Chapter 68
Susan
Thursday
My mind wanders back to last night, to the conversation with Felipe in the pub. His reassurance that Aimee and Rory’s deaths had nothing to do with me. The warm touch of his hand. His guilt over sending the screenshot to Rory. Rory’s “jokes” about Venetia’s fidelity or lack thereof.
Something strikes me now. I stop in the middle of the landing and switch off the hoover.
Venetia’s supposed infidelities. Felipe’s claim that cheating wasn’t in Aimee’s nature.
Felipe’s account of Aimee and Venetia’s closeness—daily texts and swapping clothes.
The silver jacket that night in Bar Four.
Oh my god. Did I get it wrong? After all this fuss and drama, was I mistaken?
Was it Venetia I saw with Warren? And if so, having spread it far and wide with my message, do I set the record straight?
Or with Aimee and Rory both dead, does it matter at all?
Felipe certainly doesn’t need to know that his wife may have been cheating on him, marriage of convenience or not.
Warren obviously does know who he was kissing but isn’t going to say.
Nobody benefits from any kind of clarification, I realize.
It’s too little, too late, but this time I’ll keep my mouth shut.
Still thinking about it, I head downstairs to check on Bella and make a coffee.
The only good thing that’s happened in the last week is that Bella has started to nap properly mid-morning and, even when your world is falling apart, a sleeping baby can feel like a miracle.
I go to the kitchen first to power up the coffee machine, then into the living room, oh so quietly, to check on Bella.
I tiptoe, listening for those deeper, quieter breaths I don’t want to disturb.
She’s sleeping so deeply there’s no sound at all. I move closer and peer in.
Only the crib is empty. Bella is gone.
Jesus Christ. My throat seizes up and blood pounds in my ears.
Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus. I spin in a circle, looking around the living room—could she have fallen out? She’s too small; she can’t even roll yet. Oh my god. Did I leave her in another room and forget? I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t.
“Bella!” I’m shouting now, shouting and running.
She’s not in the kitchen. I race to the hall and stand frozen for a moment.
Did I leave her upstairs? Am I losing it?
No, she was definitely downstairs. Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.
I check the den: she’s not there—how would she be there?
Where is she? Upstairs or…or…I look at the front door.
She can’t be gone. But where else can she be?
Has someone been in the house? Has someone taken her?
It’s not possible. I locked the back patio door last night myself and I haven’t been out there this morning.
Christ. I unlock the front door and run outside.
There’s nobody in the driveway. I run toward the gateway, panting and crying, and look both ways.
A car passes by at the intersection with the main road, a man walks his dog.
There’s nobody else. I need to call the police.
I don’t know where my phone is. I don’t know what to do.
I need Greta to help me, and Jon, and I need to phone the police.
I turn to run back up the driveway, and then I see her.
In the front garden, lying on the grass.
Bella. Oh my god. I’m with her in three quick strides, scooping her up, holding her to me, checking, checking, but she’s alive and awake and looking at me.
How did she get out here? This makes no sense.
Someone came into our house while I was upstairs and took her outside?
Who, and why? And how? The door was locked.
I’m almost certain. How could this happen?
Juliette Sullivan’s voice pulls me back to real life. She’s by her car, a box of what looks like plastic wine glasses in her arms.
“All set for the summer party tonight?” she calls, then squints at me and walks toward our dividing wall. “Susan, are you all right?”
“No.” I’m crying, I realize now. “Someone…someone put Bella in the front garden. They took her out of her crib and laid her on the grass.”
Juliette tilts her head. “That sounds distressing. Far too hot for a little one to be out in the sun. I saw she was a bit red earlier in the week—did she get sunburnt? You might be better to keep her indoors during the hot spell.”
“It wasn’t me! I didn’t put her here.”
“Absolutely. But best take her in now?”
“I need to call the guards.”
“Of course you do,” she says in an over-the-top soothing tone. “But bring her inside first, won’t you? And have a cup of tea. And if you still feel you need to call the police, you could do it then.”
She thinks I did this myself. And bloody hell, the guards are going to think the same. I’m still reporting it. Let them believe what they want about me; they need to look into it. Juliette is still talking.
“You might just want to be careful they don’t get on to Tusla, or whatever the child welfare people are called.”
Oh god.
“Between the sunburn and this today,” she continues, “they might have some…concerns about Bella’s welfare?”
Blood pounds in my ears. I hate her so much right now, but what I hate even more is that she’s right.
“Not me, obviously. I have no concerns,” she adds smoothly. “And I’m sure your husband would vouch for you. But people who don’t know you might think there are some…problems with Bella’s care?”
“I…I don’t know what happened, but yeah, I need to get her inside.”
Juliette purses her lips and nods. She’ll be straight on to her crony, Celeste, to tell her Susan O’Donnell has lost the plot and is harming her baby. Fuck.