So he’s been living no more than a mile from her for the last two years. Deansgrange is a small village nestled in the South Dublin suburbs – she’s surprised she hasn’t bumped into him. Surprised and relieved.
The house is a mid-century style she knows well from the Deansgrange area, and the door – bright red with a stained-glass fanlight – is distinctive. Better than all of that, the house name is partially visible on a nameplate behind Kyle’s shoulder.
Glen. Glen-something.
Into Google, she types ‘House names in Ireland beginning with Glen’ and a list of typical Irish house names and their meanings pops up. She tries the first one in Google Maps: ‘Glenbeg Deansgrange’. Nothing comes up. Next is ‘Glencullen Deansgrange’ but this brings no results either. Then she tries ‘Glenmore Deansgrange’ and one result comes up, an address on Stradbrook Road. Now she switches tothe Google Images tab and a photo comes up. The red door with the fanlight, just like on Kyle’s Instagram. Forewarned is forearmed. Now she knows where he lives. She drums her nails on her desk, thinking.What next.
Another knock at her door.
‘Yes, Yasmin?’
‘Sorry, the same man – Kyle Rookwood – keeps calling. He’s very insistent.’
‘Tell him I don’t work here anymore.’
That night, after dark, Elena tells Richard she’s going for a run. ‘I’ll drive to the pier and take a run along the coast.’
‘Sure.’ He peers at her. ‘Wait, are you OK? You’re very pale.’
She pulls him into a hug. ‘I’m fine. A run will do me good.’
Richard doesn’t look convinced. For half a second she considers telling him, spilling all of it. Letting him help. But she can’t. It’s too big. And for all these years, they’ve let Kristina’s parents believe she died in a coastal cottage in a self-inflicted accident. It can’t come out now. Resolute, she kisses Richard goodbye, and heads into the night.
Elena parks around the corner from Kyle’s house and walks the last part of the way. Oh god, is she really doing this? Is it a huge mistake – what if she doesn’t make it back to Richard and the kids?
Then, there it is: Glenmore, the house with the red door.
She’s doing this, it seems.
The blinds are drawn but there’s a light on in what is probably the living room. He’s there. There’s still time to turn back ...
She raises a hand, presses the bell.
The creak of an interior door tells her someone’s coming. A porch light goes on above her head. Then the door opens, and there he is.
Kyle Rookwood.
A puzzled frown morphs into recognition.
‘Elena.’ He pulls the door wide. ‘Come in, I guess. I’ve been trying to get you. This is about the show, right?’
She nods. This is about the show.
His living room is sparsely furnished – a wide, low, black-leather couch, a giant TV, a small coffee table. There’s no artwork of any kind on the walls, no photos on the mantelpiece. An open crisp packet and a stack of newspapers on an end table provide the only hint that anyone actually uses the room.
Elena stays standing, facing Kyle. He’s broader now than he used to be, bigger somehow, but time has taken its toll on his features, and the redness around his nose suggests alcohol has taken its toll too.
‘So, you’re looking well.’ Kyle scratches the skin under his eye.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not here for small talk. Kyle, why did you write the confession? That’s where the show came from, in case you didn’t know.’
His eyes widen. ‘What?’
‘Yes, thanks to your post, what happened to Kristina is now prime-time TV. What were you thinking?’
‘OK, but the post was anonymous.’ His tone is defensive, his lower lip juts. ‘Nobody knows who HeRocks is.’
‘What if someone puts two and two together? Kristina’s family?’
