The House Guest by Mark Edwards(38)

I waited. My entire body thrummed with tension. I was standing on the exact spot where I last remembered seeing Ruth and Eden, when we had hugged. I felt a deep sense of foreboding.

And maybe it’s my memory playing tricks on me, but looking back I remember expecting Mona’s scream, so that as it echoed from above me, down the stairs, filling the house, I wasn’t surprised.





Chapter 21

A small crowd had gathered outside the house, and the street pulsed with flashing lights from the police cars parked two abreast, blocking the road. I watched as Mona was escorted from the house by Krugman, who whispered in the ear of a uniformed policewoman before gently handing Mona over to her. He was grim-faced as he turned away and met my eye. As Krugman came towards me, the policewoman helped Mona into the back of one of the cop cars and reversed out of the street.

‘I’m going to need you to come in and make a statement,’ Krugman said.

‘Yes. Of course. Did Mona tell you I’ve got photos of Eden?’

‘Hmmm. She did.’

The look he gave me told me that he blamed me for this, at least partly. And he was right to, wasn’t he? Jack was dead. I had seen his body myself after Mona’s scream sent me racing up the stairs. Jack had been in the second bedroom, the room in which Ruth and I had slept. He was slumped in a sitting position with his back against the far wall, with two holes in his torso: one in his stomach, the other in his chest. I couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head where it had fallen forward. He had a bald spot that I’d never noticed before.

Mona had been on her knees beside him, kneeling in a pool of blood, making a dreadful keening sound.

She had turned to me, her eyes a pair of red, watery pits, and shame and regret had washed over me.

Whatever had happened there had to be connected to Ruth’s disappearance. By inviting Eden in, I had brought death into this home.

Krugman handed me his card, which carried the address of the station house where he was based. ‘I’m going to be busy here for a while but come see me first thing tomorrow. Okay?’

I nodded.

‘Good. You didn’t see anything, I take it? Mona told me you called round earlier?’

‘About half seven, yes. And the house was quiet. I looked through the window and didn’t see or hear anything.’

‘Hmm. No one hanging around?’

‘No. The street was pretty quiet.’

I pictured the holes in Jack’s shirt. I had never seen anyone who had been shot before. ‘Didn’t anyone hear gunshots? And do you want to see the pictures of Eden? I can send them to you.’

He gave me a questioning look.

‘Surely this has to be connected? To what I told you about?’

‘Maybe. We’re going to find out about the gunshots. And yes, you can send the photos to the email address on my card. That would be helpful. We’ll need the address where you’re staying, too.’

‘Okay.’

‘How did you get the photos?’

I told him and he nodded.

‘See yourself as a detective, do you?’ he said.

‘I’m just trying to find Ruth. And you guys don’t seem willing to help me.’

‘Hmm.’

He walked away, head down, back into the building. Jack’s body was still inside and I didn’t want to see them carry him out. It was bad enough seeing the CSIs go inside in their suits, watching as yellow and black tape was strung up across the front of the house.

I hadn’t known Jack long, and for the last twenty-four hours I’d been pissed off with him. But, for a short time, he had been my friend.

Punch-drunk from the events of the day, I stumbled away, back to Callum’s place.



Walking along the quiet streets that ran parallel to the river, I couldn’t shake off the vision of Jack’s body. That bald spot on his head. The bullet holes in his torso. Mona kneeling in his blood, wailing.

Had Jack found something out? The house had been silent when I’d got there, and it horrified me to think that Jack had been lying in there while I was waiting outside. Had he been alive, lying there praying someone would find him? Could I have saved him if I’d gone in? I had remembered since that I still had a key to their house, though I’d left it with my belongings at Callum’s.

Had his murderer been inside while I was knocking on the door?

I was so deep inside my own head that I hadn’t realised I’d taken a wrong turn. I was on a residential, tree-lined street, and there was nobody else around at all. It felt like the middle of the night.

And then I heard footsteps behind me.

Hearing footsteps in New York is hardly an unusual occurrence. But yesterday someone had tried to kill me. And I had just seen a dead man in the house from which my girlfriend had vanished.

What if it was the person who had shot Jack?

I had the knife I’d taken from Callum’s kitchen drawer in my backpack. I could stop, confront my pursuer. Get answers. But if it was the killer, they would almost certainly have a gun. What use would a knife be then?

I increased my pace, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. I couldn’t see anyone. It was as if I were being stalked by a ghost. Or no, the Invisible Man. I forced myself to stop to see if I was hearing an echo of my own footsteps. All was silent. Breathing heavily, I started walking again, head down, going as fast as I could. I had my phone in my hand, ready to call 911 if anyone came too close.