Chapter 16
NOW
The crash comes just after midnight.
I’m awake, of course. Haven’t properly slept in days, even with Richard beside me in the bed upstairs. I’d slipped out an hour ago, unable to lie still any longer, and now I’m sitting in the living room with a book when the sound of shattering glass rips through the silence.
The kitchen window.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. I’m on my feet, heart hammering, phone in hand. The sound echoes through the house – sharp and violent and unmistakably wrong.
Someone is inside.
I freeze in the doorway between the living room and the hall. I desperately want to run upstairs, to wake Richard, call the police. But my legs won’t move. Won’t carry me anywhere except towards the kitchen where glass is still tinkling onto tiles.
Where footsteps are moving.
Heavy. Purposeful. Not trying to be quiet any more.
I should scream. Do something. But my throat has closed up and all I can manage is a whispered gasp that’s swallowed by the darkness.
The footsteps are coming closer.
My phone. I still have my phone. I fumble with it, trying to unlock the screen with shaking hands, trying to dial 911 before whoever is in my kitchen reaches the hall.
But I’m too slow.
The figure appears in the kitchen doorway.
Tall. Broad. Wearing dark clothes and something over the face – a balaclava, maybe, or just a scarf pulled up. I can’t see features. Can’t see anything except the shape of a person who shouldn’t be here.
‘What do you want?’ My voice comes out thin. Terrified.
The figure doesn’t answer. Just takes a step forward.
I stumble backwards, nearly tripping over my own feet. My back hits the wall beside the front door and I’m trapped. Cornered. The intruder is between me and any escape route except the door itself.
The door.
I fumble for the lock with one hand, phone still clutched in the other. If I can just get outside. Just get to the street where someone might see, might help. Or to Richard…
But the lock won’t turn. My hands are shaking too badly and the mechanism is stiff.
I can’t get enough grip to twist it properly.
The figure takes another step.
‘Please.’ Who knows what I’m begging for? Mercy? Time? Understanding, perhaps. ‘Please don’t.’
Then Richard’s voice cuts through the darkness.
‘Kelly?’
He’s at the top of the stairs. Sleep-rumpled, wearing only the T-shirt and boxers he’d worn to bed. He must have woken to the crash, or to my absence beside him.
The intruder’s head snaps towards the stairs.
‘Richard, no!’ I scream. ‘Get out!’
But he’s already moving. Running down the stairs towards the person in my hall. Towards the danger I’ve brought into both our lives.
‘Get away from her!’ Richard shouts.
Everything happens too fast.
Richard reaches the bottom of the stairs. The intruder turns fully towards him. There’s something in the figure’s hand – something that glints dully in the dim light from the living room. Metal. Heavy. A flashlight, maybe. Or a pipe.
Or something worse.
Richard doesn’t stop or hesitate. Just launches himself at the intruder with the kind of desperate bravery that comes from protecting someone you care about.
They collide hard. Both of them stumbling sideways into the wall.
I hear Richard grunt with effort, hear the intruder’s breathing harsh behind whatever is covering the face.
‘Run!’ Richard gasps at me. ‘Kelly, run!’
But I can’t. My feet have turned to concrete. My whole body locked in place by terror and the surreal horror of watching this unfold. This violence in my hallway. This man I care about fighting someone who wants to hurt me.
Who might hurt him instead.
The thought jolts through me like electricity.
I need to do something. Need to help. Need to be more than a frozen witness to this assault.
I look around frantically for anything I can use.
A vase on the console table. Heavy. Ceramic.
I grab it with both hands, the phone clattering to the floor, and take a step towards them.
But they’re moving too fast. Grappling and spinning and I can’t get a clear angle without risking hitting Richard. Can’t do anything except stand here holding this stupid vase while they fight.
Richard manages to shove the intruder backwards. Gains a second of space. His face is flushed with effort, his breathing ragged, but his eyes are focused. Determined.
He’s winning, I think. He’s going to win this.
Relief floods through me. Premature. Stupid. But I let myself believe it for just a second. That Richard will overpower this person and hold them until the police come and everything will be fine.
The intruder regains balance. Plants their feet. And I see it then – the shift in posture. The way they adjust their grip on their weapon. The purposeful angle of their shoulder. They’re about to strike.
‘Richard!’ I scream. ‘Watch out!’
He hears me. Turns his head just slightly. Distracted for half a second.
Half a second is all it takes.
The intruder swings.
That object in their hand – the metal thing – arcs through the air with terrible speed. Richard tries to dodge but he’s off-balance now, turning back towards the threat too late, his arms coming up to block but not fast enough.
Not nearly fast enough.
It connects with his temple.
The sound is worse than anything I’ve ever heard. Worse than the fire. Worse than Daniel’s screams. A wet, meaty thud that I know immediately means something terrible. Something irreversible.
Richard’s eyes go wide. Surprised. Like he can’t quite process what just happened.
Then he drops.
Just collapses. His legs giving out all at once, his body folding in on itself, his head hitting the wooden floor with another awful thud that makes my stomach heave.
The vase slips from my hands. It shatters on the floor but I barely hear it over the sound of my own breathing.
Over the roaring in my ears that sounds like the ocean. Like drowning.
‘No!’ The scream tears out of me. ‘No, no, no!’
I drop to my knees beside him. There’s blood. So much blood. It pools dark beneath his head, spreading across the pale oak in a widening circle. His eyes are closed. His breathing shallow and wrong.
The intruder stands over us both. For a moment, I think this is it. This is how it ends. They’ll hit me too. Will finish what they started.
But they just stand there.
Breathing hard.
Looking down at Richard’s crumpled form and the blood and me crying over him.
Then they run.
Past me. Past Richard. Towards the kitchen and the broken window and the escape route they’ve planned. I hear their footsteps retreating. Hear the crunch of glass. Hear the crash of them climbing back out through the window they broke to get in.
Then silence.
They’re gone.
I rush for my phone and make the call to the police.
My quivering voice is a mash of words until I tell them to come.
They say they’ll be here soon with an ambulance, but the voice washes over me until I hang up.
Then I’m left kneeling in Richard’s blood, my hands pressed against his head, his body so still beneath my touch it doesn’t look like breathing at all.
‘Richard.’ My voice breaks on his name. ‘Richard, please. Please wake up.’
He doesn’t respond. His skin is warm but his eyes stay closed and there’s so much blood I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The wound is somewhere in his hair, hidden, but the blood keeps spreading. Keeps soaking through my fingers no matter how hard I press.
‘No, no, no.’ I’m sobbing now. Pressing harder. Trying to stop the flow that won’t stop. ‘Please don’t do this. Please don’t leave me.’
His face is so pale. His breathing so shallow I have to lean close just to confirm he’s still doing it. Still fighting to stay here even though every second he seems to slip further away.
This is my fault.
The thought crashes through me with devastating clarity. Richard is lying here bleeding because of me. Because of what I did. Because of secrets I’ve been keeping that have drawn something dark and violent into both our lives.
Someone knows what happened that night with Daniel and Roxanne.
Someone wants me to suffer for it.
And now Richard is suffering instead.
‘I’m sorry.’ The words sound broken. Desperate. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’
Blood soaks through my hands. Through the pressure I’m trying to maintain. His face is getting paler. His breathing more laboured.
‘Please.’ I’m begging now. Begging him or God or whoever is listening. ‘Please don’t take him. Please. I’ll do anything. Just don’t take him.’
But Richard doesn’t wake up. Doesn’t squeeze my hand or open his eyes or give me any sign that he’s still fighting.
He just lies there.
Bleeding.
Still.
Maybe already gone.