CHAPTER 23
Ella
The hours move into days that become a week.
At some point, work stops calling and sends me a formal email.
A termination. I let the battery of my phone die and communicate in simple requests to Helena, who responds with an aching look.
The alcohol mixes through me, taking the edge off and leaving me where I want to be: alone.
My pillow stays wet with tears for Nate and Robbie and the fact that I can’t save them.
It’s only a matter of time until Henry calls the police. They have my DNA, my pocketknife and, most importantly, my gun.
I press my head into the bed, willing the thoughts away with memories I’d long forgotten.
My childhood whirls to life like an old film, and I drunkenly chase after it.
I’m back in a garden filled with wildflowers and bushes.
Dad laughed as Nate and I ran around, the hose spraying out a fine mist of ice-cold water that was sweet relief against the warm sun.
Nate was trying to throw a ball over the water arch and I was trying to run underneath it, running backwards and forwards between Dad and the house.
Both of us are winding and intertwining but never quite meeting in the middle.
In another memory, Nate is crouching down at my desk, helping with my homework when Mum was too busy and Dad was away.
He’d stop in, pointing out a mistake or telling me “good job” between the pauses in his game, and I’d work away to the sound of his deep bassy conversations and tinny mouse clicks.
At some point, a gentle knock taps at the edges of my mind from the present.
I shift under the covers, the smell of me rising with the movement.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I hope to find the memory again, the sound of Nate bouncing tennis balls against the living room wall.
But all I hear is a gentle tap, tap, tap.
I blink an eye at the empty wine bottle that is propped on my pillow. The room feels heavy with my sweat.
“No.” My words are elongated and thick with sleep, but they convey what I need to whoever is outside the door. It’s light out but I can’t tell if the sun is rising or setting. The knocking falls to silence and sadness creeps back under the covers with me.
I close my eyes, back in the small kitchen where we grew up.
Mum stirring something that bubbles in a pot, humming along with Radio 2, which plays from an old radio by the window.
Nate is upstairs, the gentle thuds of his desk chair as he plays computer games with his friends.
I’m young but there’s a shift in energy between us.
No longer does he want to spend time with me like he used to.
I swing my legs where I sit at the table and try to sneak another raspberry off the chopping board.
“Ella?” The knocking continues, then the door handle goes, jamming on the lock.
I stagger out of bed. My feet hit the floor with a thud that ripples over my aching body. The clock on the bureau reads ten am, its magnetic pendulum swinging rhythmically. I turn the lock and yank the door open to find Immi and Jude hunched together on the other side.
“Jesus,” Jude breathes, but Immi lifts her shoulders, sweeping past me and yanking open the curtains. A cool wind whips through the room as she pushes the window open and begins to tidy up.
I shuffle back into bed.
“Ella, are you… ” Jude starts, placing a bag on the floor, her eyes landing on the empty bottles and open packets of food littered around the bed.
“We need to talk about Henry,” Immi says, finally standing still in the centre of the room.
I yank the covers over my feet, searching with my hand for a bottle. Jude pushes forward a glass of water, which I gulp down.
“Henry is dead, Ella,” Immi says.
The cold water soothes my burning throat. Heat rips over my shoulders and neck as Immi says the words that I was too scared to acknowledge.
“I killed him?” Speaking hurts.
“What? No, they say his girlfriend did it.” Their questions hitch around Jude’s face.
“I stabbed him. In the stomach. I stabbed him with a penknife.” The sob rises from me.
“He… No, sweetheart. He was killed in a car accident,” Immi says, the words slow and careful.
My hand stops dead in the air.
“What?” I say.
Jude sits on the bed, her hand reaching towards my shoulder. “I know. It’s not nice to hear. His girlfriend was driving under the influence, the day after we visited. God knows what happened, but she was found near the car and he didn’t make it.”
Henry is dead?
I shake my head. They’ve got that wrong. I slam my eyes shut to find Henry on the floor where I left him, blood pooling. He was hurt. His face was pale, his eyes rolling. Or maybe that was a nightmare that followed me home.
“It’s a lot to process, darling,” Immi says, stepping forward. “But that does mean this is all over now.”
And she’s right, in a way.
“He’s…” My mouth remains open, and there’s a well of something unexpected in the back of my throat. I turn away from Jude.
Something’s not right here.
My hand slams over my mouth, nausea hitting me like a wave. Where’s my gun?
“How did he die?” My eyes dart from Immi to Jude.
“I–I don’t know exactly. They haven’t released any more information. It was a week ago, so it all probably takes more time,” Immi says, her large handbag pinned to her side. She looks scared.
“I had a gun. I took a gun.”
“A gun?” Jude blinks at me.
“To defend myself, Colin gave it to me. I thought… if Henry is dead, then why haven’t they called me?”
I push off the covers, jumping to my knees to find my phone. My hand catches it under the third pillow.
“Darling,” Immi starts but doesn’t quite finish.
“No, no, this isn’t right.” My heart jumps into my throat. I yank the charger into my phone.
They’ve got it all wrong. I can feel myself splitting in two, my skin pricking and my senses heightening so that I can hear their breathing, their expectant blinks.
Jude’s eyes widen. “What happened in there, Ella?”
I whirl around, my foot getting caught in the covers as my bottom twists on the sheets.
“He hit me, he attacked me. And I dropped the gun, but I stabbed him. It wasn’t fatal but it was my only way out. But…” My voice is fast and slurred.
Where’s my gun?
My phone blinks to life. Immi steps back. Jude stands off the bed, hands pressed to her chest.
“But you left a gun there?” Jude finishes.
Immi shakes her head. “No. How can that be right, the papers said he was in an accident.”
A notification sounds, then another, then another, filling the room with a continuous drone. All eyes fall onto my phone.
I open the first message, then the next, hundreds of them. The most recent one was sent today at 9.50. They all say the same thing, arriving the day after I visited Henry.
With Henry out of the way, we can get down to the real game. You’re welcome, by the way.
I throw the phone into the centre of the bed, digging my heels into the mattress so my body slides back into the headboard. My hand pushes against my mouth, the sobs still audible.
Immi reads, then Jude.
They turn to me.
“Who the hell?” Jude asks but the phone pings again. Another message. Another message from my stalker.
Jude leans over, her head shaking.
“This is bad,” Jude breathes.