‘It’s funny,’ she continued. ‘I’ve had no morning sickness. I feel great, actually.’
He appraised her. She looked great, radiant, in fact. Her skin was clear, her eyes shining, and her hair even more lustrous than usual. But as she came to life right there before him, he felt part of himself wither and die. He couldn’t say what he really felt, not in the restaurant with other diners seated so close to them, and not to her, his beloved. His wife. He had no choice but to sit there and listen while she prattled away about how amazing it was going to be, how they would decorate the nursery, which cot they would choose – ‘It has to be white, Henry. I love white for babies,’ as though the baby was a mere accessory or a piece of furniture she’d been coveting for years. And he stared at her, utterly speechless the whole time, wondering how she could possibly be so deluded.
As he sat there, watching as she talked, he knew he had to do something. Anything. Because this couldn’t happen.Thisreallycouldn’t happen. A baby couldn’t be part of their lives. He needed to think. He was good under pressure – that was partly what made him an excellent surgeon – and he’d never felt as pressured as he did right then.
But his mind worked in brilliant, twisted ways. It always had done. It was his superpower.
And just like he knew it would, a plan was already beginning to take form.
55
LENA
My eyes open and I glance down to see that I’m laid out on a narrow bed. There isn’t even a sheet on the stained mattress. I sit up groggily; my whole body feels as though I’ve just run a marathon and my head is spinning. The room is small but I recognize it instantly as the Morgans’ attic. From the narrow windows I can make out the apricot-streaked sky. Soon it will be dark and then what?
How long have I been here? I must be in some nightmare. I can’t believe this is happening. The last thing I remember is being in that room with Marielle and the syringe. She must have injected me with something.
I picture the fake baby and Marielle’s pretence at having a grandson. Having children. Why? And all the lies. I don’t understand what’s going on.
All of this has something to do with St Calvert’s. With Hugh and Simone. But why me? Why me, when I worked there for just six weeks nearly three decades ago?
Marielle’s words come flooding back.
You, Lena. You were the plan.
Now that I’m here, what are they planning to do with me?
A rush of adrenaline and fear gives me the energy to move. I need to call someone. Charlie, Jo. I scan the room, frantically, but then I remember: I’d left my phone at home. I reach down and tap my pocket, relieved when my fingers make out the shape of my key. Thank goodness it’s still there. Although that’s not much help when I’m stuck here. I think of Rufus, returning home tomorrow to an empty house and wondering where I am. What if the Morgans decide to hurt him next? I can’t allow those fucking psychos to harm him. I need to do something.
My mouth is so dry I’m finding it hard to swallow. I swing my legs out of bed and try to walk but they buckle and I end up crawling across the dusty floorboards, wincing when my knee scrapes a protruding nail. I stay on all fours until I get to the door and then I reach up and try the handle, but it’s locked. I don’t have the energy to scream and shout. I slump against the door in defeat.
I should have stayed away from them. My nosiness is going to cost me my life.
Why do you think we moved in next door?
And yet I can’t see how this would have ended in any other way. It was obviously their plan from the very beginning.
56
HENRY
Henry watches as Marielle snaps on her blue latex gloves, wriggling her fingers, a smile of satisfaction on her face. No nurse’s uniform this time. They don’t need to pretend, like they did with Simone. Marielle has the glint of excitement in her eye, like a hunter about to shoot its prey. He hadn’t wanted to do this. He’d tried to warn Lena to stay away – pushing while Marielle pulled. But he’d been naïve to think Marielle would forget about it. He knows she’s not going to stop until she gets answers.
Except she’ll never get answers. Because he is the only person who can give them to her. And he’d rather die than tell her the truth.
Marielle’s standing at the kitchen counter with the syringe and she whips around to face him, holding it aloft. ‘Well, come on, then, Henry. Don’t just stand there. We need to get on with it. We don’t have much time.’
‘Marielle …’
‘Don’t bail on me now, Henry. Not when we’ve got this far. Lena knows what happened to our baby. She’s our last chance.’
Of course she doesn’t know!he wants to yell. But what would be the point?
He takes a deep breath. He’d tried all he could to dissuade her, to support her. He’d even let her have that ridiculous silicone baby and watched as she passed it off as their grandson. Anything, he reasoned, to make her happy. He had hoped her make-believe would keep her from the reality. But he’d soon realized it had been a temporary measure.
He pictures Lena, locked upstairs in the attic. She has a son who will miss her. A friend who is always checking up on her. Getting rid of her won’t be as easy as it was with Simone. And it’s not that Henry feels pity. He knows he doesn’t have the same kind of feelings as other people. And that’s okay. He’s learned to accept hislimitationsover the years. Helped by Marielle. He understands he’s devoid of most basic human emotions and that he’s only ever loved one thing, one person, and that’s his wife. His lack of empathy, of emotion, has made him a brilliant neurosurgeon. It was the driving force behind his ambition to deal with his abusive father. And when he met Marielle that Christmas all those years ago, it was the very thing he recognized in her.
He’s often wondered over the years if not wanting a child was altruistic: to save the world from another sociopath. Or purely because he hadn’t wanted to share Marielle with anyone else.
