Her dad was enjoying himself on holiday and he died. She thinks of his drowning sometimes. Did he have his eyes open, underwater? Did his hair waft gently around his head belying the violence of what was happening to him? Did he forget which way was up as the water tossed him around or was he dragged silently and relentlessly beneath the surface by the efficient, unforgiving current?
Her fingers go to her mum’s ring, on her necklace. Why was it on the floor? Imogen is sure Edie would have said something if the ring had become loose.
Surely, it’s only a few minutes before Edie gets here and Imogen can ask her. She goes upstairs and pulls a chair up to the window in her mum’s room. She’ll watch the driveway. If he comes back before her mum does, she’ll flee again. Or she’ll hide.
It’s the best she can think of.
She feels as if she’s in a horror film. She’s seen enough of them. The solitary young girl alone in a house. The ultimate vulnerablevictim. Is this her? Now? Her sense of unreality is crazy. But she’s never felt so afraid, or so alert.
The driveway out front is stubbornly empty.
She feels faint when she wants to feel brave and certain.
She runs through her options again. Go, or stay?
She can’t get the idea out of her head that he’s waiting for her, just out of sight, waiting to pounce, like he did before. She thinks he’s gone mad.
For now, this feels like the safest place. The chain is on the door.
Perhaps he won’t come back at all.
And Mum will be here soon, she will, any minute now.
“It’s me,” he says. “Sorry. Did I give you a fright?”
“Toby?” Emily says.
He’s standing in her entrance way, passing a set of chinking keys from one hand to the other. He’s let himself in. It shocks her. Paul and his friends all have copies of each other’s house keys but that’s in case of emergency. They don’t do this. They don’t just let themselves in.
“Is Paul here?” he asks.
“No.”
“Have you heard from him?”
There’s something heightened about Toby that makes her deeply uneasy. He looks more disheveled than usual. Red blotches have crept unevenly across his cheeks.
“No. Why did you let yourself in? Did you think I wasn’t here?”
“I’m sorry. I should have called before I came.”
No, she wants to say. You should have rung the doorbell before you let yourself into my house. But she’s slightly mollified by his apology.
“How’s Ruth?” she asks.
“Oh, she’s sleeping it off. She’ll be okay.” He clears his throat, a sharp, awkward sound, glances upwards and blinks rapidly as if he’s beating back tears. It’s disturbing.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
He collects himself. “I really need to speak to Paul.”
“He’s not here. I was about to call the police to report him missing and tell them about the letter. Did you see the letter?”
“I did. Can we sit down?”
“I need to make the call.”
“I’d like to talk to you first. Please.”
