Emily. She pokes her blond head inside and gives me an apologetic smile. “Got a minute to talk, lovie?”
Despite my headache, I find myself nodding gratefully. In swift, graceful movements, she steps inside, and her long skirt swishes like lapping water. She sits on my couch, smooths her skirt with her palms, and the little wooden beads of her bracelet click softly like ice cubes. I feel like I could watch her for hours. Even her name is pleasant. Em-i-ly. Em-i-ly.
“Just wanted to check and see how you’re going,” she says in her gentle way.
“I’m great!” I tell her as my eyes fill with tears. Oh my God. I quickly fake a sneeze and swipe the tears away. All this shit with the rat this morning is pushing me closer to the edge. And also, I can’t even remember the last time someone asked if I was okay.
“Oh, lovie,” she says, and it’s amazing how much empathy she cramsinto two words. God, it nearly has me bawling. Wordlessly she reaches into her skirt pocket and slides me a tissue.
I wonder why she’s so nice to me. My other co-workers skirt uneasily around me, backing out of the office kitchen when I walk in. It’s been like that all my life. My sister used to save me from these situations, speaking for me or just stubbornly taking me along when I was excluded from birthday parties or whatever. Lizzy. Lizzy.
I smooth the lavender-scented tissue onto my lap, fighting hard not to cry. I don’t even try with people anymore. I don’t follow my co-workers to the pub after work. I go home to my murder house and my secrets, and I call it a life.
Don’t lose it, I tell myself. Don’t you dare, you piece of shit.
I slip into my skin and shift the focus from me. “How long have you lived in Beacon, Emily?”
“All my life,” she says with a hint of pride. “It’s a close-knit community. Everyone helps each other around here.”
Only if you were born here, apparently. Otherwise they leave dead rats in your mailbox.
“I went to primary school with your neighbor, actually.”
“Who?”
“Jeff Johnson. He lives up the street from you.” She hesitates. “He tried to sell his house last year, but no one wanted it.”
My heart drops to my feet. I didn’t know that my neighbor tried to sell his house last year. And worse: that no one wanted it. Shit. What chance do we have of selling Black Wood if nobody will even buy the neighbor’s house?There’s a waiting list to buy into this town,the realtor told me. That lying bastard.
I sink into my seat, deflated. “What’s Jeff like?”
“He’s a bad sort.”
My head starts to pound again. “What do you mean?”
“I grew up with him.” She smooths her skirt again. By the look on her face, the memories aren’t pleasant. “His uncle is Beacon’s policesergeant, and his mum let him get away with absolute murder. He wasn’t nice, even back then. But he’s worse now.”
My stomach tightens. “How?”
“They’re just rumors,” Emily says urgently, probably noticing my concern. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, lovie.”
But I am. I am worried about it. “What else do you know about him? About Beacon?”
Gently, she rolls a wooden bead on her bracelet with her fingertip. “He left Beacon at eighteen like they all do,” Emily says slowly, quietly. “Went to the Big Smoke and bided his time until his poor mum finally passed last year. He inherited the estate of course, all four thousand square meters of it.” She shakes her head. “Moved in two days after her funeral.”
I shake my head, too, but I’m not surprised.
“Rumor has it he’s got some debts.” Emily pauses, and I raise an eyebrow. “Gambling,” she says meaningfully. “He’s been trying to sell the house for a year now. He hates Beacon, though he’s got no reason to…but he hates Black Wood House more,” she reluctantly adds. “He can’t sell his mum’s house to pay his debts, and he blames your place for it. He tries to get Black Wood bulldozed every town meeting.”
I tap a few meaningless words into the keyboard and notice a red wine stain near my foot. The uneasy scene with the cleaner plays through my head, and I forget the keyboard.
“Hey.” I look up. “You haven’t had any problems with the cleaners, have you?”
“Other than the fact that they don’t do their job properly, you mean?” She grins. “We go through cleaners like you wouldn’t believe.”
I cover the stain with my foot, thinking of the bloodstain upstairs in Black Wood House. “Have you ever been to my house?”
She presses her lips together and smooths her skirt again. “No,” she says almost apologetically. “I don’t know how you could live there, to be honest.” She gives me an admiring look. “You must be very brave!”
