“Don’t, they’ll see you,” I whisper. “We should try to look without being spotted.”
He nods. We hang back in the darkness and crane our necks. My heart pounds in my chest. A movement outside startles us. But it’s just a fox, darting across the street. Nothing else stirs. Streetlights illuminate darkened lawns and cars and driveways. There’s nobody out there, not that I can see. But someone could be hiding out of sight, watching us. My skin prickles.
Jon squeezes my hand. “There’s nobody there, but I’ll call the guards anyway. You go back to Bella.”
• • •
The guards, to their credit, send a car, and phone Jon half an hour later to confirm there’s nobody outside the house. They ask us to send a screenshot of the text, and we do. Bella wakes for a feed, and there’s comfort in it, comfort in holding her close.
Jon kisses me, and turns over, telling me he’s not going to be able to sleep, but is somehow out within thirty seconds. I lie awake, feeding Bella, thinking. Going back over the text, word by word. Something snags. Something that doesn’t fit.
I told you, if you tell anyone, I’ll be back.
What does that mean?Whotold me? I rack my brain, but it doesn’t make sense.
And if I “tell anyone”what? Somehow, this feels like the key to everything, if only I knew what it meant.
18
Susan
Friday
On Friday morning, I’m a crumpled heap from lack of sleep and worry. Jon, somewhat fresher, says he’ll stay home with me, even though I know he’s got a big meeting with his French bosses this morning. I remind him that the guards are calling at ten to ask questions about the report I made on Wednesday night. I couldn’t be in safer hands, I tell him, and if I’m really worried, I’ll give him a call to come home. He kisses me and wraps me in a bear hug, promising he’ll be here within twenty minutes if I need him. I inhale him, the clean smell of shaving foam and cologne, and give silent thanks I’m not dealing with this on my own.
Soon after he leaves, my phone flashes up with a call from the garda station.
“Ms. O’Donnell? It’s Detective Kellerman.”
“Hi, yes, good morning, how are you?” People-pleaser Susan is back.
“Change of plans: we’d like you to come down to the station. Would that be OK?”
What?Why am I being asked to go in? A flurry of thoughts rushesthrough my head. Maybe it’s a manpower issue? It feels more than that, though. It feels like I’m being summoned.
“Eh, sure. I’ll have to see if my sister can mind the baby…”
“Great, thank you, we’ll see you at ten.”
She disconnects, and the low-level unease I’ve been battling all morning nudges higher now, morphing into full-blown anxiety.
• • •
Detective Kellerman meets me in the foyer and brings me through to a dark, surprisingly untidy meeting room. She sits at an ancient-looking chipped desk and gestures for me to take a seat opposite, then opens a notebook and appraises me for a moment. It’s hard to read her and difficult to know where to look, and I can’t help feeling on edge. But maybe everyone feels on edge in a garda station?
I ask if she knows anything about who’s been sending the texts, and she tells me they came from a pay-as-you-go phone bought seven years ago, and can’t be traced back to anyone. Of course. Nobody is going to send threats from a traceable phone, but still, I’d hoped.
Detective Kellerman turns over what looks like a copy of the report that the other garda had taken from me on Wednesday and begins to go through all of it again. I repeat my story, doing everything I can to show her I’m keen to help, like a schoolchild desperate to please a teacher. She asks me if I’d ever met Savannah (no), Aimee (just that one time) or Rory (no) and asks me if I’ve ever used Aimee’s PR firm or if I’m a member of Rory Quinlan’s gym. I crack a joke about newborns and not having time to shower let alone go to a gym, but Kellerman doesn’t smile.
There’s a pause and I venture a question.
“I saw online that people were speculating that Savannah’s murder was a burglary gone wrong. That someone pushed her and accidentally killed her. Do you think that’s what it was?”
Gray eyes bore into mine.
“We don’t believe it was a burglary,” she says eventually. “Only her car keys are missing, nothing else.” She gazes at me, as though waiting for me to speak. Like I’m supposed to know something about car keys?
From Savannah’s Instagram alone, I know she has an iMac, an iPhone 16 Pro and some very lovely Stonechat jewelry and I wonder how anyone would know what’s been taken or not, if the only resident of the house is dead? Kellerman must read the unspoken question in my expression.
