touch a child.’

‘I’m not a child.’

‘Good. I need you to be grown-up. You’re going to be my judge and my jury.’

‘I’m not going to judge anyone. Cyrus is going to find me. He’s going to make you pay.’

‘Who is Cyrus?’

‘My friend.’

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘No!’

I say it too aggressively and he laughs. I want to wipe that smile off his face. Instead, I tell him to fuck off and call him the worst names, spitting them in his face.

‘You have a potty mouth, Evie.’

‘And you stink.’

The bald man folds the chair carefully before resting it against the wall. He leaves the room and I hear metal being scraped on concrete. Water sloshing. Footsteps return. The silhouette looks different in the doorway because now he’s carrying a bucket.

‘No, I didn’t mean— Please. No!’

Filthy, freezing water slaps me across the face. The door closes. Darkness.





69


Cyrus


Gary is still on the phone, relaying information about Elias. Every so often, he puts me on hold while he talks to a colleague, or takes another call, checking on the status of a different parolee or defendant who has breached house arrest or curfew or bail conditions. The accused or convicted or blameworthy.

‘I lost the signal eight minutes ago,’ he says.

‘Why would that happen?’

‘Either he destroyed the tag, or he could be indoors, somewhere underground or behind thick walls.’

‘Let me know if you get another signal.’

I type the cross streets into my phone, which is propped in a cradle on the dashboard.

‘Who is Elias?’ asks Cassie.

‘My brother. He’s been released from Rampton for a visit. He’s wearing an ankle monitor.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Evie and Lilah Hooper are both missing. I found my front door wide open. Evie’s car was gone.’

‘And you think Elias has them?’

‘Or Patrice.’

Cassie seems to swallow her next question and we continue the journey in silence, heading south along Hucknall Road into Nottingham.

When we reach Beech Avenue, I drive slowly along the street, searching for Evie’s car. To my left, a derelict building takes up almost an entire block. It is five storeys high, with large windows on every floor that are either boarded up or broken. The roof has collapsed inwards after a fire. I can see scorch marks above some of the windows and charred beams etched against the sky.

After circling the block, I pull over and glance at the factory, taking my phone from the cradle.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Cassie.

‘To get a closer look.’

‘I don’t want to stay here.’

She joins me on the footpath. A gust of wind pins her coat against her body and the cold makes her eyes water. We circle the perimeter, which is surrounded by a brick wall and large iron gates. Using a low branch, I scramble up the trunk of a tree and sit on the wall, trying to get a better vantage point.

The factory looks out of time – a throwback to a different era when Nottingham was an industrial powerhouse. The collapsed roof has exposed the upper floor, revealing the skeletal beams and metal stanchions that once gave it support. Trees and shrubs have since germinated in the rain and sunlight, creating a dystopian rooftop garden of weeds. At the northern end of the building, a circular brick chimney rises above the rest of the roofline, having escaped the fire.

I scan the length of the building, studying the large rectangular windows, which are covered by sheets of plywood on the lower floors and shattered by rocks or heat on the higher levels. I can imagine local children telling stories about this place – convinced they have heard screams at night or seen ghostly shapes in the windows. That’s what happened after my family died. Our house became the sort of place that children had nightmares about or challenged each other to ring the doorbell and scarper. It made drivers speed up and mothers clutch the hands of their children more tightly as they walked them to school.