“Ms. Holmes’s ex-husband was able to help us establish what was or wasn’t missing. Are you acquainted with her ex-husband?”
“What? No! I don’t know Savannah at all. I’ve explained that.” I can literally feel my face heating up, even though I’m telling the truth. God. This must be how they get people. Fluster them into confessing. I clear my throat.
“So was it a car thief then?” In a way, this wouldn’t surprise me. Savannah’s car, a sleek silver Audi A8, features regularly on her Insta and I googled once to see how much it cost. I can see why a thief would take a car worth over a hundred grand.
Then Kellerman says something surprising.
“Her car wasn’t taken, just the keys.” She continues to gaze at me. Part of me wonders why she’s telling me this. Don’t police usually keep these kinds of details to themselves? Maybe she’s trying to get me to admit something. There’s nothing to admit. I’m not hiding anything. And yet, I’m squirming.
When I don’t respond, Kellerman moves on, straightening the pages of the report as she speaks.
“Are you acquainted with anyone called Sam?”
“Eh…I don’t think so—is that her ex-husband?”
“So,” she says, ignoring my question, “we’ll need to take fingerprints and a DNA sample from you.”
A lurch of anxiety blooms, propelling me forward in the chair.
“It’s for exclusionary purposes. There are fingerprints at both crime scenes that don’t belong to the victims. And some other forensic evidence.”
She doesn’t elaborate on this “other forensic evidence.” Blood, maybe? Hairs? Everything I know about crime scenes comes from the Patricia Cornwell books I read in my twenties and episodes ofCSI.
“I mean, of course,” I say, while at the same time wondering if I should be saying no, or if Icansay no, or if I’m supposed to have a lawyer?
“Great, thank you.”
“It’s just…can I ask why you need it when I didn’t know the victims?”
She stares at me for a moment. Assessing me? Trying to freak me out? It’s working.
“It’s just procedure, to exclude you.” She picks up a flat paper bag from the desk and tears it carefully open, extracting a plastic bag with what looks like an oversized cotton bud inside. “It’s very simple; you administer it yourself. Both cheeks, roof of mouth, under tongue. Painless.”
“Yes, of course, and I’m happy to help, but…just to understand, you need this even though I have no link to the victims?”
“But youarelinked to them, as you told us yourself, with your packages going to Savannah Holmes, and your WhatsApp to your neighborhood group about Aimee Quinlan.” Her tone contains more than a fragment of disdain for neighborhood WhatsApp groups, and mygodshe’s preaching to the converted.
“So youdothink the murders are linked?”
“Obviously nothing is conclusive, but we have to seriously consider that they are, yes. And you’re the common denominator.”
“Right. God.” A thought hits me then. “Wait, do you mean theonlycommon denominator?”
She nods. “Exactly. I can’t give you too many details.” She hands me the package with the swab. “But in terms of understanding if there’s a connection between the Cherrywood and Oakpark murders, so far, it’s you.”
• • •
Back home, having collected Bella from Greta, I let myself into my house and turn the deadbolt on the front door, then check the patio door. It’s locked: I knew it would be, though we sometimes forget. A false sense of security that comes with living in a big, built-up suburb with mostly nice neighbors and a very active Neighborhood Watch group. But that’s so foolish, I realize now. If someone wants to get into our house, or anyone’s house, they’ll do it. They can barge in or break a window or pick a lock. If they’ve got a weapon—and anything is a weapon when you think about it: a golf club, a hurl, a wrench, a kitchen knife—people can do whatever they want.
And I can’t stop thinking: if Savannah is dead because someone thought she was me, they might try again. Suddenly, I don’t want to be on my own. I message Jon, knowing he’s at work and can’t be here but needing the small comfort a text brings. I message my sister chat group, asking Greta and Leesa if they could come over. Both are working, but they’ll call over this evening—a Friday-night glass of wine, maybe a takeaway. I nod at my phone, unexpected tears brimming.God, what is wrong with me?
I need sleep, that’s what’s wrong. Bella is out for the count after a feed, and there are a hundred things I should be doing, but maybe I’ll give this sleep-when-baby-sleeps thing one more go.
Half an hour later, I’m curled under my duvet, still awake. The room is almost pitch dark with the plywood blocking the window, but it’s no good. That’s when I remember Jon’s melatonin—the pack he picked up in New York to help him sleep on the plane home. I text him to ask where they are and he sends a quick reply: “Bedside drawer.”
The top drawer has his passport, tangled wired earbuds, random receipts, a Yorkie, but no melatonin.
The lower drawer is stuck at first and, when I manage to yank it open, the entire night-stand pulls away from the wall and something drops tothe carpet. Something that was wedged between the night-stand and the wall, I reckon, as I rummage through the drawer contents. Paracetamol, throat lozenges, more receipts and, finally, the melatonin. I push the drawer in and feel around on the carpet to see what dropped. My fingers close around something metal, something round. I pull it out to look. It’s a bangle. A rose-gold bracelet. Is it mine? It’s not mine. It’s beautiful. I’d remember if I owned this. Whose then? That’s when the words catch my eye. An inscription on the inside:
