Chapter 56
Fifty-Six
Wednesday
EMILY
Lara crouches in front of me, her voice low and steady.
‘Come on,’ she says gently. ‘Let’s get you up.’
She helps me to my feet, guides me to the sofa and presses a glass of water into my hands. I take a few shaky sips while she paces the kitchen, the anger radiating off her.
‘Honestly, that little shit,’ she mutters. ‘I don’t know what he thinks he’s playing at. Hanging around, watching, poking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.’ She glances back at me. ‘If he’s been snooping in our emails, in Tim’s work stuff—I swear . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say automatically. I should never have said anything about Roman’s snooping at all, but I least I managed not to blurt out the truth of what he’d done, deleting messages that could have seriously implicated me.
She waves it away. ‘You have nothing to apologize for, Emily.’
When my hands stop trembling, she softens again and fetches a fleece from the back of a chair, draping it around my shoulders.
‘You shouldn’t be on your own right now,’ she says. ‘Come on. You can come back with me for a bit.’
She slips an arm around me and walks me across the lane, slow and deliberate, as if daring anyone to stare.
Her house smells comfortingly of coffee and something warm and sweet from the oven, and she sits me down at the kitchen table like I might topple over if she lets go.
‘I’ll make you a drink,’ she says gently. ‘You need a minute, and then we’ll talk.’
She presses a mug of strong coffee, milk already added, into my hands, and watches until I take a sip.
‘I’m just going to shower and change,’ she says, gesturing to her workout gear. ‘I won’t be long.’
She disappears upstairs, her footsteps light, leaving me alone and trying to slow my breathing.
The doorbell rings.
At first, I decide to just ignore it, expecting Lara to come bouncing downstairs to get the door. Then it rings again.
I stand, one hand braced against the table before I force myself forward. I look up the stairs, unsure whether or not to answer, but I hear the shower running.
When I open the door, I’m surprised to see Ron and Margaret Windsors’ lodger, Rachel. Her dark blonde hair is scraped back, and she’s leaning lightly on a stick. I’ve not noticed her need one of those before.
‘Hello, Rachel.’
‘What are you doing here?’ she says abruptly.
Her eyes meet mine and don’t move.
My body loosens a fraction. This is just a neighbour, someone from the lane. It’s not the police coming to arrest me or to tell me they have unshakeable evidence my husband is a murderer.
‘Lara’s taking care of me for a bit, with all that’s happened,’ I say. ‘Are you after her?’
She doesn’t reply and doesn’t smile back. She looks slightly spaced out.
‘Rachel . . . is everything OK?’
‘You don’t know me,’ she says at last. Her voice is calm, measured. ‘You don’t know me at all.’
The relief drains away.
‘I know we haven’t spoken much, but we’ve met, right?’ I say, too quickly.
‘I know who you are, though,’ she says, cutting across me. ‘And I know who your husband is, too.’
A creeping dread starts to rise in my chest. She knows who we are?
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rachel. But Lara is in the shower, so she can’t come to the door right now so maybe call back later.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘No. I don’t think that’s—’
She steps forward and, suddenly, one foot is over the threshold. I shuffle back slightly, but I don’t move aside. I can hear the shower has stopped running now.
‘If you wait here, I’ll tell Lara you’re here.’
She glances past me into the house and her gaze sharpens in a way that makes my skin prickle. I don’t want to give her the chance to barge inside.
‘Lara?’ I call urgently over my shoulder. ‘Someone’s here for you. It’s Rachel.’
Rachel takes the opportunity to force her way inside and, before I can react, she looks at me and says, ‘Did you know, too?’
Something even colder slips down my spine. The look on her face is . . . pure hatred.
‘I think you’ve got the wrong house,’ I say carefully.
‘This,’ she says curtly, ‘is exactly the right house.’
Now I’m really confused. Has she got muddled and thinks Oliver and I live here? Either way I stand my ground.
‘I really think you should leave,’ I say, my voice shaky. ‘Lara?’ I shout, louder this time.
She laughs—a short, brittle sound.
‘That’s interesting,’ she says, bringing her other foot up to the step. ‘Because it’s exactly what I thought you might say.’
I move to block her path properly now, adrenaline flooding my system.
‘If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police.’
‘Go on then,’ she says with a manic grin. ‘Call them. I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to listen. Take me seriously.’
Footsteps sound upstairs at last.
‘Emily?’ Lara’s voice floats down the staircase. ‘Is everything OK down there?’
Relief flashes through me, followed immediately by embarrassment about what Rachel might say in front of Lara.
‘Rachel is here. There seems to be a misunderstanding,’ I call back, turning to look.
Lara appears at the top of the stairs. She frowns as she takes in the scene.
‘What misunderstanding?’
Lara, now dressed in tracky bottoms and a T-shirt, thunders downstairs, her expression one of concern.
Rachel’s gaze flicks from me to Lara. ‘Ah yes,’ she says quietly. ‘There you are. The murderer’s wife.’
For a split second, I fail to register that she’s facing Lara as she says this. ‘Oliver didn’t kill anyone,’ I snap. ‘He’s innocent.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘I’m talking about this murderer’s wife.’
Lara stiffens. ‘Excuse me?’ In that suspended moment, I finally realize that this is not about me, or Oliver, at all.
‘I wondered how long it would take me to find you.’
‘This is my house,’ Lara says sharply. ‘And you need to leave. Now.’
My heart stutters. Nothing is making sense.
‘Look, I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, Rachel,’ Lara says, ‘but I really don’t need this harassment right now. We’ve just—’
‘Is it really harassment?’ Rachel asks. ‘Or is it just inconvenient for you?’
She turns fully towards Lara now, ignoring me completely, as if I’m suddenly invisible to her.
‘My name is not Rachel,’ she says. ‘My name is Jane Guthrie, and your husband killed my husband. Oh, and he killed my baby, too.’
I stare at Rachel’s face. She looks so ordinary, but the words coming out of her mouth are far from that.
‘That’s simply obscene,’ Lara snaps, her voice briefly faltering. ‘You’re unwell. Let me call Ron, or—’
‘Your husband forced us off the cliff road near Scarborough five years ago,’ Rachel continues. ‘His lights were on full beam. No witnesses or skid marks. Just enough to make it look like an accident.
My hand flies to my mouth.
Lara’s face drains of colour, any remaining disbelief replaced by panic.
‘Why so surprised?’ Rachel snaps. ‘I even sent your husband a text to hint I was on to him . . . which went ignored, of course.’
‘What text?’ Lara whispers.
‘At the cosy little street barbecue. I know what you did. Ring any bells?’
‘That was meant for Tim?’ I say faintly.
‘Yes. Who else?’ She scowls. ‘I sent it to the Orchard Lane WhatsApp group in the hope it would start a conversation, but everyone is so dense on this street.’
The text that left me speechless with horror wasn’t meant for us at all . . .
‘Get out,’ Lara hisses, giving Rachel’s arm a shove. ‘Right now.’
Rachel wobbles but takes a step forward.
‘All this time, you two have been living your nice, comfortable lives,’ she says. ‘While I wake up every day remembering the sound of metal folding, my baby moving inside me and my husband screaming my name.’
Lara grabs her arm and shoves her back towards the door. I lift my arms uselessly, not sure whether to help Lara push her out of the door.
‘Emily, call the police.’
‘Don’t call the police until I’ve finished what I came to do,’ Rachel says sharply, and reaches inside her coat. The blade catches the light before my brain catches up.
Lara freezes. I gasp.
For a split second, the three of us are locked together in a grim tableau—the open door, the knife, the rain tapping against the glass.
Rachel’s eyes shine with real tears.
‘Tim watched us die,’ she says. ‘And now I’m going to watch you do the same.’
No one moves. No one breathes.