‘I think Imayhave seen her before,’ he’d told them. His answer was more definite when Parker had shown him a picture of Erin though.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t recognise her. Sorry.’
It’s possible that Erin could’ve also met Milo Harrison during one of these day-release outings somehow. Maybe she neverstoppedstalking him?
‘We allow the patients a few hours of unaccompanied freedom on these occasions,’ Dr Wainwright had explained. ‘We like to gently integrate them back into society, help them build their confidence and show them trust in a bid to assist their preparation for the big bad world outside the comfort of these walls.’
I’m not sure ‘comfort’ would have been the word I’d use.
‘We’re investigating every line of enquiry at this stage, going where the evidence takes us.’ I nod at the enthusiastic young journalist whose hand is still raised high, like he knows the answer to a question in class and is desperate for the teacher to pick him. I don’t tell them about the hair in Milo’s blood being identified as Erin’s, or the enormity of such a finding at this stage, because there’ll be a public panic, and in turn Erin could panic and do something inadvisable, like kill someone,or have them killed. As it is, I’m secretly struggling with a degree of guilt already. I feel as if I’m betraying her somehow by going public, despite the evidence dictating that I must. I doubt she’ll call me again after she sees this.
Anyway, behind the scenes as I speak, it’s all systems go on ‘Operation Verde’. Archer has thrown bodies into it. There’s now a thirty-strong team, including experts and analysts and specialists. We’ll be working in shifts round the clock. There’ll be no stone left unturned.
‘Dan…’ It’s the redhead again. ‘At the time of Erin’s arrest back in 2019, is it true that she claimed to have been conned into killing her victim by her friend, Samantha Valentine? Is there a chance you think that Erin may actuallybeSamantha Valentine?’
OK, this time, she’sdefinitely on the money. I’m curious as to how she knows this information, though I know just how ‘thorough’ some investigative hacks can be – I’m married to one after all. Still, this isn’t public information. Samantha Valentine’s name was never reported in the press back in 2019.
‘I’m afraid that’s all I can give you right now. Except that I would like to make a direct appeal to Erin Santos.’ The room falls to a hushed silence as I address the cameras. ‘Erin, please call me, or you can go into any police station you choose, and I will come to you in person. I’m here to help you. Please get in touch.’
I don’t know if Erin will see my personal appeal, maybe she doesn’t currently have access to a TV or a smartphone? So far she’s used a burner phone to communicate with me, just like she claims Samantha had used with her, anuntraceableburner phone.She’s been clever, but still I don’t understand what her motives are for doing this. By re-enacting the same crime and then going on the run, she must know that she’ll be caught eventually and thrown back into Larksmere. I would tag ‘or worse’ on the end of that sentence, but I don’t think it exists. Davis and I couldn’t leave that maudlin place fast enough.
Why would she do this to herself? I try to straighten it all out in my head. If I’ve got this right, then back in 2019, when she committed her crime, Erin believed that her ‘split’ self, Samantha Valentine, had coerced her into doing it. She does the time for it in a mental institution, presenting throughout the full duration of her sentence as Erin. So where exactly did ‘Samantha’ go during this time? Dr Wainwright told me that Erin had never once in all her years at Larksmere presented to him, or anyone else it seems, as Samantha Valentine, this supposed ‘other self’, though he had an explanation for this of course. I suspect Dr Wainwright probably has an explanation foreverything.
‘The drugs she was prescribed, and the treatment she underwent, they would’ve prevented her from manifesting into Samantha Valentine,’ he told me with unwavering confidence. ‘Erin felt great loss at the time for this second self though; she actually grieved for Samantha, for her friend who had suddenly abandoned and betrayed her, in her mind of course.’
I left the press conference in a hurry, ignoring Archer’s call on the way out. No doubt she wanted to critique my performance. Or tell me that my tie wasn’t straight. I look around briefly to see if I can spot the redhead. She’s at least five people deep in front of me and I can just see her vibrant-coloured hair as it bobs towards the exit, the exotic, spicy scent of what I’m sure is her perfume, trailing behind her. It triggers something in me, but I’m not sure what or why, exactly. I push my way through the reporters in a bid to catch up with her. By the time I filter outside though, she’s nowhere to be seen.
THIRTY
ERIN
I stare at the screen, too scared to blink in case I miss a second. Dan Riley is making a public appeal for me to come forward and – woop-de-do – he’s mentioned that I am a convicted killer who served my sentence in a secure psychiatric hospital.Nice one, Dan!Noweveryonethinks I’m a dangerous homicidal lunatic on the run. To add further insult, they’ve only gone and shown that hideous photo of me from seven years ago – that dreadful mugshot taken at the time of my arrest. I gasp in horror as it flashes up on screen, cover my mouth with both hands. My long, dark hair looks greasy and dishevelled, hanging lankily around my sallow-skinned face, and my eyes have practically disappeared back into my skull, with dark circles shadowing them. As far as mentally deranged killers go, even I have to admit that I look the part.
My face flushes hot with shame and injustice. Malcolm is probably watching this right now, asking himself what the hell he was thinking, sleeping with such an unattractive psycho killer. To be fair to myself, Ididactually tell him the truth, albeit in jest. Well, I wasn’t going to put him straight there and then, was I? Even if Malcolm didn’t think I was a nutcase before I told him my story, he certainly would after hearing it.
I turn up the volume on my laptop; the noise of my heartbeat pounding in my ears is drowning out the sound.
‘Following a recent forensic update, we are now looking for another person of interest and potential witness…’
‘Potential witness?’What is he talking about, when he says, ‘following a recent forensic update…’? They can’t possibly have found anything at the crime scene that links me to it. I wasn’t – I’m not – a witness.I wasn’t there. Dan already knows this because I told him – I told himeverything.
‘Please contact me, Erin, it’s not too late. We can resolve this…’ I find myself smiling. There is something undeniably warm and genuine about Dan’s face that I can’t seem to help myself smiling at, because as it currently stands, I have very little to smile about. But what does he mean, ‘not too late’? Late for what exactly? I click on the clip again, play it back from the beginning with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Now that my name and picture are in the public domain, I will need to be super vigilant. The police are looking for me,everyonewill be looking for me.
I have to find Samantha before they find me. I can’t let that happen. Not now that I’m so close.
I take a bite out of the Bounty bar that’s on the table next to me, start to chew, try to think. That dreadful picture flashes up on screen again and I hit the pause button, stare at it for a moment longer before glancing at myself in the old mirror above the stained sink. Will I be recognised from this photo? I look so different now to how I did back then – it’s the hair mostly, but age hasn’t exactly been kind to me either. Surprisingly, there were no on-site beauty spas at Larksmere, and being stuck inside that place has put ten extra years on me at least, but is it enough?
I’ll need to go to a charity shop, buy some different clothes and accessories, some glasses, hats, and scarves and?—
The sudden sound of knuckles rapping on my door startles me. I freeze, stay radio silent and listen. Is it the police? Have they found mealready? A slew of fresh panic explodes inside my belly. I press my ear to the door and listen.
‘Molly… it’s me…Open the door.’
Pete.I hesitate. Maybe Pete has seen the appeal on telly and recognises me. Maybe he’s standing behind the door right nowwith the police?
‘Molly…’ he repeats, urgently, ‘open the freakin’ door! I’ve…’ – he drops his voice down to a whisper – ‘… I’ve got your…shopping delivery.’
Shopping delivery? For a brief moment I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then it comes to me. Ahh,thatshopping delivery. My memory really isn’t what it once was, no doubt, down to the draconian treatments I was forced to endure at Larksmere. My brain glitches more often now, and I experience memory blanks. It’s unsettling, like dying for a few seconds before returning to life again.
