CHAPTER 15
Ella
“I think we should push forward the wedding date,” I say, into the comfortable quiet of our breakfast table.
My voice comes out loud and pitchy against the quiet hum of the radio but it’s something I’ve been dwelling on since the dinner party.
Henry is watching me, everywhere I go. Rufus puts down his fork, a single grape pierced at the end.
Helena hovers near his right shoulder, a teapot in her hand.
He waits for her to place it on the already cluttered table and retreat to the kitchen before speaking.
“Pardon?” he says, the grape still hanging from the long metal prongs.
It’s been three days since the dinner party.
Three days since the stalker confirmed to me that, no matter where I am or what I do, he is watching me.
I have spent hours searching, calling and typing out different variations of Henry’s name.
Trying with all my might to find him, and now the truth hangs over me.
I relax my shoulders, my body seems to tighten itself up whenever it gets a chance.
The anxiety pushes its hot palms against the back of my skull.
“Our wedding date, I think we should move it forward. Why wait, after all? We both love each other, and most of the big things are easy enough to plan.” I inhale, willing the words to slow down.
If I can’t find Henry, then I need protection. Protection is money and power. I smile across at Rufus. “It’s just an idea. I’m not too busy with the podcast and work.”
It’s been a week since a thick envelope from work arrived.
It took three tries to understand the first page of the formal letter that accompanied the paperwork.
Words like “voluntary redundancy” and “rescinded compensation” stuck out.
I didn’t read any further. The inevitable is on the cards, the stalking worming into my life to implode it from the inside.
It’s only a matter of time until the letter I receive from work is the last.
Rufus sips his coffee, his eyes on mine across the width of the dining table.
“What do you think?” I say again, my voice pitchy.
“It’s an interesting idea, but I’m not sure where it’s coming from,” Rufus says. He’s wearing that face that’s so hard to read. His brows burrow in and his lips edge towards a smile. He’s pretending.
“I don’t see a reason to wait,” I say. Keep it light and happy.
But I know what he’s thinking: I had fought and argued my corner for months that our wedding should be in a year. Why rush it? I had argued. We love each other, and that’s enough, I had said. I wanted the space to work on the podcast, to make something of myself.
My heart sinks. A few months ago, I was a whole different version. I didn’t jump at loud noises or look around corners. I was so much more than my mum ever thought I could be, and that spurred me on to be better. Now, I’m clinging to anything I can get.
“What about your podcast?” Rufus raises his brow, placing his fork down. There’s a look in his eyes and I realise we are in a game.
The same look my mum gave me. The stale smell of cigarettes fills my nostrils as I remember her then, standing in the kitchen, swaying with the invisible lull of the bottle. She had the same look, but hers came with a withering tone that set my jaw square.
“I don’t know why you bother. Look around. This is all you’ll amount to. That, or dead,” she spat. Angry that it was Nate who left, not me.
“I’m just…” The words falter, emotion heavy in the back of my throat. I need to be safe.
Rufus gets up, his napkin falling to the ground as he walks over to me. He slides into the seat beside me, and the morning light glows against the side of his face.
“Hey, what’s going on? You’ve been jittery for a while now.” He cups the side of my face, running a firm thumb across my cheek.
A sigh fills our silence.
“Sorry. I know, I’ve just…” I want to tell him, but if I do, then he’ll want to fix it. He’ll have to see the big, oozing mess of my life, and he’ll try to tidy it. Or worse, he’ll leave.
“I hate the idea of waiting for us to be together,” I say, because the truth feels too bulbous to get out.
Rufus places a finger under my chin, stroking softly in a way that sends shivers across my back. He places his lips on mine, his breath gentle on my skin.
“I feel the same, my love.” He pulls away enough to speak. “If that’s what makes you happy,” he says after a moment. “Think about it. You’ll have to pause the podcast, of course. We can head to the wedding planners and see what they can do.”
“Thank you,” I say, ignoring the jab and focusing on the goal.
“Do you really want to move up the wedding date? Take time away from the podcast and your work, or are you stressed right now?” Rufus says.
The answer is the same as when he proposed. I don’t want to get married sooner. I need to.
I’m watching you, and soon everyone will know what you’ve done.
The words of the latest message sting me. Someone wants me gone. I need protection.
“Yes,” I say, lacing my hand through his.
I’d be foolish to think that I could lie my way around Rufus, but whether he believes me or not is irrelevant. He accepts it.
“Of course. I’d love that. We’ll do whatever makes you happy.” He sits back, reaching across the table to his cup.
We fall back into our comfortable silence, his hand still laced in mine until a vibration drags his attention.
“Sorry, I have to take it. It’s Poppy,” Rufus says, standing and striding out of the room.
He’s only a few paces away before heavy laughter echoes down the hall, and not for the first time, I wonder about his relationship with his assistant.
My phone’s ping knocks the thought away, and an unknown number shines up at me.
My morbid curiosity itches until I open the message.
You gained so much from others’ suffering, it reads. With a picture of my current follower count. My chest tightens. Who is this?
The oat milk swirls and separates to the bottom of the cup until, slowly, with gentle rotations from my spoon, it dissipates. My mind drifting back to that horrifying night.
Rufus leaves early, and the house falls into an uncomfortable silence that I can’t escape.
I head to the studio to distract myself with loud music and the safe, padded walls.
But my fingers tremble as they press against the door handle, the memory of the last time I was in there sending a cold dread along my spine.
I sat there helplessly while the stalker crawled into my bedroom.
I opt for the living room, turning the radio up loud and putting the television on a silent set of daytime talk shows.
The two floors above me creak and haunt my thoughts.
The tinkling of the doorbell jolts me awake, the screen now showing a young man who sits on a sofa chatting animatedly. I wipe the drool that’s pooled at the side of my cheek.
“Darling,” Immi breathes as she steps across the threshold. She’s wearing smart trousers and a simple cream jumper. She has a coat on and a small Waitrose bag in her hand. The cold nips at me, swirling against the warmth of the house and rushing past my bare shoulders with the sweet smell of roses.
“I brought you some food,” she says once we settle in the living room, her voice gentle, as though I were an ailing relative. In some ways, I suppose I am. I stumble my way through the necessary niceties, itching to know if she’s found anything out.
“Have you managed to do some digging?” I say when we’ve settled on the sofa, a cup of coffee in each of our hands.
Immi nods, but her face sets firm. “There’s nothing out there. I’ve looked through social media with the names you suggested. Henry Fisher and Henry Alton. But nothing has come up. I did a good Google search, too.”
I sigh, the steam from the coffee blowing up into my face.
“What about you?” Immi says.
“I’ve done the same, and I can’t find a single thing,” I speak into the cup.
“And you tried reactivating your old Facebook account?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s years old now, it’s gone,” and that’s the truth. The only hope that we have of finding him has been deleted.
Well, not the only hope. I think of my mother, if she’s still alive, clawing onto the edge of the table as she drinks herself into oblivion.
We sit in silence, the laptop humming between us. I jump as my phone pings. Immi leans forward.
“Is that the stalker?” She pronounces “stalker” in a way that jars me.
I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over the scanner for a beat, enjoying the moment before I know what today’s threat will be.
But the message is from Jude.
“It’s Jude, she’s on her way to meet Susan.” I drop the phone onto the sofa and lean forward, slumping towards my coffee. I had pinned my hopes on Immi.
“Well, we can’t sit around like lemons, can we? Let’s see…” Immi grabs my laptop, her face determined. She types with two fingers, squinting between the screen and the keyboard.
I let out a soft laugh. “Here.” I take it from her. “What are you searching for?”
Immi lets out a little frustrated huff. “Well, if we can’t find Henry, let’s find someone close to him. Can you find the first few articles of those murders? Perhaps his parents or guardians are named.”
I blink back the swell of emotion and start typing. The idea makes sense. At the time, he lived at home. Any reporter worth his salt would have documented his parents’ names or their town of residence.
Within the hour, we have the name of a town, Bridport in Dorset, and the name of a guardian, Janice.
“Okay. Yes. Well, thank you so much for the help.” Immi’s plum voice trills as she speaks to yet another person on the phone.
My head lies in her lap. My muscles screamed for stillness after the first thirty minutes of starting our search, each call or new article sending a contraction rippling through me.
Now, I lie with my eyes closed, feeling yet another bubble of hope burst.
Immi places the phone on the arm of the sofa. “No luck. I think that’s the last pub in the area, no one has heard of Janice Alton. I even tried the name Janice Fisher, just in case, but nothing turned up,” she says.
We both ignore the impossible probability of that being true. A small town on the coast of Dorset is bound to remember what happened all those years ago and the names that were tied to it.
I sigh, rolling upwards so that I sit with my back to her.
“Hey, don’t give up. We still have the probation officer route,” she says.
I can smell my mum again, the soft cotton musk hidden below layers of smoke. The memories turn into something visceral. I close my eyes to it, the room swaying where I sit.
“I need to call my mum,” I say.
There’s a moment of silence and I can picture Immi’s face of confusion. I drop my head into my hands.
“During the trial,” I speak into my palms, “during the trial, there was only one person who believed in Henry. Only one person who thought she could get the truth from him.”
“Oh.” Immi’s voice is barely a whisper.
Memories of Mum unfold themselves. The desperate way her thinning hands would cling to the edge of the table, her voice holding an increasingly anxious edge as she relentlessly ruminated over ways to get Henry on her side, if only to finally find her son.
That endless rumination that would leave my mum a shell of who she was, drowning herself in alcohol over a future she could never reach.
“Did Henry ever speak to her?” Immi’s voice cuts through the memories and I look at her. There’s a weariness that’s showing around her eyes, her shoulders slump and the woman before me seems almost half of herself.
I shake my head, not ready to venture into that part of my past. Instead, we sit in companionable silence as the early afternoon rolls in with a thick mist that fills the garden and darkens the windows.
“Do you want me to stay?” Immi says finally as we pad down the corridor to the front door.
I shake my head. In a way, her presence would help, but I need to do this alone.
I open the door for her, clutching at the handle until my knuckles whiten.
Plus, like everyone else, in the middle of the week, Immi has to work.
I’ve kept her longer than she said she could stay, ignoring the ticking clock in the far corner of the room.
“I checked the back doors for you and looked at the patio doors. The side door is locked, and I’ve made sure the windows are closed,” she says, tucking a hair behind her ear.
Heat swells to my face. “Oh, thank you.”
“Don’t. Now, I’m getting a delivery at the shop, so call me if you need anything.
And I popped the kettle on a minute ago, so make yourself some tea once I’ve gone,” Immi says, pulling me in for a squeeze.
I want to tell her to stop worrying, but I hug her instead, my fingers clumping up fistfuls of her jacket as I do.
“I love you,” she breathes, something we’ve only ever said as a passing goodbye.
“You too, thank you for today,” I say, taking a step back as she turns to leave. Tendrils of mist descend over the drive, surrounding the house in an ominous gloom. My back slides down the wall as I contemplate speaking to a woman I’ve not contacted in nearly ten years.