Abby
Abby
Abby sits in her car outside the police station, contemplating whether to go inside, whether to reiterate everything she said ten hours ago, at eight o’clock this morning, when she showed the police the cache of anonymous emails sent to Isla.
Detective Webb had read the emails, thanked her for bringing them in, sympathised with how upsetting it must have been to read them. When Abby questioned him outright – wasn’t it possible that there was a link between Isla’s killer and whoever wrote those emails? – Detective Webb had looked at her almost sadly, the pity unambiguous in his expression, and repeated what he had already told her countless times: that he believed Isla’s accident to have been a tragic, random hit-and-run, that there were no grounds to suspect anything more sinister. Abby had waved the ream of paper in the air, asked whether this wasn’t evidence enough that there might be another explanation, that perhaps it wasn’t random at all, perhaps it was completely intentional. The forbearance on Detective Webb’s face had been infuriating as he reassured her that his officers would investigate the emails if she would allow them access to Isla’s account, reassured her that they were doing everything they could to uncover the circumstances surrounding her daughter’s death. He had concluded far too swiftly, just like Nicole, that the emails were probably the work of a bored teenager, no doubt someone from Isla’s school, perhaps someone she’d fallen out with who was trying to get under her skin. It had taken all Abby’s patience to explain that Isla didn’t have enemies – she’d been the most popular girl in her year – and her school wasn’t like that; it wasn’t replete with people who’d do something like this.
Detective Webb had been more interested in the man with whom Isla had been having an affair; did Abby have any idea who he might be? Had Isla given any indication that she was romantically involved? Did Abby think Isla might have confided in any of her friends? Was it usual for Isla to keep secrets? Every question to which Abby had no meaningful response felt like a reproach about her inadequacy as a parent, an open acknowledgement that she hadn’t really known her daughter at all: hadn’t known what went on in her head, in her heart. Since finding the emails, Abby had been forced to recalibrate everything she thought she knew about Isla: her previously unswerving belief in Isla’s truthfulness, her integrity. Now, Abby had to accept that her daughter had been secretive, duplicitous, dishonest. That she must have lied – how many times, Abby would never know – about where she was going, what she was doing, with whom she had been. That she had kept a secret of this magnitude: about an affair with a married man, with someone else’s husband, with a man old enough to be her father.
Abby didn’t expect a male detective to understand how it made her feel; how she had lain awake last night unable to escape the hideous images of her beautiful seventeen-year-old daughter seduced by a disgusting, middle-aged man: a man old enough to know better. Imagining this man’s hands writhing over her daughter’s innocent skin. Imagining him touching her, kissing her, inveigling his way into her heart, her body, into places he had no right to be. She didn’t expect this detective to understand the pain – the wracking, tormenting pain – that Isla had not felt able to confide in her, that she had kept this part of her life hidden. Or the sheer agonising fact that Abby would now never be able to ask her about it.
When Abby finally left the station this morning – when Detective Webb made it clear he had other things to do, other cases to deal with – she had walked away with exactly the same feelings she’d experienced during every encounter with the police over the past twenty-five days: resentment for allowing herself to be fobbed off, fury with the police for failing to demonstrate any sense of urgency, rage with them for failing to catch her daughter’s killer.
On the seat beside her, Abby’s phone pings, and she picks it up, sees a message from Nicole.
Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Any news from the police? X
Abby drops the phone back onto the seat, feels the temperature of her frustration rise.
She turns back to look at the police station, contemplating whether to go inside, to insist that her visit this morning should have been taken more seriously, that more needs to be done.
And then, suddenly, it hits her. And the moment it does, she cannot understand how it has not occurred to her before. She can only imagine that her anger, her upset, her confusion have mired her thoughts, clouded her judgement. It is so obvious – so transparently, blindingly obvious – that there is a moment’s humiliation she has not seen it before, that she was so defensive about the detective’s questions earlier. It is clear he reached a conclusion in minutes that it has taken her twenty-four hours to grasp.
He is a suspect. Perhaps the prime suspect.
The man who seduced Isla is the lead suspect in her death. That is why Detective Webb is so interested in uncovering his identity. It is not the person who wrote the anonymous emails that the police think may be culpable of killing her daughter. It is the man who took advantage of Isla so despicably.
The realisation wraps around her throat, presses down on her windpipe.
Thoughts stumble through her mind as if drunk. Perhaps this man – this monster who preyed on her daughter – was angry with her. Perhaps he was desperate to preserve his reputation, his marriage, his family. Perhaps it was over, and Isla was about to expose him.
Perhaps he needed to silence her.
Abby starts the engine, pulls away from the kerb, heads for home, knowing what it is she needs to do. She must scour every inch of Isla’s bedroom. She must uncover the identity of the man who coerced her daughter into a relationship. Because if she can do that, she will – she is convinced – find the person responsible for Isla’s death.