Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(70)

Her voice shakes. She takes a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan, as though preparing to cry.

‘What happened when you got home?’ I ask.

‘Daniela’s bedroom door was shut. I figured she was sleeping. Harriet and I were tipsy by then. I fell into bed and didn’t wake until midday when Daniela’s mum called because she wasn’t answering her phone. I knocked on her bedroom door. Went inside. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. I knew something was wrong. Daniela wouldn’t stay out like that.’

I take out my phone and scroll through my photos, until I find one of Anders Foley.

‘Do you recognise him?’

‘The police were showing his photograph at the bar. Is he the one who took Maya?’

‘We believe so.’

I show her another image – this one of Paulie Brennan.

Alisa studies it for a long while, pinching her fingers against the screen to make it larger.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t remember.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘We should have waited for her, but we didn’t know she was sick. We thought she was right behind us. If we’d known …’ A sob chokes off the statement and she covers her face with her hands.

I understand that feeling. It has haunted me my entire life. What if I had pedalled harder? What if I hadn’t ridden my bike past Ailsa Piper’s house? What if I’d arrived home a few minutes earlier? Could have, would have, should have – nobody can change the past.





47


Evie


Elias is due at any moment. Cyrus isn’t home and he’s not answering his phone and I don’t know what to do. I could hide and pretend that nobody is here. I could tell Cyrus I took Poppy for a walk or that I didn’t hear the doorbell or that I was called to the school.

What happens if nobody is home? Would they leave Elias here or take him back to Rampton? I imagine them dumping him on the doorstep like an Amazon delivery.

Outside, a van is slowing. It parks beneath a tree. Two people get out. Oscar and Roland. The side door slides open. Elias is sitting on the bench seat. This time he has a suitcase.

They are walking up the path. Any moment they’re going to ring the doorbell or knock. What am I supposed to do? Show him to his room? Make small talk? Hide the knives?

The bell startles me. I wait. It rings again. Fuck! I open the door.

‘Special delivery for Cyrus Haven,’ says Oscar. His gold tooth glints.

‘Cyrus isn’t home.’

‘No problem. You know Elias.’

I want to say, ‘Take him back,’ but Elias is giving me his goofy smile, all chins and teeth. He’s dressed in baggy corduroy trousers and a khaki shirt with press studs instead of buttons. There are old sweat stains under his arms, which have discoloured the material.

‘Hello, Evie,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

I try to read something in his face but can’t tell if he’s being creepy or trying to be polite or if this is part of his training. They dump his suitcase in the hallway and turn to leave.

‘Are you going?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ says Oscar.

I follow them down the path. ‘Is there anything I should know?’

‘Like what?’

‘Instructions.’

‘He doesn’t come with a manual.’

Smirks between them. Arseholes!

When I go back inside, Elias is in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers.

‘Are you looking for something?’

‘Just checking where things are kept.’

He is getting closer to the knives.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask.

‘I can make my own. Do you want one?’

‘No.’

Elias fills the kettle. ‘When will Cyrus be home?’

‘Any minute. He popped out to the shops to buy some things. Milk.’

He has opened the fridge. ‘We have plenty of milk.’

‘Something for dinner.’

I’m standing with my bum against the cutlery drawer.

‘What do you do, Evie?’

‘I go to school. I work.’

‘I’m studying too. I’m going to be a lawyer.’

Fat chance, I think. He’s looking for a teaspoon. I reach behind me and take one from the drawer. When he looks away, I slip a short-bladed knife into the waistband of my jeans.

Nursing his mug of tea, Elias continues opening cupboards. Reading labels. Looking at jars. Reciting ingredients. Maybe this is new to him.

‘Do you have any Coco Pops?’ he asks, looking at a box of cereal.

‘Cyrus says they have too much sugar.’

‘And he’s the boss.’

‘No.’

Elias begins arranging the jars and canned goods with the labels facing out.

‘How long have you been living here?’ he asks.

‘A year.’

‘Where were you before that?’

‘A children’s home.’

‘Why?’

‘My parents are dead.’

‘And what – Cyrus adopted you?’

‘I’m twenty-one.’

‘You don’t look it.’

You don’t look like someone who killed four people, I want to say, but that’s not entirely the truth. He looks exactly like one of those pasty-faced, overweight doughballs you see in TV shows about serial killers. Occasionally, one of them is handsome, like Ted Bundy, but most are like the creepy uncle you avoid sitting next to at Christmas.