The Prisoner(59)

“Will you go there after the funeral, do you think?”

“I don’t know—I mean, can I? Can I just go there?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Today?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But if I promise to come back for the funeral on Friday?” I persist.

“I would advise against that course of action,” Paul says, watching me. “You’re very much in the media spotlight because of Ned’s unfortunate death. If you leave here, you’ll be besieged. I don’t know if you’re aware, but this house belongs to Mr. Hawthorpe Senior, and he’s agreed to let you stay until the funeral. Once the funeral is over, you’ll be able to go to Reading.” He pauses. “When you’re there, you should contact Mr. Barriston. I have his details here.” He hands me a card. “He asked if you have keys to the house.”

“Yes, I do, I kept them.”

“He also has a set, and he’s asked if you would like for him to arrange for a company to clean the house before your arrival. He’s concerned that it’s been empty for three years. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he and your father were friends, and when your father became ill, he asked Mr. Barriston to look out for you, be your unofficial guardian, so to speak. I think there was a boarding school involved. When nobody could find you after your father died, Mr. Barriston had you registered as missing. When you still couldn’t be found, he kept an eye on the house, hoping that one day you’d come back and claim it.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, stunned. “Why didn’t my father tell me this? He never spoke of Mr. Barriston, he never told me there was someone I could go to for help. When he died, I thought I had no one.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to worry you by admitting he was dying. Mr. Barriston has always regretted that he was abroad when your father died, and that by the time he got back, you’d disappeared. He didn’t realize that you had nobody at all. He presumed there would be friends or neighbors looking after you, at least until he returned.”

Momentarily overwhelmed, I take a sip of coffee.

“Thank you for telling me this,” I say, cradling my mug. “It means a lot to know that my father provided for me.” I meet his eye. “Are you sure I can’t go to Reading and come back for the funeral on Friday? I’m not comfortable in this house. I’ve never been comfortable here,” I add, wishing I could tell him everything that had happened.

“Quite sure,” he says firmly. “The journalists would follow you, they’d be camping on your doorstep. Once the funeral is over, Mr. Hawthorpe will quickly become old news. It’s a sad truth, but there will soon be something else to make the headlines. We aren’t remembered for long after our deaths, only by those who carry us in their hearts.” He takes the file from the table and puts it in his bag. “Now, as your late husband’s attorney, it’s fitting that I should attend the funeral. May I suggest I pick you up at eleven on Friday, and we can go together?”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

“I’ll also arrange for a car to take you to Reading after the funeral.” He takes a card from his inside pocket and hands it to me. “In the meantime, if you need anything at all, just call.”





CHAPTER SEVEN




I close my eyes, and memories from the house in Reading reach out from the past. I see Papa sitting in his chair in our sitting room, his eyes closed, his mouth half-open, smell his medication on his breath. I see the brown front door, the narrow hallway, the stairs with the patterned carpet.

Tears well. Papa had provided for me, he’d presumed that Mr. Barriston and I would meet in the first few days after his death. He couldn’t have foreseen that the end would come so swiftly, and while Mr. Barriston was away. My life could have been so different. I would have gone to boarding school, I would have had Mr. Barriston looking out for me. By now, I’d be in college, in the second year of my degree. I would have had friends, partners, I would have lived, loved, backpacked around Europe during the holidays. Instead, I had witnessed two murders, and been kidnapped.

It’s strange how much I long to be in the house in Reading. I need to be away from here, I need to be free. Except I will never really be free. The kidnappers will always be there, somewhere in the background of my mind.

I think of Paul Carr, and what they had said about him.

At some point you will be contacted by Paul Carr, Ned’s attorney. He will have information for you, you can trust him. In case of a problem, he’s the only person you may contact. Do not contact anyone else.


The last line of the instructions echoes through me. Do not contact anyone else. I hadn’t—but now that I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me, surely I can phone Carolyn?

The need to speak to her is urgent, visceral. She is all I have left, she’s the only one left. I find my phone and call her number.

I’m nervous as I wait for her to pick up. How can I explain any of this? I’m not allowed to tell anyone what I know, or what I saw, I’m not allowed to tell anyone about my fake kidnapping. I can tell Carolyn that Ned tricked me into marrying him, but I’ll have to pretend that we really did go to Haven Cliffs for a two-week break, that he really was depressed, so depressed that he took his own life. The thought that I’ll never be able to speak about what I actually went through makes me horribly anxious.