Her desk creaked as Richie leaned against it; his legs crossed at the ankles. ‘We went to school together. One year, you invited me to a party at Blackhall Manor. God, that was a spooky old place. I never went back again …’ He took in the look on her face. ‘Oh. Shit, sorry. I’ve put my size nines in it, haven’t I?’
There’s no escaping it,Sarah thought, feeling a twist in her gut. Soon everyone would know who she was. ‘No … no, it’s OK.’ She snapped on the smile reserved for strangers. ‘I’ve met a few old school friends this week. Does anyone else know?’
Richie shook his head. ‘They won’t hear it from me. Not unless you want them to.’
‘So that’s why you’re talking to me … out of sympathy, is that it? Because at least I knew where I was when people were being mean.’
‘I just wanted to let you know that you had an ally.’
‘An ally. You don’t know me. Why would you say that?’ The phone on the desk rang and Richie reached across and muted it.
‘That might be important,’ Sarah said.
‘It can wait,’ Richie replied, never taking his eyes off her. ‘Listen, I don’t mean to cause offence.’
‘You haven’t,’ Sarah replied. ‘I just want to know the real reason you’re standing here, blocking my light.’
A smile touched Richie’s face as he moved the desk light positioned over her desk. ‘Alright then. It’s Blackhall Manor.’
The moment lingered longer than was comfortable before Sarah rolled her eyes. Of course. ‘I get it. You’re one of those local protesters, aren’t you? You want me to knock the thing down.’
‘No. The opposite, in fact.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What happened to your family. It’s always stayed with me. It doesn’t seem right.’
Sarah snorted. ‘And here was me thinking it was perfectly normal for a loving father to massacre his family. Your police training has served you well.’
‘Jeez, you’re defensive,’ Richie countered. ‘I mean, I looked at the investigation. It was shoddy, at best and wholly negligent, at worst.’ His silver thumb ring glinted as he gesticulated. A Help for Heroes bracelet sat between leather bands on his wrist. Sarah realised she was staring and looked away.
‘What was there to investigate?’ she said at last. ‘My father was suffering from depression, most likely PTSD.’ But she remembered something her grandparents had told her. How her family had made it all go away.
‘But did he, though?’ Richie looked contemplative. ‘Or was that how they filed the report? Are you one hundred per cent sure your father was holding the gun that night?’
Sarah stared at him, disbelieving. ‘Why are you interested in this now? Why can’t I be left in peace?’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Look.’ He grabbed a pen from the table and scribbled on the notepad on her desk. ‘It’s the name of a small private conspiracy site on Facebook. We just want to help.’
‘We?’ Sarah said, aghast. Voices rose from the hall as her colleagues returned. Richie raised a hand. ‘No pressure. Just … just think about joining. It’s a safe space.’
As Yvonne walked in, Sarah turned to her computer, but not before she caught a flash of annoyance on her face.
‘Shouldn’t you be going home, Ms Part-Timer? The grown-ups have work to do.’
The friend act hadn’t lasted very long. Sarah quietly shut off her computer before rising from her chair. Her thoughts crowding in, she grabbed her bag from the floor and walked out the door.
23
‘Guess I seized the wrong blooming day,’ Sarah muttered, her car seat upholstery giving a little wheeze. She was shaking from frustration, thinking of a million comebacks she would never have the courage to say. In just one line, Yvonne had humiliated her yet again. So much for rule three: Don’t take any crap. Maybe she deserved it, after leaving them short-staffed for so long. Maybe they needed an outlet, given David wasn’t there to face up to what he had done. Perhaps it was a case of keeping her head down and riding the storm.
She looked up through the windscreen. The sky was heavy with impending darkness and she had the town hall meeting to attend tonight. Her thoughts returned to Richie and his bizarre request for her to join the Facebook group. She’d known him for a few weeks before she left CID for a year. Why hadn’t he asked her then? Perhaps he’d been gearing up to it before she went off sick. Decades had passed since Blackhall. It was reasonable to think she could handle it, given she was an adult now. But more to the point, there were people in the world who were looking at the bigger picture. For years, her father’s actions had haunted her. She never thought he was capable of such cold-blooded acts, but during her many counselling sessions, she was told to accept it and move on. She thought of her little brother, so innocent and sweet … a ball of grief lodged in her chest. ‘Don’t cry, you silly sausage,’ she whispered to herself as she swallowed back her tears. It would be good if she could get through one day of adhering to her self-imposed rules. Even if it was only rule five: Act normal. But how could she when the past wouldn’t let her go?
Should she be fighting for her father’s reputation or was that disrespectful to the family she had lost? It was odd that her father had been buried next to her mother and brother, given what he had done. Unless … A cool breeze curled in through the crack in her car window, raising goosebumps on her skin. She had always avoided the media coverage of what happened for fear of reports about her father. But what if they weren’t labelling him a monster? What if they were defending him? She slipped her phone from her pocket and typed in the details of the Facebook group. Chewing her bottom lip she requested to join. Her Facebook page was marked as private, and she was there under her mother’s maiden name, Sarah Noble. Nobody but Richie should know who she was. Her heart gave a little flutter as her request was immediately accepted. This was either going to make her day better, or a whole lot worse.
She scrolled through the numerous posts, with pictures, maps and more. No wonder she’d had to hire security to keep people away from Blackhall. The group was rife with speculation about Angelica’s murder. She swept past all the fresh comments, on to the older ones. There were so many theories, interspersed with warnings that anything negative about the family would be removed and the user banned. She glanced through the admins, seeing the name Damien Richardson. So that’s why he said the group was a ‘safe space’. But how was her father not to blame? She had been there. She’d heard her mother cry out, ‘Not my little girl,’ after calling Sarah’s father’s name. The hairs stood sentry on her arms. Notmylittle girl. Why notourlittle girl? Thinking back, her mother always used the term in the collective. It was alwaysourchildren, even when they argued. Her mum always said that raising children was a family effort, you never did it alone.
Sarah automatically tugged at her hair. She had never stopped to consider that. Her memories of that night had been pushed into the darkest chambers of her mind, where they rusted, degraded …But I saw him,she thought.Didn’t I?
Her eyes lit on a comment from Sharon Young in New York. ‘Sarah was in the wardrobe when the shooter walked in. It was dark. She was in shock. What if it wasn’t her dad?’
‘But he called my name …’ Sarah said, chilled by the theory. Her bones rigid, she had peered through the tiny keyhole. Clutching herself, her teeth had chattered, caught in the frozen grip of fear.
