Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(42)

I turn the cover over in my hand. There is a battery, but no smoke detector.

‘What is it?’ asks Lenny.

‘Best guess – a spy camera. The battery has been unplugged but the camera has gone.’

I put the cover into a plastic evidence bag while Lenny uses her phone to photograph the ceiling and the edge of the bath. She calls Hoyle, asking for a search warrant for Dean Sterling.

Meanwhile, I go to Maya’s bedroom and look for other likely hiding places. Eventually, my eyes settle on the shelf of stuffed animals near the window. The toys are lined up in order of size, but one of them, the Paddington Bear, is slightly askew. I pick it up and discover that the back has been ripped open and one of the glass eyes is missing.

‘In here,’ I shout.

Lenny appears.

I hold up the bear. ‘Another camera. It was most likely hooked up to the home Wi-Fi and accessed using a phone app, or a laptop. The batteries would have to be replaced every so often, but other than that, he could have been watching Maya from anywhere.’

‘Where are the cameras?’ asks Lenny. ‘He was searched when he left the house. He was only carrying a screwdriver and the house keys.’

I take a step towards the window and feel something small and brittle snap beneath the heel of my shoe. Bending to investigate, I find a shard of black plastic. The sash window is pulled shut but unlatched.

I’m moving. Out the door. Down the stairs. Lenny follows. We reach the kitchen and take the side door, along a short path to the garden. Stepping onto the muddy grass, I look up at Maya’s bedroom window, estimating the trajectory. I pull aside the branches of a shrub. Lying in the dirt, amid the dead leaves, are broken pieces of plastic, glass and circuit board.

‘We need to get hold of his computers and his phone,’ I say.

‘I’m on it.’





28


Evie


Mitch has been working inside, fixing my bedroom door, which doesn’t lock properly because this house seems to shift with the seasons, creaking and groaning as it inhales and exhales. Someone can close a door downstairs and my bedroom rug will ripple and bulge. It terrified me at first because I thought the place was haunted.

Having unscrewed the hinges, he lowers the door and props it between two chairs. Then he uses a tool that shaves off slivers of wood that curl and flutter to the floor like party streamers.

‘What was jail like?’ I ask, watching him from the attic steps.

‘Slow.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Everything comes down to time, but you learn to make it pass.’

‘How?’

Mitch pauses and blows wood shavings from his wrist. ‘We humans are the only animals that worry about time. Other animals live in the continual present, with no sense of the past or the future. That’s what I learned to do in jail. I ate. I slept. I breathed. I worked. I lived in the continual present.’

‘What job did you do?’

‘In the laundry. It was OK in the winter, but a sweatshop in the summer. I also studied for a degree. Almost finished.’

‘What degree?’

‘English Literature.’

‘My least favourite subject.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m dyslexic.’

Mitch planes off another sliver of wood. ‘Did you hear about the dyslexic bank robber? He walked in and shouted, “Air in the hands, mother, this is a fuck-up!”’

I laugh, even though dyslexics don’t mix up words when they speak.

Taking a square of sandpaper, Mitch rubs at the base of the door and checks it with a spirit level, before lifting it back into place. I hold it steady while he attaches the hinges.

‘Where did you learn to do this?’ I ask.

‘My dad was good with his hands.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Dead. Lung cancer. Smoked two packets a day.’

‘How about your mum?’

‘She remarried. Lives in Scotland.’

‘Did she ever come and visit you?’

‘Twice a year. I think she was embarrassed by me. I was the black sheep, not the prodigal son.’

‘The who?’

‘It’s a Bible story.’

‘I like stories.’

‘It’s about these two sons of a wealthy man. One of the brothers asks for his inheritance early and then parties hard, having a good time, living the high life. When the money runs out, he goes home, where the other brother has been working hard, looking after the farm and his old father. Instead of being treated like a waster for pissing away his inheritance, the son gets welcomed home like a hero, and they throw a party in his honour. The good son is working in the fields, and nobody bothers to tell him about the party. He’s forgotten.’

‘That’s an awful story.’

‘Yeah, I used to think like that,’ says Mitch, smiling, ‘but I think I understand it now. The father said that his son was lost and now he’d been found. It’s about redemption and absolution.’

‘I don’t believe in forgiving people who hurt me.’

‘Has anyone ever hurt you?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Suddenly, I want to change the conversation because I don’t want Mitch treating me like I’m damaged goods.