Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
BETH
Jonny’s house looms ahead. It looks darker now.
Empty. Sinister. Like it’s absorbed the violence that happened inside.
Georgie steps ahead. She reaches the front door like she’s done it a hundred times before – key in hand, no hesitation.
It slides into the lock with a soft click, and then she’s inside, Tasha and I following a step behind.
Jonny’s house is cold. Someone must have turned the heating off. Tasha shivers beside me, her eyes distant. She hasn’t said much since the country lanes.
‘We can’t turn the lights on, so use the torches on your phones,’ Georgie says. ‘But keep them angled low so it’s not seen in the windows.’
There are times when Georgie’s ‘go get ’em’ attitude to life is overbearing, but right now, I’m grateful.
‘We should split up,’ Georgie adds. ‘Beth, you and Tasha check upstairs. I’ll start down here.’
‘No, I’ll take the living room,’ I reply, the words coming in a rush.
I feel Georgie and Tasha’s eyes on me, but I keep my lips pinned shut and my head down as I move through the house.
I can’t go upstairs again. Upstairs is where Jonny was murdered, and I’m already on edge.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that runner – his face, the moment it turned from exertion to terror.
The way my hands clenched the steering wheel.
The seconds blur in my mind. It all happened so fast, but even before Tasha shouted, I was swerving.
I wouldn’t have gone through with it. I couldn’t kill a stranger.
An innocent man. No matter what the stakes are, I’m not that person.
The living room is minimalist. A white leather sofa.
A glass coffee table. I hear the floorboards creak from the room above, where Georgie and Tasha are moving around.
I focus on the drawers in front of me. One after another.
Batteries and cables and a stack of old phones.
Nothing incriminating. Nothing tucked away that says the three of us were involved in Jonny’s murder.
I search for a couple of minutes before there’s movement on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps. A moment later, Georgie is in the doorway. ‘Anything?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘You?’
‘No.’
‘We need to hurry,’ Tasha says, the panic making her breathless. ‘If we’re caught, there’s no way to explain it.’
The last drawer is filled with manuals to the sound system and a handful of kitchen appliances.
No scarf of mine or gloves of Georgie’s.
At the bottom, there’s a stack of photographs.
I pick them up, angling my torch so I can look at each one.
They’re the usual old holiday snaps. A younger Jonny on a beach, tanned and muscular.
Jonny driving a speedboat, a bottle of beer in one hand.
Jonny at a bar with friends. In every shot, there’s the same smug smile.
My stomach knots. I swear I can smell his aftershave – always too strong, too much.
That proprietary way he always stepped into my space.
I hear his voice then. After I let myself into his house that time to turn off his speakers. The gilded threat that he’d do the same. Then we saw each other again on the street in London. ‘Hello, Beth. We must stop meeting like this.’
I feel sick. Heart racing. Mouth dry. I hate him. Even now. Even dead, I hate him. I move to the next photo and freeze.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘Look at this.’
Georgie is by my side in a second. She grabs the photo from my hand like it’s on fire.
‘Oh,’ she says, like she was expecting something else. ‘It’s Keira.’
‘And Jonny,’ I add quietly.
Tasha joins us, peering over Georgie’s shoulder.
‘They knew each other?’ she says, blinking like she’s trying to make the image make sense.
I move closer, shining my torch onto the photo. It’s dark and a little blurry, but that’s Keira’s wide grin and that’s Jonny with his arm slung possessively around her. Both younger but unmistakably them.
‘She knew Jonny,’ Georgie mutters. ‘I’m surprised the police left these photos.’
It feels like a slow, creeping, awful realisation has started to wind around us. ‘This was never about her ex, was it?’ I say. ‘Or whoever that man was tonight. It was about Jonny. It was always about Jonny.’
‘If she knew him,’ Georgie says, ‘she probably had her own reasons for wanting him dead. We all did.’
‘So she saw an opportunity that night in the pub?’
Tasha shakes her head. ‘No. It was more than that. I remember at the time feeling like she’d overheard our conversation.
It wasn’t just seeing an opportunity; it was seeking us out.
Manipulating us.’ There’s a tremor in Tasha’s voice as she looks between us.
‘She knew we hated Jonny, and she used that. She saw a group of women drinking too much wine, all of us angry. And she saw a way to get what she wanted – and protect herself at the same time.’
‘You’re right,’ I whisper, my pulse racing, my head light.
‘But why not just kill him and disappear?’ I ask.
‘Every time we find an answer, it feels like it leads to more questions. I just don’t get it.
Why go to the trouble of finding us, encouraging us into planning his murder?
Why drag us into this whole sick game? And tonight…
what if we’d actually gone through with it? What then?’
Georgie’s eyes narrow. ‘Then she’d have had us. Properly. Not just a recording, not just us fearing for our families. We’d have been as bad as her. Murderers. It would’ve bought our silence.’
Tasha’s face is pale. ‘I feel like we’re missing something.’
Georgie and I turn to look at Tasha. ‘But what?’ I ask.
‘She could easily have killed Jonny and walked away without involving us,’ Tasha replies.
‘Yeah, but she’s crazy,’ I hiss, feeling the panic take hold. ‘This was never part of a murder-swap deal. She just wanted cover. She wanted to make us the fall guys if the police ever realised her connection to him.’
‘I don’t know,’ Tasha starts again, biting her lower lip. ‘She’s crazy, but she’s not stupid. And bringing us into this feels really risky for her. What do you think, Georgie?’
‘I’m not sure either,’ Georgie agrees. ‘Something isn’t adding up.’
‘The important thing is—’
My next words stop dead. There’s a sound. A door banging. Footsteps from my garden. A second later, a light clicks on outside.
We drop into a crouch, hiding beside the sofa.
‘It’s Alistair,’ I whisper, heart hammering. He can’t find me here. ‘He’s in our garden.’
We fumble to turn our torches off as the silence stretches, each second longer than the last. I don’t dare move. Don’t dare breathe.
Then there’s a flutter in my stomach. Not fear or nerves. Something softer. Butterfly wings brushing against my belly from within. The faintest movement but unmistakable. The baby. My baby. She’s moving.
Tears spring to my eyes.
I should be home. I should be with Alistair. I should be curled up on the sofa with my hand on my bump and a cup of herbal tea in my hand, not hiding in a dead man’s house.
I did this for Alistair. For us. For my baby. I can’t lose it all now because of Jonny.