Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(55)

‘Important questions have to be answered. Where did Anders Foley keep Maya Kirk? Where did she die? Was he acting alone? Fumigate this guy. I don’t want him crawling away and hiding under some rock. Am I understood?’

The affirmation is unanimous and then someone shouts, ‘Who’s buying?’

‘Who do you think?’ says Hoyle, and another cheer goes up.

Lenny looks at me and makes a drinking motion.

‘Next time,’ I say, glancing at my phone. I promised Evie that I’d be home. I feel like I’ve been neglecting her; and I know that she’s worried about Elias coming to live with us.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear Hoyle calling my name.

‘Before you go, I want to apologise about some of the things I said earlier – my behaviour. Arresting you. It wasn’t my finest moment.’

‘That’s perfectly OK. It was understandable.’

‘You did good work today.’

‘Thank you.’

I descend the stairs and pass through the charge room, glancing up to see a girl sitting on a plastic chair with a Labrador lying at her feet. I carry on for two more steps before I realise who it is.

Evie raises her head and groans.





36


Evie


I hate the way Cyrus looks at me when he’s disappointed. He has these wet brown eyes like those baby harp seals that get clubbed to death in Canada because rich women like to wear dead things. I wish someone would club me.

Without a word, he takes the chair next to me. Poppy sniffs at his pockets, hoping he’s brought some food. Cyrus cradles her head in his hands and rubs behind her ears. I want him to do that to me – not rub my ears, but look at me like that, with nothing but love, without asking questions.

‘I made a mistake,’ I say.

‘OK. I’m listening.’

‘I was trying to help Mitch, but I misjudged the situation.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I thought if I could find the person who accused him. And if she changed her story … If she realised …’

At that moment I look up and see Mitch being led into the charge room. Handcuffed. Head down. He has a bruise on his cheek. The officer pushes him roughly towards a bench, telling him to sit.

Without thinking, I’m on my feet, shouting, ‘Let him go! He didn’t do anything wrong.’

Cyrus wraps his arms around me, pulling me back.

‘No! Please. This is my fault,’ I yell.

Mitch glances up and away again. The arresting officer talks to the sergeant, ‘Mitchell Coates. Resisting arrest. Breaching parole. He’s going back inside.’

Cyrus has lifted me off the ground, my feet are wheeling in mid-air. He’s talking in my ear. Telling me I’m making things worse.

‘It wasn’t Mitch. It was me. Please. Help him.’

‘Not like this, Evie. Quiet now.’

My legs stop churning and my muscles relax and my eyes splinter with tears.

‘You wait here,’ he says, making me sit on a chair.

He crosses the room to where Mitch is being processed. I hear some of their conversation and lip-read the rest, or maybe I’m putting words into their mouths.

‘I don’t know what they’re talking about,’ says Mitch. ‘I haven’t been near Lilah. I don’t even know where she lives now.’

Cyrus glances back at me. I can’t meet his eyes.

Mitch is photographed and fingerprinted. An officer yells that the prison transport is coming. Cyrus returns. He expects me to make excuses or to push back, but I have no defence.

‘Mitch didn’t send me there. I found the address. I wanted to see if she was lying.’

‘That doesn’t matter, Evie. It’s not allowed. You can’t identify or approach the victim of a sexual assault.’

‘But she only thinks Mitch attacked her. She’s not sure.’

‘She is protected. Nothing changes that.’

Mitch is being led away. His boots still have grass stains from our garden. His jeans are speckled with paint from the side gate.

‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask.

‘He’ll serve the rest of his sentence.’

‘Can he appeal?’

‘There is no appeal process. All he can do is make representations to the parole board.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What if I make a statement?’

‘It won’t matter.’

‘Because nobody believes me.’

Cyrus wants to deny it, but he knows that it’s true. Nobody trusts what I tell them because ‘I can’t lie straight in bed’ – his words not mine. What if I don’t want to be straight? I’m not an arrow, or a road or a ruler. Being bent is less boring.

‘Come on,’ says Cyrus, taking Poppy by the collar.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Home.’

Sometimes, when my world is washed in grey, I go to dark places in my mind. Lonely places. Cruel places. The only way to escape this is to hide; to discover somewhere no bigger than a crawlspace, where nobody can find me. I push boxes aside and squeeze between crates and old furniture in the attic, before curling up on a bedspread that smells of mothballs and mildew. Closing my eyes, I listen to the ticks and wheezes of the radiator, the cars that pass outside, the voices of children in the park. Time slows down. Time stops. And my skin registers the fall in temperature as it grows dark outside.