CHAPTER 28
Ella
It’s hard not to place Benji at our house last night.
But it’s harder still to accept that maybe it was him.
Despite all the things he has done to Immi, something doesn’t sit right when I try to connect him with the figure at my window.
Because the biggest questions still remain unanswered: how and why?
The stalker, whoever he is, has to be connected to Henry and my present life.
But how and why? I shake my head, still thick from sleeping in until midday.
Whoever he was, they were eerily familiar.
The automated message in my ear ends, dragging me away from my thoughts and prompting me to speak.
“Immi, it’s me, Ella.” I pause, working my fingers over a cup that sits on the desk.
How do I phrase this?
“I’m sorry that I sprung…” I shake my head.
“I’m sorry that I put Benji forward as a suspect.
I might be wrong, God, I hope I am wrong.
But I have to do my due diligence here. I have to cross everyone off the list. I know that you don’t want to talk, that’s OK.
And I should have phrased it better or spoken to you alone.
For that, I am sorry. I love you. Sorry. ”
I hang up.
Jude was right, I need evidence. I stare down at the Post-its now spread across the desk, each one with a new name on it: Colin, Benji, Rufus, Poppy.
The people in my life who have reason or motive to hurt me.
I could place a few nosy neighbours or disgruntled colleagues, but their motives are weak.
For now, I need people with a real issue towards me who have easy access.
Colin, my ex-lover who I rejected. It’s somewhat viable and a strong motive.
Then there’s Benji, a violent man who believes I am the reason his relationship is failing, not his erratic outburst. It’s a valid reason but one without much proof.
Rufus, a man who is lying to me but also one that protects and loves me.
And finally, Poppy, the jealous mistress.
None of these quite fit because there’s still no connection to Henry.
I shift my elbow, sinking my head into my hands.
The podcast files bump back against me, sitting there as a constant reminder of what I’m losing.
The idea of rifling through someone else’s trauma over a recording feels crass, a thought that I am sure would make my stalker happy.
Because my mind can’t focus, or because the guilt gnaws at me enough, I glance at my watch.
I have a few hours, enough to walk to Immi’s and back, apologise, before Rufus is home.
Before I can talk myself down, I find myself at Immi’s door.
The words from the voicemail echo in the back of my mind.
I knock. Am I here to convince her or prove Benji’s guilt?
I shift my weight, stamping occasionally to keep the cold away.
The rain has given in to ice as we fall into October, and my fur coat doesn’t stop the prickles of cold tapping through.
When I’m ready to give up, Immi pulls the door open.
“Hi.” I keep my voice bright, but I can see she’s not budging easily.
I think of the times she arrived at my door, the bruises on her arms that appeared after a breakup with Benji. Only for him to publicly profess his love to her days later.
“Look Immi, I’m so–” I start.
“So, Benji, eh?” Immi says, and I drop my eyes.
“Yeah. As a potential threat,” I say.
Immi runs fingers along her necklace, a simple gold chain with one jewel hanging from it.
She drops to a whisper. “I don’t like this. But I think I understand.”
I glance up, and when I meet her eyes, what I see catches my breath.
She looks older, drawn out, her cheeks hollow.
Her face is pale. The bags under her eyes are still visible under the somewhat patchy makeup.
There’s a desperation in her eyes. In that moment, we share an understanding that this has to end.
A crash from deep in her house makes me start.
He’s here.
“Will you help me?” I say, an echo of what she said only last month when she arrived at my doorstep, tearful and trembling.
“I know it’s hard to believe but Benji is trying to be better,” Immi says, her fingers clutching tight to the door as though I haven’t spoken.
I nod. “Okay?”
“He’s not a bad person,” Immi insists.
I shrug. “I’m still going to look into him, Imm, just in case. If you ever need a place to stay…”
“I’ll help you, just to prove you wrong,” she says, but there’s something in her eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on. Hope?
“I love you,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
Immi closes the door without saying much more.
I sigh. With careful steps that I can’t predict, the stalker is destroying every relationship I have.
I head back home, the walk cold and quiet.
Benji is abusive, I know that much. I’m a threat to him and his relationship, in a way.
That’s not the best motive, but it is one.
My phone pings, a message from Jude that makes me smile.
There’s a small parcel waiting for me when I return home.
Beyond that, everything feels normal. Terrifyingly so.
I pad up the stairs, rotating the padded manila envelope and finding no clues.
Hand delivered, again. I’ll have to ask Helena who came by and check the camera footage.
In the bedroom, I find Rufus has laid out my outfit for the evening: a simple yellow dress with a pair of heels and a bag he gifted me last Christmas.
The shower is running in the ensuite as I unfold the handwritten note he’s laid next to it.
Wear this and be ready by seven.
Only a few months ago, this would have been normal for us.
To find him instructing me on what to wear and where to be.
But now it tightens the muscles in the back of my neck.
I close my eyes and sink into the bed, breathing into the question that has been nagging at me since Henry died. What if I can’t fix this?
I shake the rumination away, flipping the new envelope over and opening it over-tactlessly.
It’s filled with tissues. Not tissue paper but tissues, rolled up so it unravels as I draw it out.
They fall into my lap, revealing the hidden contents: a gold chain with a small star pendant.
I gasp, too scared to reach towards it. Something yanks from the base of my belly.
I see Nate, standing as he opens the box from Dad which revealed this exact necklace.
No, not this necklace. That was buried in his empty coffin along with mine.
Tears prickle and I find a surprising memory unfolding as I shut my eyes to the world.
“Betcha can’t climb it?” Henry and I sat at the base of the tree that overlooked the local church. His eyes shut and his face upturned towards the sky, looking beautiful in the warm glow of the setting sun.
“Why would I want to?” I was playing it cool. I knew I was too young for him but it made me want it more. At home, Mum and Dad were setting up the celebration for Nate. He’d won another race and was pitched for Nationals. A natural sprinter. It left a rotting ache in my chest.
I shrugged with a nonchalance under that tree that I had practised in my bedroom mirror well into the evening. On occasion, I’d lean towards it, kissing the cold glass and imagining Henry doing the same. At the time, Henry was still an enigma, and I couldn’t quite believe that he wanted me.
He turned to me, his dark eyes playful as he arched a single brow. “Because you love to break the rules, Elsabelle.”
A smile pulled at my cheeks, and the blush spread. Nate was wrong about Henry, he liked me too.
“Whatever,” I said, yanking at the grass.
“You sound like Nate when you say that.” Henry laughed, stretching out his long legs. I couldn’t help but stare at them, longing to see what they looked like beneath the denim. Were they hairy? The thought made me bite hard on my lip.
“Ew, no. He’s gross,” I said, leaning back and working the gold chain out from under my top. Our shoulders touched and I had to hide my smile by turning away from him.
“Elsie, no one is gross,” he said, laughing.
“I guess,” I said, running the pendant along the chain, upwards towards my chin.
“That’s a nice necklace,” Henry said.
“Thanks,” my smile deepened, “my dad got them for us.” “Us?”
“Nate has one too. Both of us have gold chains, his with a star and mine with a heart. It’s silly really.”
Henry sat up, turning his full attention to me.
“It’s not silly at all. It’s great to be loved.
” There was a sharpness in the way he said it that made me want to hold him.
I didn’t. Instead, I watched as he resumed his relaxed position under the tree.
I worked the pendant between my thumb and forefinger.
I had never met his parents, never even seen his family.
We passed his house once and it stood in haunting, dark silence.
Finally, Henry spoke: “So… I betcha can’t climb that tree.” Raising his arms behind his head to act as a pillow. Glancing at him, I couldn’t help but stare at the small tufts of hair that protruded from the armpits of his shirt. My body tingled, a sensation running along the tops of my thighs.
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter if I could or I couldn’t. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
The laughter caught me off guard, drawing Henry forward, his dark hair flopping over his eyes as he bent over, shoulders shaking with laughter. He turned to me, raising his hands to cup one side of my face.
“You’re a unique one, Elsabelle, don’t you ever forget it,” he said.
I didn’t dare move in fear of taking this moment away.
“That’s a silly name.” I tried my hand at the practised nonchalance again. The waves crashed in the centre of my chest as I longed to lean into him. My eyes landed on his lips.
“My name for you,” he breathed against my skin.
And then we kissed.
My face is wet when I open my eyes. The memory stings me.
The necklace looks back, mocking. There’s no note in the envelope but I pull it apart regardless, so all that remains are small scraps of bubble-wrapped lining.
It takes two tries to hold the necklace in my fingers.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to quieten the sobs.
I feel it, Dad’s love that faded with time, and the aching memory of the past. I want to reach for it, and hold Nate before he’s gone.
Instead, I press the gold to my chest, crying.
Feeling homesick for a different time. For Dad and Nate.
I wipe my cheek, the necklace in the palm of my hand still.
My phone buzzes from somewhere at the end of the bed.
But I can’t focus on anything but the past.
Elsabelle.
Henry’s voice echoes in a memory.
Elsabelle. And the necklace.
I scramble to my feet, racing into the wardrobe where I hid the letters.
I pull open the box, yanking the top one out.
The thick cardstock is weighty in my hands.
My tongue running over my cracked lips. Its cursive is delicate and revealing, my nickname written clearly.
I assumed Henry wrote this, but what if someone else did?
Someone who was there back then? I look at the necklace in the palm of my hand.
The only person who would know that Nate wore this, would have had to have known Nate. What if my stalker was there when it happened? What if they were there with Henry?
If it’s Benji, then I need evidence he knew Henry or Nate.