Aside from it giving me the creeps, the idea that Samantha had purposefully collected and kept my hair shows me just how calculated she really is, how premeditated all of this must’ve been from the beginning. She had been plotting, and pre-empting, and planning all of thiswaybackthen.She even hadthe foresight to keep something she could potentially use as a future weapon against me down the line – my hair – just in case. Why had she done that? What had I done to her to make her hate me that much that she would want to destroy my life like she has? All the while I was being this faithful, caring, doting friend, she was covertly and purposefully plotting my complete destruction. Sometimes, when I was at Larksmere, I thought the not-knowing why any of this happened might actually kill me, along with the guilt I felt about Bojan’s death. Both of these things haunted me daily and continuously, the nagging question, ‘Why?’ following me everywhere, whispering torturously in my ear until I wanted to bash my own brains in.
Another thought has just struck me, one that is equally as sickening, or perhaps more so. Had Samanthadeliberatelyplotted and orchestrated Milo Harrison’s murderjustto enable her to frame me for it and have me sent back to the booby hatch? Was it alljust for my benefit? A small part of me feels secretlypleased that it even could be. It means that Samantha considers me a real threat,just as she should,because I’m the only person who knows that she really exists, you see. Until Tilly Ward popped up.
‘Did you speak to Tilly on the phone, Erin?’ Dan sounded worried. He’s probably pissed at her for reaching out to me – she’s on bail after all. But as it turned out, she had wanted to speak to me as much as I wanted to speak to her – andshefoundme.
Can we meet face-to-face, Erin? PLEASE?Tilly had typed the word in bold upper case in her email. Clearly, she was desperate, craving comfort and solidarity too, only I couldn’t rule out the idea that Dan may be using her as a double bluff in a bid to get me to open up, to let my whereabouts slip, or arrange to meet her somewhere so that they could ambush me. It could very well be a trap. I had to play it safe.
I’m so scared, Erin. I don’t know what’s going to happen. What if the police don’t believe me, like they didn’t believe you? Will they put me in prison?Her fear and confusion felt so much like my own that my eyes instantly welled up with tears. Truthfully, I’m amazed I still have any left.
You won’t have to worry about any of that soon, I wrote back.
There was so much I wanted to say to her, so much I wanted to ask and to know about her own experience of being under Samantha Valentine’s spell, but I was paranoid of being watched, or traced, or set up. I had to keep it short.Soon it will all be over. I promise.
Why do you think she chose you, Erin? Why, out of everyone, do you think Samantha chose you to be her victim?I stared at the words on screen.
I thought I’d know exactly how best to respond to Tilly’s question; after all, I’ve spent seven long years asking myself the very same thing. But when it came to my reply, I struggled, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I tried to find the right words.A reason for everything, and everything for a reason, right?
There’s this belief that all of life’s events – even negative ones, or perhaps especially those – have purpose or meaning behind them. Often ‘the reason’ is attributed to a higher power, or a deterministic view of the universe, kind of on par with that other irritating phrase, ‘it was meant to be’. I think it’s a whole heap of crap, myself. Imagine saying something like that to a mother who has just lost her child to cancer, or in a fatal car accident,or murder… ‘Hey, chin up, everything happens for a reason – it was all meant to be!’
I wanted to tell Tilly that I thought perhaps Samantha had chosen me because of my deep childhood trauma – witnessing the brutal death of my mum – or the fact I was a recoveringaddict who’d suffered a psychotic break as a result. Maybe it was because I was unstable, or overly suggestible, or that I was vulnerable and consideredweak. In the end though, I settled for just three words: ‘I was lonely.’
A small black-and-white cat suddenly runs out into the road, triggering a neighbour’s security light. The bright white light arches above me, illuminating the entrance to the apartment block, and I slide a little further down into the driver’s seat, pulling my scarf up over my face until the light times out.
It’s a smart-looking apartment complex, I suppose – the Rileys have not done too badly for themselves – tucked back and away from the main road, although if you listen carefully you can still hear the faint sound of the ever-present traffic, humming in the distance. Like New York, London is a city that never sleeps. Not that I care especially, because neither do I much anymore. Once upon a time though, I used to love nothing more than a leisurely, long and lazy lie-in of a weekend. I’ve never been good on little or no sleep – who is? Previous boyfriends have even been known to comment on how grumpy I could be of a morning if I wasn’t well rested enough. Jason Willis – more of a friend-with-benefits than a proper boyfriend at the time – used to refer to me as ‘crotchety’, which I always thought made it sound like I had a personal hygiene problem. At Larksmere though, I learned how to get by on just a few hours a night. Sometimes, I was frightened to shut my eyes, fearful that I might never get to open them again.
I stare at the glove compartment and think about the gun that’s inside it – the gun I placed there. It had felt so heavy and so powerful in my hand, like I was holding the very tangible embodiment of life or death right there in it. I have to admit, despite my general, overall pacifistic nature and ‘be kind’ philosophy, it gave me a tiny electric thrill knowing that now, at last, I would be the one yielding that power.
FORTY-TWO
DAN
‘I have to say,’ – she takes a few sharp breaths – ‘I’m… I’m sorry, but it’s my heart… jeez, it’s going like the clappers… It’s not every day you get a call out of the blue from the British police, asking about your daughter who died over thirty years ago! I was just about heading up the wooden hills as well…Ned!Hang on, sorry, …Neddd!’ I hear the sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, the low grumbling of a male voice in the background. ‘It’s the British police on the phone, they’re calling fromLondon…’
‘British police? What the blazes dothose bastardswant?’ His Australian accent is notably more pronounced than hers.
‘Ned!’ she hisses. ‘I’m sorry, I apologise on my husband’s behalf. He’s fallen off the wagonagainand is a bit upset with himself, a bit grumpy. My mother always said that I married beneath me.’ She laughs, though I sense there may be a ring of truth to it.
‘I can only apologise if I’m keeping you from your bed, Mrs Valentine. And I’m really sorry for any distress this may cause you. Did my colleagues give you the heads-up on why we contacted you?’
‘… They didn’t really say much… just that you wanted to speak to me about my daughter, about Samantha, somethingabout a message on social media?’ I hear the click at the back of her throat as she swallows, dryly, no doubt apprehensive about what could be coming next. ‘It’s been thirty years now. My Sammie will have been dead for thirty-one years this November. Though sometimes it feels like it only happened yesterday.’ Her voice sinks. ‘You never get over losing a child, trust me,never.’
‘I believe you, Mrs Valentine.’
‘Shona, please.’
‘Shona, do you remember a girl who was friends with your daughter back in prep school, a girl named Katy Russell?’
‘Katy! God, yeah! Of course,’ she says. ‘Jeez, I haven’t heard that name in a while. I knew Katy well, back then anyway. Thick as thieves they were, her and my Sammie, BFFs as they say now. They were always off out somewhere together, roller-skating in the park, swimming at the beach, riding their bikes… all that kind of kids’ stuff, and if Katy wasn’t over at our house, then Sammie was hanging out at hers… Yeah, they were close at one time, those two girls, like sisters. Ahhhh,’ – she sighs as she reminisces – ‘I’ve not seen Katy in years. I don’t know if she’d even recognise me now, from all that time ago – probably not. Ned says he doesn’t recognise me anymore either.’ She laughs again, though it has a melancholy tinge to it. ‘She’s married now, I think, Katy, got kiddies probably. I never heard anything about her moving to the UK though?’ She pauses. ‘Nothing’s happened to her, has it? What’s this got to do with our Sammie?’
‘It’s complicated, Shona,’ I say, which is an understatement. ‘We’re currently conducting a homicide investigation?—’
‘What! No!’ She gasps.
‘Don’t worry!’ I quickly interject. ‘It’s not Katy, Katy’s alive and well, and, I believe, still living in Australia… It was something that she mentioned, a comment she made on social media about a girl named Julie Edwards – someone both sheand your daughter, Samantha, knew back in school, is that right?’
There’s a moment’s pause.
‘Oh. Her.’ Her voice tightens. ‘What about Julie Edwards?’
