Bad Sister(68)

Connie wasn’t like he’d imagined her. She seemed younger, her skin pale and flawless, her eyes green like emeralds.

Green for envy.

He knew all about that.

Connie Summers was the only other person who might allow his story to be heard; acknowledged. The only person he could convince. Somehow it had become his focus. It felt important that someone in this world took his side.

He’d need something particularly good to persuade Connie he was right. That Jenna was a liar. And there was something that might do it.

Now, he just had to find it.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO


Connie


Connie edged her way through the dark kitchen, her right hand outstretched, aiming the torch forwards. The yellow-tinged hue gave the place an eerie feeling; the beam wobbled with the shake in her hand. Moving through a doorway, she found herself in a long room. Obviously, this was used as both lounge and dining room; a square table with two chairs acted as a separator. At the far end, Connie could make out a sofa and coffee table. A large toy box stood underneath the front window. She kept the beam of light low, hoping no one would see it from outside.

A chill settled on her insides. Abandoned toys lay scattered around the open toy box, exactly how Dylan had left them. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. She was inside the house of a dead woman and child. The horror hit her hard, bile rising in her throat. She felt along the wall until she reached the sofa, and she sat, her breaths escaping her in ragged bursts.

What on earth was she thinking, coming here alone at night?

After a few moments to compose herself, Connie got up and began to search the room. There was a dresser in the alcove to the side of the fireplace, an old-fashioned-looking one, the kind Connie remembered had been in her own house when she was a child. It was as good a place as any to begin the search. If there had been letters from Brett, that’s where Steph might’ve kept them. Holding the torch under her chin, she used both hands to riffle through the drawers. Mostly, they were full of utility bills, pictures Dylan had drawn and pre-school letters. Nothing that looked useful to poor Steph now. She swallowed down the urge to cry.

Apart from the letters from Brett that Steph had told Connie she’d received, what else was she hoping to find? The room was in disarray, and Connie wasn’t sure if it was because that’s how Steph had left it, or it was how the police had, following their ‘search’.

The shadows created from the torchlight cast long patches of darkness across the walls. Each time one moved due to her directing the beam elsewhere, her heart leapt. This was ridiculous. When she was a teenager, she and Luke, along with a few of their older friends, had gone into a derelict house as a dare. They’d heard many stories of the house being haunted by The White Lady, and being only thirteen and fifteen were easily pumped and primed before they’d even entered. It had been exciting to start with, all fun and giggles. Until footsteps were heard overhead and a scraping noise filtered through the floorboards. They’d all screamed and ran, each pushing the other to be the first one outside, back to safety. That fear had stayed with her for months afterwards, causing many a nightmare, plus a lifetime avoidance of scary movies. Now, the memory of it flooded back. There were no friends to egg her on, no friends’ reactions to feed off. But her mind was conjuring enough terrifying thoughts to make up for the lack of others’ panic.

Connie couldn’t see any other cupboards, or anywhere Steph might’ve kept any valuables or keepsakes. She’d have to venture upstairs. A ball of anxiety swelled inside her gut. An impulse to leave tugged at her. She gritted her teeth. She was here now – had come this far, it would be silly not to see it through. If she didn’t try to find something that would convince the police that she was right, she’d always regret it and kick herself for failing.

Standing at the foot of the stairs looking up, the dark seemed even more chilling; malevolent – like something bad was up there, hiding, waiting for her. The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood erect. Every muscle in her body, every sense, screamed at her to turn back, leave the house. Connie shut her mind to the warnings, and placed one foot on the first stair. One by one she climbed them, a creak sounding on each step, remarkably loud in the otherwise silent house. The first room she came to was a bathroom. The next had a double bed. Steph’s room. She swept the torch around.

A figure caught in the circle of illumination.

Connie yelped, dropping the torch. She scrambled on the floor, hands patting all around her. Her fingers found the hard object and she picked it up, quickly directing it where she’d seen the figure. She let out a large breath. A mirror. She’d seen her own reflection.

Her hands trembled, her legs shaking as she stood again.

A nervous giggle erupted from her as she checked her reflection again, making sure it really was her own. A tiny shiver tracked down her back as she saw the green of her irises highlighted in the beam of light. Luke’s eyes. ‘Stupid woman, scaring yourself half to death,’ she whispered. Even as a whisper, her words seemed loud. She shook her shoulders to loosen her rigid muscles. Regaining her composure, Connie looked around the room. A chest of drawers and a wardrobe were the only items of furniture apart from the bed. She’d try the wardrobe first. She stood on the bed, unsteady on the soft mattress, and shone the light at the top. Nothing. Opening both doors, she swept the hangers from right to left, the squeal of metal on the rail sounding like tiny screams. A cold shiver ran the length of her back, her unease heightened. One side of the wardrobe had a shelf, on it a few boxes: bought ones, patterned, pretty. Connie dragged them down one by one, placing them on the bed. She knelt on the floor beside them, not wanting to sit on Steph’s bed. The second box contained letters.