Chapter 30
It’s Monday. I don’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep. Years, probably. But these sleepless nights are starting to add up. I’m finding it difficult to do simple things, like pouring milk into my coffee without half of it landing outside the mug.
I should go to work. Of course I should. But I have other plans. I have to remove Teri from our lives.
I have to get my hands on her laptop and delete that video. Because without the video, she has nothing. Of course, I don’t know the password to her laptop, and I assume she has one. So, my plan is to steal the laptop, bring it back here, and then figure out how to crack it.
And to do that, I have to break into Teri’s house.
I call the school and leave a message that I am sick today and can’t go in.
‘What would you like for breakfast?’ I ask Holly when she comes down the stairs.
At least she’s washed her hair, and I’m relieved to see the blue streaks are gone, as is the makeup, even the false eyelashes.
‘Would you like some eggs?’
She doesn’t reply. She’s wearing her navy-blue woollen coat, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She grabs a cereal bar from the cupboard and heads for the door.
‘We could get pizza for dinner? If you wanted?’
She ignores me and just walks out without a word.
I wash the dishes, then peer outside at Teri’s house. Her battered old Corsa is parked in the street, which makes me think that she’s home. Teri doesn’t go running anymore. She doesn’t even walk very far. She wouldn’t want the neighbours to think there was nothing wrong with her.
Time to go to work, so to speak.
I decide to leave the house as if dressed for work. I don’t know if Teri spies on us through her blinds, monitoring our comings and goings, but I bet she does.
After getting in my car, I drive around the corner. I park outside the car repair place near my house. I had my car fixed there once. The forecourt is big enough that my car doesn’t stand out and there’s still plenty of space.
I think of what Holly said the other day: I can’t believe you’re doing all this. It’s like we’re in a spy movie.
I hurry back to my house, but this time I sneak back in as swiftly and discreetly as possible, praying that Teri isn’t glued to her window watching me.
Then I run up the stairs.
Holly’s bedroom has the best view of Teri’s house.
Her blinds are still drawn. I push them apart by an inch and peer out.
There’s absolutely nothing going on in Teri’s backyard.
Just the usual spread of dead leaves, some rotting in piles along the edges, and the rusting outdoor furniture. Nothing going on at the front either.
I let go of the blinds and open Holly’s wardrobe.
I need dark clothes – the uniform of a thief.
Leggings, polo neck, flat dark shoes. I don’t own anything like that because Max threw away my old clothes in favour of elegant, designer outfits.
But Holly, on the other hand, owns nothing but dark, shapeless clothes, and we are almost the same size.
I find a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and a black long-sleeve cotton T-shirt. I quickly change into them and grab a pair of black high-top Converse. They’re one size too small, but they’ll do.
What if Teri doesn’t leave the house? After all, she has stocked up on food for at least a year. She could outlive even the most stubborn of cockroaches in an epidemic.
She has to leave the house eventually, surely. Didn’t she say she was looking for a job? God, what am I thinking? Why would she need a job when she’s got me? The golden goose? But she did go shopping for clothes yesterday. Maybe she’ll take them back. Maybe that was all for my benefit.
My legs are cramped from the way I’m sitting; I stretch them out in front of me. I only glanced away for a second, and when I look back, Teri is walking out of her front door.
My heart skips a beat. I half stand and peer through the slats.
She’s wearing jeans and a brown jacket with a fur collar, brown boots, and has a large leather bag slung over her shoulder.
She stops, stands on her toes and peers over the hedge at my front yard.
Look, Teri! No car! A moment later, she walks away, not limping at all, I note, and gets into her car.
I run down the stairs, count to ten and open the door a crack. Then I tiptoe out and gently close the door after me.
At the gate, I stop to check the street. Nothing. Not even Mrs Buckley walking her poodles. I hurry back along the hedge and squeeze myself through the space between the hedge and the wall. The branches scratch my skin through the sleeves.
Once I’ve managed to free myself, I brush down my clothes, glance over my shoulder and walk to the window that looks into her utility room.
It’s still ajar. I would have been surprised if it wasn’t.
I push on the bottom edge. It doesn’t budge.
I push it again in short bursts, using the heel of my hands until I feel it give.
My heart races. I’m actually doing this. I think part of me was hoping the window remained stuck and I’d have to give up and go home. But no. It creaks open with each hard press of my hand, one inch at a time, until it finally gives in and opens all the way.
I cast one last glance down the length of the house to the street. All clear. I hoist myself onto the windowsill and squeeze through the opening. I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is so unlike me. But then, hiding dead bodies in my freezer is also so unlike me, and yet here we are.
I didn’t take a good look at the living room yesterday. I do so now, looking around the room for the laptop.
It’s freezing down here, and damp too. The place smells of old mould and dust, and for a moment I feel sorry for her, living in such conditions, but then I catch myself.
I may as well start down here. I check the bookshelves, look under the sofa, and then move on to the kitchen. I look inside cupboards, even the oven, because I am mad.
I go upstairs, and I’m shocked at how different things are.
For one thing, it’s surprisingly warmer, and then I realise why.
There’s a large electric heater in her bedroom, and it’s on.
Apart from being warm, her bedroom feels nice, clean and airy.
The bed is made, the linen duvet cover looks new, the matching pillow cases look fresh and clean.
The chest of drawers is still shabby, but more in a boho-chic way than a hand-me-down.
There’s a table against the far wall, but no laptop.
On top of the chest of drawers is an array of beauty products: Charlotte Tilbury, Elemis, Chanel…
My first thought is that she bought them with the money she took from me, but these products are used.
The jar of Elemis night cream is almost empty.
I thought she was broke? Maybe she is now. Maybe all this came from her last victim, the last poor woman she blackmailed.
I have to get out of here. I open drawers and rifle through surprisingly nice underwear, designer T-shirts and nightclothes, but no laptop. I go through her wardrobe as fast as I can. Still no laptop.
The next room on this level is some kind of messy office, with a desk and a dozen half-opened cardboard boxes. My heart sinks. What if it’s in one of those boxes? I can’t go through them now. She could be back any minute.
Come on, Kate, pull yourself together. You’ll think of something. And that’s when I notice something in the gap between the wall and the desk. Something oddly familiar. I slide my arm into the space, but it’s just out of reach. I use the tips of my fingers to coax it towards me.
It’s a photograph printed on a sheet of paper.
As I smooth it flat against my thigh, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
It’s the photo from our fridge door – my birthday party last year at the restaurant.
When did I last see it on the fridge? I can’t even remember. I didn’t even realise it was missing.
But that’s not even the worst part. In this photograph, I am seated between Max and Holly, Holly leaning next to me, her head just touching my shoulder.
Except you wouldn’t know it’s me because someone has scratched my face out, scoring the paper back and forth.
I’m going to be sick. Even the scoring looks violent. Hateful. I drop the photograph, then quickly grab it again, scrunch it back up and push it back behind the desk.
I should go back, I know that, but I can’t help myself.
Something is wrong with this woman, and now I’m really frightened.
I rifle through a drawer, feeling my way through papers, bills, a pack of Post-it Notes, a packet of chewing gum…
I’m rushing, my vision blurry. I’m not going to find a laptop in here.
Who am I kidding? A swirl of panic builds in my chest. I have to find this thing. I have to get out of here.
I don’t even hear the front door close until it’s too late.
My heart explodes. I hold my breath, blood rushing in my ears. I’m so frightened right now I could faint. Footsteps down the corridor. I push the drawer back in, or try to, but it’s stuck. More footsteps. Please don’t come upstairs. Please don’t come upstairs.
And then I see something in the drawer. A handwritten note sticking out from between two envelopes.
I think—
I stare at it, trying to comprehend what the hell is happening. A toilet flushes, jolting me back. I should be running down the stairs, but I can’t stop staring, because I know that handwriting.
I push the top envelope out of the way.
I think I love you too.