The Silent Ones: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller(36)

I’m about two hundred and fifty yards from the crowd. They certainly don’t look a friendly lot, but this is my house and my daughter has not yet been charged. I’m damned if I’m going to cower from this motley crew.

As I get closer, people begin to turn around and whisper to each other. Suddenly a roar seems to go up and they all rush towards me.

‘Mrs Fletcher, has your daughter admitted to killing Bessie Wilford?’

‘Will you be accompanying the girls to the juvenile detention centre, Mrs Fletcher?’

We’ve only just found out ourselves that they’re transferring Maddy and Brianna. These people must have a hotline to confidential police information.

Photographers battle their way to the front of the mob, sticking cameras in my face as I walk. I mustn’t stop, because they’ll surround me and prevent me from moving.

The noise feels like I’m at a football match with Josh. Everyone yelling and shouting different things at the same time. I can’t hear myself think.

‘No comment,’ I say firmly, but my voice is lost amongst the noise. Even though I’m nearly at the front gate, I wonder if I’m going to make it. My legs are shaking and I feel light-headed, but I have to stay strong. For Maddy’s sake, I have to do this.

I can barely hear anything coherent now amidst the collective roar. The odd poisonous word or phrase manages to escape and worm its way into my ears. Killer… murderer… parental neglect.

I keep my eyes trained on the pavement and forge ahead as microphones are pushed close to my face. I’m making slow progress, but I’m nearly there. I’m very nearly there.

I push open the creaking gate that I’ve been asking Tom to fix for weeks now and look at the house. A gasp catches in my throat and I stall momentarily.

KILLER! RIP BESSIE W!

The shocking words have been daubed in foot-high black letters on the pristine white garage door we had fitted last year.

People are so close, pushing behind me now. I can hear them breathing and I force myself forward and up the path, turning only to shout as loudly as I can, ‘This is private property. Keep out!’

I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake coming here. I knew the locals would be buzzing with the awful gossip, but I didn’t expect this… this lynch mob.

Moisture prickles my forehead and my hands shake as I fish blindly in my handbag for my keys. The shouting continues, structured questions from reporters mixed with insults from locals intending to shock.

I try not to listen, focusing on just getting inside the house.

I push the key at the lock again and again, but for some reason, it isn’t going in. I hear mocking laughter from the crowd, and when I peer closer, I see the lock has been encased in a bulbous ball of hardened glue.

I walk around the side of the house without looking back. It’s cool here at the back. I wish I could stay here a while to calm down.

I’m mindful that time is ticking on and I have to be back for Maddy’s second interview. I have to be.

I let out a relieved breath when the back door opens easily. I step inside the kitchen, locking the door again behind me. I leave my bag on the breakfast bar and walk into the hallway.

This morning I stood in exactly the same spot, calling upstairs for Maddy to get a move on.

‘What have you been doing up there?’ I asked when she appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘You’ve not even brushed your hair yet, madam!’

Now I can’t help but wonder if she was listening to a voicemail from Bessie instead of getting ready. Maybe it was all completely innocent, just a lonely old lady who loved the two vibrant young cousins to pop in to brighten her day.

But then why the secrecy? Why didn’t Bessie communicate with the girls via Mum or Dad, who she knew well… and who gave Maddy that blasted phone in the first place?

I slump against the side of the polished mahogany banister. I can still hear the muffled noise of the crowd outside.

This morning, there wasn’t a soul at the gate. Life was normal, the fabric of our family intact. We were all looking forward to a pizza tea and Josh coming home.

Now, our faces are plastered all over the Internet.

The stairs are opposite the front door, and as I walk forward and turn to climb them, my hand shoots up to cover my nose. There’s the most awful stench in here.

Today’s mail is scattered on the floor, and… No, it can’t be! I step closer, and my worst suspicions are confirmed. Three piles of dog mess have been delivered through the letter box on folded sheets of newspaper.

I dash upstairs, away from the horror of it, pushing the abusive, vile act from my mind before it sends me over the edge. I can’t dwell on the thought of how much someone must hate us. I just can’t.

I head straight for Maddy’s bedroom, standing for a moment in the doorway to look around. I dash in and out of the kids’ rooms on a daily basis, usually to pick up dirty washing, replace clean laundry or strategically place stuff they’ve left downstairs on their beds to be put away in its proper place.

But busy with the everyday demands of life, I never take the time to really look at the room my daughter spends so much time in.

Her dressing table is cluttered with all the usual stuff I’d expect to see there. A hairbrush, colourful hair clips and bands, random items she’s obviously put down when she’s walked into the room: a half-empty glass of cordial, a dog-eared paperback about a lost puppy, and a small teddy she’s loved since she was a toddler.