CHAPTER 11
Ella
The papers hit the table with a slap. Immi leans forward, snatching the top sheet, her eyes a mix of curiosity and confusion. Jude folds her arms, not moving from where she sits across the table. She’s read the threats before and so we wait patiently for Immi to catch up.
“Jesus,” Immi says, placing the first letter down and picking up the next.
It’s been two days since I told them who Henry was, or a version of it.
I asked for time and they gave it to me, both of them stepping in to support me in ways I needed.
I spent those days avoiding commitments and searching for Henry online, the missed calls from work stacking up.
“So, this one came first?” she asks, and I nod.
From somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle whistles, and I can hear Helena moving around.
I should send her home, but the thought of the numbers in our house dwindling makes my jaw ache.
I’m safer when there are more people around. Except for when I am not.
“You know Henry best, does this sound like something he’d send you?” Jude asks.
I look down at the first letter I received, the words written so neatly across the plain paper that it felt almost printed.
“‘Elsabella. My peach. I see you’ve made a fantastic little life for yourself. A fantastical life, some might say. What’s that they say about those in glass houses?
Well, you’re soon to find out. Are you ready to catch a killer, El?
Because I am.’” Immi reads it out slowly, her voice inflecting at the end.
“It sounds like a scorned ex-partner,” Immi continues when we offer her nothing but silence. My fingers find the edge of my sleeve, a single thread caught between my thumb and forefinger.
“It’s been years,” is all I can offer. Who knows how Henry talks now, or what he thinks or what he’d do?
You stupid lying bitch. His voice cuts into my thoughts so loud that I jump.
“What else is there?” Jude leans forward. I’ve placed everything into a box. Another box, another part of my life segmented out.
I pull open the box, and the only remaining thing is the envelopes, which I slide to each of them.
Helena enters, the spoons clinking on the china plates marking her footsteps.
We all fall into a secretive silence as she places the tea in the centre of the table.
Smart enough to look anywhere but at the documents spread out.
“Is there anything else you need?” Helena says. My phone dings, sending a wave of heat through me. I glance at the new message.
“No, thank you. I know you’re due to cook dinner, but why not take a longer lunch before you start?” I say, drawing my attention back to Helena.
It’s a meek gesture, but I need to do something to show my thanks.
Helena has been kind over the last few days, although her solemn but stoic expression was too much to bear.
What must she think of me, sitting here in the middle of the day, drinking tea she’s made, waiting for the dinner she’ll cook?
Unable or unwilling to lift a finger to do the bare minimum.
“Thank you, Ella,” she says, dipping her head slightly in a nod. I’ve pushed her not to call me Ma’am or Ms, but I can’t nag the politeness out of her. There’s always a hierarchy I can’t destroy.
I wait for her to leave before I turn to the others.
“Did you get another message?” Jude says.
I nod, reading it again. Immi gets up and leans over.
I wonder what your work thinks of episode five?
“That doesn’t even make sense. What’s so threatening about a podcast episode?” she scoffs, falling back into her seat.
I stare at the message, body running cold.
This episode pivoted my work into a near-household name.
The case, a missing girl, was both timely and relevant.
The police had nothing but dead leads, and without the promotion my podcast offered, I was sure the case would go cold.
Left to fall into obscurity like all the other cases of its kind.
I couldn’t let that happen. And so I covered the story, offering insights to the public that had never been shared before.
I slam the phone down.
“It doesn’t make any sense. He’s trying to mess with my head. But the thing is, this.” I sweep my hands across the room. “The money and the house and the stuff. It’s all worth threatening, don’t you think?”
Jude is staring at the envelope, her fingers running over the etched words. They’re slightly embossed, and I found myself doing the same in the depths of the night.
It’s Immi who responds, pouring the tea between the cups.
“Not in the same way, darling. That name, what is it? Elsa?” Immi says, leaning over to scan the letter.
“Elsabelle,” Jude mutters, distracted.
“Exactly. It’s personal. Not one that we’ve ever used in the time you’ve been here and certainly not one the staff would use.” Immi hands me a cup, the liquid dark and pungent. It’s one of my favourite herbal teas, but the smell sends a wave of nausea through me.
“No, but if–” I start.
“The address,” Jude mutters, almost to herself.
“Pardon?” Immi and I turn to her. Jude stands, reaching for the laptop that sits on the bureau behind her. She strides over, shoving it towards me.
“May I?” she says.
I place my face near the screen so that it unlocks, and hand it back to her. Immi and I glance at each other.
Immi speaks. “Sorry, Jude, what are you saying?”
I eye the textured envelope that now sits in Jude’s lap, her left knee bobbing so it jitters under the table. She’s typing, her fingers fast on the keyboard.
“If the letter is hand delivered and was placed in your bedroom, why is there an address?” Jude says.
I can’t look away from the envelope, something about it niggles at me. What is it? I take it from her, running my fingers over the edge.
3 Shearwood Village.
The S is slanted weird, but that’s not it.
3 Shearwood Village.
Why write my address so neatly and embossed if it was hand-delivered? Did he intend to post it but decided not to?
And if it is Henry, how did he find me?
I trace the letters again, finding the careful curves intoxicating.
“What are you searching for?” Immi says.
A shiver runs over me, drawing the breath from my lips in an audible gasp. My eyes flick from the street name back to the numbers until they swim into each other.
“The postcode is wrong,” Jude says.
Inhale, exhale, inhale.
“Where’s the postcode for?” Immi says, scooting her chair over to Jude and leaning towards the screen. My chair scrapes back on the wooden floor, the noise sharp.
The postcode mocks me between my fingers.
“That’s weird,” Jude says, faster now. Or perhaps I’ve slowed. Immi reaches a hand to turn the screen, and I itch to bat her away. The air is thick and impossible to fill my lungs with.
“It’s miles away, near Devon,” Jude says.
West Bay, Dorset.
“Oh, on the Jurassic Coast. I’ve always wanted to walk that,” Immi says, her voice light.
My chest is heavy.
Why hadn’t I looked at the address before?
History bangs on the door, and I find myself rooted to the spot, watching as my friends open it to let it in.
My hands pull at my top to offer my chest space to move, but there’s no air left. I need to stop them, but I can’t.
“I’ll get you, you little bitch,” Henry’s words echo as the room tilts. My fingers dig into the frame of the chair, my nails sinking into it, desperately trying to ground me.
Immi speaks, her voice so close it makes me jump. “Does it ring a bell?”
I move through treacle, trying to draw my eyes to hers. When I do, they swim, water blurring her into a shape.
Househill Manor.
There’s no space anymore, I want to go. I have to go.
My dad’s words echo from somewhere I long buried them: “You can’t outrun what happened, but this gives you a fighting chance, Els.”
A sob fills the room, and I know it’s mine.
Is this what Dad wanted for me? Did he mean for me to end up here, begging my monsters to keep my secrets?
The Murders of Househill Manor.
Memories swarm at me; the sight of my brother, Nate, lying on the floor, bloodied.
I open my mouth, dry and claggy, waiting for something to come from it. Jude and Immi watch me.
I need to lie.
I have to lie.
And yet, years at Shearwood Village have turned my insides soft and warm, plumped by good food, money and loyalty.
“Yes,” I say, and I wish I hadn’t.
“He killed someone!” Immi jumps up, her chair slamming on the floor with a thud. Jude’s hand runs over her braids, landing on the back of her neck and massaging skin.
“Why didn’t you say anything when you told me about him?” Jude’s voice is low, the look on her face makes my eyes drop.
Immi’s head snaps, her mouth wide. “You knew about him?”
There’s a sigh before Jude speaks, her fingers working faster now. “She told me a few months ago about a dangerous ex in prison. But murder, Ella? That’s more than bloody dangerous.”
She’s right.
“It’s psychotic. He’s psychotic. If he can kill once, then what’s to stop him from doing it again?
” Immi’s shoulders are rising as she speaks, her chest moving fast. She looks how I should feel, and yet a heaviness has fallen over my chest. The air sits shallow in the bottom of my lungs.
My fingers sink deep into my top lip as the past pushes a thick, meaty shoulder through the door to my present.
I knew this day would come. From the moment Dad handed me the cheque and made me promise to make a better life for myself, I knew it was inevitable. Every time I make something of myself, it gets ripped away. Henry goes to prison, Nate goes missing, Mum drinks herself to near-death, Dad…
I breathe deeply, licking my lips.
“What did he do?” Jude says. I look up to find her crouched by my side, her hand pressed gently on my knee. I trace my eyes from it to her face and back again.
My hand reaches for hers, the skin warm and soft.
The Murders of Househill.
To tell them the truth would be to destroy everything I have here. And yet, it could lead me straight to finding Nate.
“There… there was a party at an abandoned house, Househill Manor. My brother, Nate, was there. Something horrible happened. Henry killed someone. A young boy. He claimed it was an accident, but…”
Henry’s angry words fly at me: You lying bitch!
“There was enough evidence to put him away,” I say, the truth unfurling itself from my lies. I keep my eyes away from Jude and focus on my breathing.
I hear Immi’s shift.
“But that night, the night the boy was murdered, Nate went missing. They were close, and I’ve always wondered…”
A bubble catches in my throat as Immi appears to my left. She drops to her knees. The silence between us is only broken by the gentle sound I make, tears falling.
If this is Henry, really Henry, then there may be a way to find Nate again. The thought pushes at my chest, my hand pressed against my mouth to keep the wail from ripping out. As terrifying as this is, I may actually find my brother.