The Prisoner(73)

The pain in my chest is overwhelming. I try to suck air into my lungs but I’m breathing too fast, I know where this is going and panic even more. I scrabble in my backpack for water, tug the top off the bottle, take a sip, but it almost chokes me. I cup my hands around my mouth instead, trying to regulate my breathing, stifle the noise that I’m making. Tears stream from my eyes and by the time I’ve managed to slow my breathing, my whole body is shaking.

I keel onto my side. How can Hunter be here when I saw him murdered, when I read about his body being found? How is it possible? It isn’t—so it must be a dream, a dream or a nightmare. I’ll wake in a moment, in the apartment in Akaroa, or in my house in Reading.

I don’t know how long I lie in the bracken. It’s only when I hear a car coming along the track that I slowly sit up. I listen to which way it’s going; it’s heading away from the house toward the road. Hunter and the woman have left.

I reach for my water, take a drink. All I want is to get back to the apartment. Nothing makes sense. I can’t even begin to think of the reasons for Hunter faking his own murder. But whatever his reasons, I’ll never forgive him.

Is this Hunter’s house, then, or Carl’s? I understood from Paul that it was Carl’s, but maybe he directed me here because Hunter will be able to tell me where I can find Carl. I move from the woods, start walking down the track toward the house, hoping I’ll find something to tell me who it belongs to. I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a moment to realize that the truck is still there.

I crouch down, my heart thumping. There must have been another car here, a car I couldn’t see, parked on the other side of the truck. Does that mean that Hunter is still here? Or the woman? I creep back to the safety of the woods and watch the house from above. A few minutes later, Hunter comes out of the shed, walks to his truck, opens the door, and takes something from the dashboard. A flash of sunlight on the screen tells me it’s his phone. He stands a moment, looking at it. It’s strange to see him wearing jeans and a denim shirt. He’s thinner than when I last saw him, his hair longer. As I watch, he puts his phone back on the dashboard, stretches his arms above his head then stands a moment, contemplating his half-finished house with its spectacular views. And the thought that he has been here all this time, living a nice life in New Zealand while I grieved and suffered, makes me shake with anger.

He returns to the shed, leaving the car door open. I slide down the slope, run to the side of the shed, wanting to catch him before he leaves. From the sounds coming from inside, I know he’s somewhere toward the back of it. I move slowly forward, quiet on my feet, wanting to see the shock on his face when he sees me standing in the doorway. But as I turn the corner, I see an open padlock hanging from the door. Without giving myself time to think, I move forward, slam the door, and snap the padlock shut.

“Hey!” Hunter’s voice comes from inside. “Is that you, Mara? Did you forget something?” His footsteps approach the door. “Very funny, now let me out.”

My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid it will burst from my chest. I back away, scared he’ll somehow break through the door.

“Mara.” He rattles the door. “Alright, you’ve had your fun.”

I find my voice. “Is that a dead man talking?”

In the silence that follows, it’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.

“Amelie?” The sheer disbelief in his voice gives me strength. He wasn’t expecting this. “Is that you? My God, what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” I shout, not bothering to hide my anger. “Aren’t you buried in some hole in the ground?”

“Look, I can explain.”

“Go on, then. I’m listening.”

“Not like this. If I slide the key to the padlock under the door, will you open it?”

“No. I’ll open the door when you’ve told me why you faked your own murder, why you never helped me when you must have known who Ned was, what he did.” I slam the palm of my hand against the shed door. “People died, Hunter. People I loved, people you knew. They’ve all gone, Carolyn, Justine, Lina.” I hear my voice break and kick the door hard with my foot. “How could you?”

“Amelie,” he says. “Please. Let me explain.”

“Go on, then.” I harden my voice. “Explain to me why you let me believe you were dead.”

“Alright. I’m going to sit down, here by the door. I suggest you do the same.” There’s a pause. “It’s going to take awhile.”

There’s a thud against the door as he sits. I move closer, sit down, facing the door.

“I’m not sure where to start,” he says.

“At the beginning,” I say, my voice harsh. “I want to know everything. You owe me that, at least.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR




“Carl and I are brothers,” Hunter begins. “Our father was a New Zealander, our mum is British. We were born in the UK, but our parents emigrated when we were children and New Zealand became our home. When I finished college here, I left. I felt that New Zealand was too remote and I wanted to explore the rest of the world. I traveled around Europe for a while, ended up in England. Eventually, I joined the police force and—”