Bad Sister(69)

‘Bingo.’

A surge of adrenaline shot through her veins as she emptied out the box. These would prove that Steph hadn’t been lying about Brett, might even prove that he was after her, and that her suicide was in fact murder. She fumbled with the envelopes, her fingers clumsy – she rested the torch on the duvet so she could pull out the folded paper from the envelopes.

She took the torch again, shining it on to the pages. Her heart dipped.

The letters were not from Brett.

They were not from anyone.

Connie flipped the envelope over, then frantically checked the others. All unsent – each addressed to the same person. She sank back, sitting on the floor. The letters slid from the bed, scattering around her. She wanted to scream. These were no use. She sighed, but took one of them anyway, curiosity getting the better of her, and began to read. With each word, her hopes for finding supporting evidence to clear Steph’s name evaporated. She skim-read another. They were filled with anger, hurt. All of it directed at one person.

A tinkling of glass.

Connie froze. Below, a scraping. She strained her ears.

Footsteps.

Someone was in the house.

Move, Connie, move.

The person shifted through the house, their footsteps soft, yet audible, even above the whooshing noise of the pounding pulse in her ears. She must get up; hide.

Quickly gathering the letters and shoving them in her backpack, Connie cast her eyes around for a hiding place. The wardrobe was too small and too crammed with clothes. She lifted the duvet and cursed. It was a divan, no gap underneath.

Shit.

She snatched the torch and on shaky legs made her way out on to the landing. A beam of light caught her eye, on the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

They were coming upstairs.

Connie crept as quietly as she could into the next bedroom, closing the door slowly behind her, but leaving it slightly ajar so as not to make more noise. Scanning the room, she was relieved to see that the single bed was at least a wooden one, with space underneath. Dylan’s bed. She had no time to ponder on that now. Sliding her rucksack under first, Connie lay down, wriggling her body into the small space.

It was tight. Her back scraped across the wooden slats as she crawled on her stomach to get herself as far under the bed as possible. She berated herself for not having gone on the diet she’d been planning for the last six months.

Would she be seen?

The carpet was damp, the musty smell irritated her nose. Don’t sneeze. Her head was at the foot of the bed, angled towards the door. She shuffled again, inching back, pushing herself hard against the wall. The pressure of the wooden slats squeezed the air from her lungs, she couldn’t take deep breaths.

She felt like she was going to suffocate.

Light appeared at the crack of the door, widening and lengthening as the door pushed open.

Nothing to see in here, move on, please go away.

She had to quieten her breaths or they’d hear her.

Who was it?

There was only one name that came to Connie.

Brett.

He was the only one other than her who would want to come here.

Perhaps they were after the same thing.

He was in the room now. Although her instinct was to screw her eyes up tight, she kept them open, watching, waiting for Brett to turn around. Leave.

The feet didn’t leave. Instead they made their way towards her, inches from the bed. Shit, shit, shit.

She should’ve been more careful. No one even knew where she was. If he found her here, what would he do with her?

She held her breath. The whooshing of blood in her ears was so loud she was scared he’d be able to hear that instead. She watched wide-eyed as a pair of boots came to a standstill near her head. Her eyes were going to burst, the pressure behind them increasing with each rapid heartbeat. He was going to find her. She was going to die in this house.

A shuffle.

Connie stifled a scream. The person lowered to the floor.

She was going to be found.

Screwing her eyes up tightly, she waited for the inevitable capture. The hopeful part of her held on to that old childhood belief that if you can’t see them, they can’t see you. The pain in her lungs reached an unbearable level, threatening to crush her chest. She couldn’t hold her breath for much longer.

Even through her closed eyelids, she was aware of a darkness closing in.

Then breath tickling her face.

Brett.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE


Connie


‘And what do you think you’re doing, eh?’

Connie’s eyes sprang open at the sound of the voice, her breath rushing out. Tears bubbled and escaped; the fear releasing itself.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she managed, weakly. Every bit of strength had left her body the moment she’d felt the breath on her skin.

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave this alone. Come on.’ The outstretched hand reached under the bed. Connie grasped it, a film of sweat causing it to slip. ‘Well, you’ve got yourself in quite a situation there, haven’t you?’

‘I guess you think it’s funny!’ Connie struggled to manoeuvre herself out from under the bed, and she knocked her back against the bed frame as Lindsay Wade helped pull her out.

‘No, actually. I think it’s incredibly stupid. I can’t believe you’ve done this.’