10
Anna stands amid my clothes tossed all around the ground floor. There are dresses hanging over the kitchen chairs, hats on the counter, shoes beneath the sofa, and not one thing has made it into a suitcase. My camera equipment, naturally, has been packed since Tuesday.
I glance at my sister, about to say something that might drag her out of the brooding spiral she’s been in since I told her I might be moving to Norway indefinitely.
Obviously, I have no idea how things will turn out there, but if I like it, it’s probably best if I don’t come back any time soon. There are too many ghosts and failures here, and I’m certain some of them might fade if I give them enough time.
Mum strolls through the dining-room archway holding up a warm-brown coat I’d forgotten I owned.
‘You’re not taking this, darling, are you?’ she asks as her nose wrinkles. ‘It’s going to be freezing where you’re going!’
I don’t roll my eyes. I also keep my mouth firmly shut before something unwise escapes it. Because sure, Norway is forever buried under snow so thick it might as well be another planet.
‘I probably won’t take that one.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her tone changes as she studies the front more attentively. She rubs one of the flaps, then holds the whole thing against herself. ‘What do you think, Annabelle?’
My sister takes a step forward and snatches the damn thing, baring enough teeth to make the message clear.
‘Your youngest daughter is leaving forever!’ she points out.
I look up. ‘Ah, forever is a bit—’
The sentence falls apart in my mouth as she stalks out of that space and into the sitting room, draping the coat over the back of the three-seater right beside me.
Dad walks in with an electric screwdriver after swapping the wall fittings she’s been nagging him about for days. She lifts her chin, fixing Mum first, then him, with a long, unblinking stare that leaves no doubt she’d rather they were anywhere else.
Anna still hasn’t forgiven them for the lack of support during her marriage, in which her ex-husband painted her face in shades of blue. Even when the divorce was finalised, that went straight into their box of failures.
Any kind of deviation from the outdated society-induced norms is a disappointment to our parents.
They know how to preserve appearances. Happiness and survival are never mentioned in the same sentence, because if they had known how to make room for both, they would have looked at everything and been proud of us.
I know I am. I am proud of Anna for breaking out of that cage. I am proud of myself for finally taking the leap I’d always wanted to take.
My sister had been in a spectacular mood, still glowing from her first date in years.
With Conall Byrne.
Then I broke the news about Norway, and then our parents descended on my sitting room. The glow didn’t stand a chance.
I fold another jumper into the suitcase, pressing it flat with both palms before reaching for the next.
In honesty, it warms my heart that things were looking up for her. I hadn’t seen her grin at her phone this much in years. Every time Conall’s name lit the screen, another line disappeared between her brows.
I lift my eyes to her where she’s piling books into my bag, keeping half an eye on the furniture in case one of the corners takes a hunk out of it.
I’m quite happy to have a house sitter, actually. Granted, one who likes to open every single folder in my bedroom, try on every single outfit – even if it clearly doesn’t fit her – and read every single letter that comes through the letterbox.
‘It’s such a shame to keep that coat in the wardrobe.’ My mother shakes her head, glancing at Anna, who gives her another rich eyeful.
I sigh.
The lack of boundaries, it seems, is a hereditary feature in this family.
And that thought promptly summons my last encounter with a certain blue-eyed monster.
I twirl when the screen startles into life behind me.
Though his tools are lying all over the place, the remote has already found its way into Dad’s hand – proof that he considers the job done.
‘Stephen, did you leave these for me?’ Mum grumbles from the kitchen where she starts shoving screws at random into the box.
‘Stop clattering, I’m trying to hear the news!’ he shouts right back at her.
‘I wouldn’t be clattering if your bloody mother had taught you how to clean up after yourself!’
A tart look passes between Anna and me.
‘And I wonder why my taste in men is absolute bollocks,’ she grumbles to no one at all.
I offer her a sympathetic smile, doing my utmost not to think about either Ron or Elias.
Though Elias was never a relationship. Just a misunderstanding I’d let root itself behind my sternum.
I know that now, after a few weeks of musing over the whole ordeal.
I’ve realised he’d been a mirage summoned by a broken wish.
Six days ago, Conall quietly – and very carefully – told me that the case against Elias had collapsed.
The prosecution had discontinued proceedings, and Stonebrook released him the following day.
New evidence had surfaced – enough to cast the killing in an entirely different light.
A lifetime of abuse. Elias cornered. Arthur attacking first. Enough, apparently, for the prosecution to back away.
And beneath that, more rot: questions about why he had been kept on remand for so long, and who had benefited from keeping him there.
It all somehow circled around the family wealth, which was now beginning to rattle the foundations.
I still don’t know what Conall found that changed the meaning of Arthur’s ruined face, but whatever it was, it had done the trick.
And though it still stings – the notion I’d romanticised Elias until he’d finally shown me his teeth – my heart still goes out to him. Because getting out of prison may have been easy compared with what waits for him beyond Stonebrook.
Whatever tension there is between Isak and him, whatever situationship he was in with Melody that might have led to everything that landed him in Stonebrook… I was sure it was going to occupy him long enough…
To forget everything.
Forget me.
If he ever considered me a factor at all.
A small part of me, however, hoped he’d at least try to contact me after he got out. But it’s become abundantly clear that I am – again – nursing an illusion.
‘When’s the flight?’ Anna exhales and folds a dress into my bag.
I bend down, remove it, and stick a warm jumper in instead.
‘Five in the morning.’ I wince.
Her mouth falls open. ‘Good Lord, woman, you haven’t even packed your shoes!’ She groans as she takes a few steps into the kitchen far enough to drag another hard-cased wheelie bag from the hallway cabinet, and starts opening the shoe rack.
‘Christ, they’ve really done it this time, haven’t they?’ Dad grouses louder, shaking his head at the television.
‘More riots?’ I ask offhandedly as I reach for a pair of leggings and shove the dress back into the pile.
‘No, the fact that our judicial system is flawed. It’s all that bureaucratic nonsense, I tell you. It takes ages to get a bloody replacement licence.’
‘Anna, have you seen the pictures from our last visit to the Reservoir?’ I ask, glancing around the room.
She’s shaking her head as Mum appears in my peripheral vision, glaring at Dad. ‘Well, if you stopped losing it every two months, you wouldn’t have to keep asking the DVLA for another one,’ she supplies.
Helpfully.
As always.
‘What’s got you in such a revolt now?’ She stares at the TV, her oversized white jumper—
I do a double-take. Clear my throat.
My oversized white jumper, that I’d kept in a vacuum bag beneath the bed.
Instead of a reprimand I let out an exasperated sigh.
My head shakes as my eyes latch onto the television.
And I drop every single item in my hand.
Isak Crane’s picture is displayed in the rightmost corner.
Above a burning building.
‘Crank up the volume!’ I say breathily.
Dad fumbles with the remote while Mum starts droning again, muffling what little I can hear.
‘Crank it up!’ I bellow, startling her into silence just as Dad hits the sound button.
‘…have confirmed that a house fire in Cambridge reported late last night is now being treated as suspicious. The blaze was captured on a neighbour’s mobile phone shortly before emergency services arrived.’
‘Crazy blokes everywhere,’ Mum mutters with disdain at the screen. ‘Monstrous.’
I swallow hard as the news anchor continues. ‘The bodies of a man and a woman in their late forties were discovered in the dining room of the property. Formal identification has not yet been released, but the victims are believed to be Isak Crane, CEO of Crane Logs that hollowed-out look as if he’s been living on air and spite.
My fists clench tighter.
‘…released from custody only days ago after proceedings against him were discontinued. He is currently unaccounted for. Police stress that no arrests have been made at this stage, and enquiries are ongoing.’
Then the camera cuts to the other anchor – already smiling through a segment about preparations for a snowy October, as if the sky hasn’t just split open and dumped its guts on my sitting room carpet.
My knees go first. I grasp the back of the sofa to keep myself upright, unable to take my eyes off the television.
Breathless, I bolt for my room and call Conall – no answer. I call again. And again – until a feral sound in my throat pierces the space and I throw the phone onto the bed.
Pacing starts before I decide to move my legs. Back and forth, back and forth – my mind snapping at its own tail.
Anna’s in the doorway, already half inside, her skirt trailing behind her.
‘What’s going on?’
I’m heaving. Trying to pull air into a chest that won’t accept it.