The Prisoner(33)

The lies tripped off his tongue so easily.

“Can we see the ring, Amelie?” someone shouted.

Ned pulled my hand forward and the diamond sparkled in the sunlight. He put his arm around me as the reporters took more and more photos and I stared emotionless into the crowd as they called to me, asking me to smile. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carolyn.

Relief washed over me as our eyes locked. I moved to go to her, but Ned’s arm tightened around my waist. I tried shifting away from him, but his grip was so strong that it pinched my skin.

Carolyn held up her phone and pointed to it with her other hand. “I don’t believe you!” she called over the noise of the reporters.

“Mr. Hawthorpe, is there any truth in the rumor that a charge of sexual assault was recently filed against you?” another voice shouted, drowning out Carolyn.

There was a sudden silence as everyone turned to look at the woman who’d asked the question. Some of the reporters moved aside to give her a direct view of Ned, and I recognized her as the woman who had approached him at the Exclusives party. Beside me, Ned froze.

“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Hawthorpe. Can you confirm that a charge of sexual assault was recently filed against you?” the woman repeated.

Chaos broke out as journalists began thrusting their microphones toward Ned, asking the same question, until Hunter stepped hurriedly in front of us, protecting Ned. As the gates began to close, I heard Carolyn call out again.

“Her name is Justine Elland! The woman Ned Hawthorpe assaulted is Justine Elland!” She tried to push her way through the throng of journalists. “Where is she, Mr. Hawthorpe? Where is Justine?”

My mind was spinning as Ned walked me back to the house. Justine was still missing. And what had Carolyn meant, she didn’t believe me? She’d been pointing to her phone, but the only message I’d sent her since my return was the one from Ned’s phone, saying that I’d arrived back safe and sound, and suggesting that she came to Ned’s so that I could tell her about the trip. There had been nothing for her not to believe. Unless Ned had sent her another message, pretending to be me.

“Find out who that journalist is,” Ned snapped to Hunter. “The one who asked about the sexual assault. She’s already bothered me twice, there won’t be a third time.”

He let go of me then, and I ran upstairs. I tried to get into the two rooms that led out onto the front of the house, so that I could shout down to Carolyn. But they were still locked. I ran to my bedroom and rushed to the window, because if I shouted loud enough, she might hear me. But when I pulled at the handle, the window wouldn’t move. My chest was pounding; what was I doing here? I took a breath, calmed myself. Now that Carolyn knew something was wrong, she would come and rescue me.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


PRESENT

The silence around me is suffocating, the loneliness heavier today.

My fingers pick at the blanket, I can feel dried food, porridge probably. When am I going to get out of here? Why hasn’t Jethro Hawthorpe paid the ransom yet? Even if he is angry with Ned, wouldn’t he still want him back? He’s lost one son already, and I know from the foundation that he cares about people. Does he know I’m here too? He must. For a moment I imagine what it would be like to be rescued, the police storming in, the shouts and searchlights blinding me. It feels so real that I squint in the darkness.

I move to the window. It reminds me that there is a world out there and I feel even more stifled than I did before. I need to see daylight. I run my hand down the left-hand side of the board, remembering how I tried to jam my spoon between it and the window frame to widen the gap. If only there was something else I could use.

I think for a moment, then go to the bathroom, tear the cardboard lid from the box of tampons, then tear it in half, and in half again. Clutching the four pieces of cardboard, I go back to the window, wishing there was a way to keep the light on in the bathroom once the door was open, so that I could see what I was doing.

Taking one of the pieces of cardboard, I locate the weak spot—the place where I managed to pry the nail out—and push it into the minuscule gap between the board and the window. It goes in quite easily, so I push another piece on top of the first one. Bending, I put my eye close to the cardboard and squint. Nothing, not even the tiniest glimmer of daylight. I force another piece in, take another look. My heart leaps—is that a pinprick of light I can see or is it my imagination? I take the fourth piece of cardboard, fold it in half, jam it in on top of the others, determined to widen the gap a little more. I squint again; it’s daylight I can see, I’m sure of it.

I remove the cardboard, grab hold of the edge of the board, wedge my fingertips into the gap, and pull as hard as I can. I don’t feel it’s made any difference until I take another look. I can definitely see daylight.

The thrill is incredible. I know I’ll never be able to get the board off the window, I’ve accepted that. But to be able to visibly see that time isn’t standing still, to be able to track the passing of day into night through the tiny gap I’ve made feels like a huge achievement.

I take another look, drink in the sliver of daylight. Then, worried that my captor might arrive and see what I’ve done, I take the pieces of cardboard back to the bathroom and hide them in the cupboard.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX