Bad Sister(44)

She fiddled with the notes on her desk, shuffling them from one side to the other. The piece of paper underneath some session notes revealed itself. It was the code that Mack had shown her. The one she was meant to be deciphering to impress him.

Was that what she was trying to do? Impress Mack? She shook the thought away. Holding the paper in her hand, she sat back and studied the letters and numbers. Come on, come on – what are you? What do you mean? Her brain ached, she was trying too hard – looking for some complicated pattern. A cipher?

She pushed the paper away from her. Perhaps if she did something else, her brain would subconsciously work it out. Although that hadn’t worked so far. Leaning forwards, Connie grabbed it again and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, ready to shove it into the darkness. A noise caught her off guard. The rolling of crayons. Connie’s eyes blurred as she watched the gentle rocking motion of the coloured wax sticks. Her stomach pitched. Poor Dylan. She carefully pulled at the picture that lay beneath them. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling huge. Staring at the roughly drawn scene, Connie’s heart thudded. Bless him. Blinking away the tears, she saw that there were three stick figures with big round heads. The one on the left had long hair, wide eyes and a big red smiling mouth. Steph. And she was holding the hand of the small figure, presumably Dylan. He too had big wide eyes, but he didn’t have a mouth, the area where it should be left blank. But it was the figure standing to his other side that caused Connie’s mouth to dry. The tall one. A man? This figure was entirely void of facial features. Dylan had instead filled in the large circle of his head with heavy scribbles of black crayon. Connie lowered the drawing and sat back. Not the usual picture for a four-year-old to draw. This would be creepy enough in usual circumstances, but now, given that Steph and Dylan were dead – from apparent suicide – this was straight-up unnerving. Why had Dylan drawn a picture like this? What could it mean?

Connie cradled her face in her hands. Who was the blacked-out figure? And what if this was not from Dylan’s imagination? This stick man could be who Steph had been afraid of. She shuddered.

Brett.

The past sessions with Steph flew through her mind. She had never come across to Connie as being at danger of harming herself or Dylan. She just couldn’t believe that Steph had committed suicide and killed her son in the process. Dylan was everything to Steph. She would’ve tried other options before taking such a devastating step, and even if suicide had crossed her mind, she would’ve spoken to Connie first. Wouldn’t she? Even if she hadn’t spoken about thoughts of ending it all, Connie would’ve sensed her mood shifting; picked up on the signs. And surely, if she’d been that scared, she would’ve been more forceful about getting Miles to relocate her.

Unless Connie had somehow missed the signals; misread her behaviour?

No, no, no!

She refused to believe that.

The sick, shaky sensation in her stomach told Connie that she didn’t believe it was suicide at all.

Her gut was telling her that Steph and Dylan must’ve been pushed.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


Then


He flicked the lighter and stared at the dancing flame.

He could hear them; they thought he was asleep, but he wasn’t. It was 2.20 a.m. and he was wide awake, full of rage.

They hated him. That’s what she’d said once before.

We need to do something; he’s got out of hand.

The voices downstairs were muffled, but he knew the man and woman were talking about him. His own dad, her; how could they? She’d never wanted him; he just came as a package. It’d been clear from the beginning she only wanted half of it. And now he was causing problems. The school had expelled him – he was a nuisance.

A freak.

Perhaps he could bring them back together; be a real family. Make them love him.

His breaths were rapid as he bundled together the paper, screwing the pieces up into tight balls. Sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, he threw each ball in the direction of the wastepaper basket in the corner of his bedroom. They’d removed it once. But he’d found it, and the lighter. They were stupid if they thought he wouldn’t look in the shed. That’s where they always went for a fag. It was the most obvious place.

His stomach tensed. Why didn’t she want him? Why couldn’t she love him like she loved his dad? Because she hated him, he felt sure his dad was beginning to as well. He’d do anything to keep her happy. He was losing his dad to her.

He propelled himself off the bed and thrust his hand into the bin. He flicked the lighter again and again, touching it against each of the paper balls. The flame caught, and grew until the entire contents were engulfed with the bright orange glow.

He smiled as the heat reached his face.

And his heart rate reduced, along with the knot of anger in his stomach.

Fire always calmed him.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


Connie


The buzzer made her jump. Connie dropped the picture and reached across to the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Connie, it’s Lindsay and Mack, can we have a moment of your time?’

Connie’s head dropped. She hesitated, then pressed the button to release the door. The sound of their heavy footsteps on the stairs raised her heart rate. She rushed to the door, flinging it open just as they reached it.