36. Crow #2
“Why did you run away?” I ask, eager to gain the upper hand. “When you saw Wren, why not talk to her? Why run away unless you had something to hide?”
Unless you were the one who sent that message.
We can fix this. Question Patricia. If she’s the one behind all of this, we need to know. So we can deal with her together.
There is no lying low in this. Not when there is murder involved.
“Because I was caught by surprise. I didn’t want to confront Wren then. I wanted to confront all of you. But two is better than nothing, so I will ask what I’ve wanted to ask the four of you for years. What happened to my niece?”
This is a bluff. She knows what happened. It’s Patricia; of course it is.
She moved her body, and now she wants to torment us.
“Like you care,” I say. “You hated her.”
She reels back as if I have slapped her. “Hated her? Is that what you think?”
“It’s what we know.”
“You said hated,” she says. “Past tense.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I ignore Wren’s panicked, pointed look in my direction. My chest is becoming very tight.
“You hate her,” I say. “Don’t pretend to care now.”
“Was she with you?” Patricia asks. “When she was sneaking out? She tried to pretend she was doing this alone, but I knew. Was it you four? Or was there a boyfriend?”
What do we do? What do I say?
I wish Cuckoo was here; she’d know how to handle this.
No, Goldie was the best at that.
Well, I can’t wish for Goldie anymore.
“She was sneaking out?” Wren echoes, in what feels like genuine surprise. I’m surprised. I had no idea she was such a good actress. “When? During lockdown?”
Patricia nods. “Taking out alcohol. I thought . . . I hoped it was you four.”
Wren shakes her head. “It wasn’t us.”
“If you knew she was sneaking out, why didn’t you tell the police when she went missing?” I’m surprised by how angry I am. “If you didn’t hate her, why didn’t you do everything possible? Make them explore every avenue? Why did you let her get forgotten?”
Patricia has visibly slumped, eyes no longer bearing into me. “Alright. Maybe I was glad she was gone. For a while! We argued constantly. That last night . . . it was particularly hard. I didn’t think it was serious. I thought she’d run away for a bit and would . . . come back.”
Goldie had mentioned an argument with Patricia; that was why she was late.
What if Patricia means this? What if she doesn’t know as much as we think?
No. This is Patricia. I can’t let her trick me.
“I did tell the police,” she says. “They thought it meant it was even more clear that she had run away. So I listened to them.”
“Why are you pretending to care all of a sudden?” I persist. “What’s changed?”
Her eyes are closed. “How old are you now? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
“What the hell does that matter?”
“That’s older than I was when your Goldie was brought to me.
” She speaks softly. “I was twenty-two. My brother . . . her father . . . there was an age gap between us. He was ten years older than me, and he was like a father to me too. Our own parents were pretty useless, and he raised me. Made sure I did alright. He had her when I was fourteen, and I have to admit I resented her, this new baby, taking his attention away. And I hated her mother.”
The only woman Goldie hated more than Patricia.
It feels odd, hearing her speak like this. I wonder for a moment how it would feel to be suddenly in charge of an eight-year-old.
“When my brother died, and that woman left, I didn’t believe it for a long time,” she continues.
“I was in denial. Swamped in grief. I was not prepared for a child, especially not one as precocious as her. Maybe I did resent her, alright? Maybe there was some hate there. But I love her too. I never said it, but I love her. She’s my brother’s child. ”
To my amazement, she starts to cry. She finds a tissue in her pocket, wipes at her eyes.
“You were awful to her,” I say, because this is all I know.
“I was. I did try, in so many ways. I think maybe I hated her until she left and I realized I didn’t, and it was too late. She didn’t understand . . .”
“No. You don’t get to talk for her.”
“You’re right.” She bites her lip, an action that reminds me of Wren. “I’ve messed up. I’m drinking more . . . I don’t know what to do with myself. Every birthday, every Christmas, I keep thinking she’ll call. She’ll send some kind of message. But there’s nothing.”
Wren looks at me, pained, and I have to look away.
“But you were all there for her, weren’t you?” Patricia is suddenly desperate, reaching forward over the coffee table and grabbing me by the arm. “Did you do it?”
The fear is back; I practically splutter as I pull away from her. “Do—do what?”
“Get her to London. Is she there now? Can she just at least tell me she’s okay? Can you? That she’s not . . .”
She thinks she’s alive?
I have waited too long to answer, and sure enough, her face changes. Hardens again, grows cold. She is looking directly at me as she says, “Or there is the other option.”
Goldie is drinking her cider.
She is laughing, she is dancing, she is singing.
She is on the roof.
She screams.
She is on the ground.
She is lying there and she isn’t moving.
She is dead, she is dead, she is dead.
I wish we could tell her the truth. No, I wish we could tell her the lie.
Tell her yes, we got Goldie to London and she’s living a wonderful life and she’s happy, and she doesn’t need your guilt or your apologies because she’s a famous model now.
She accomplished all her dreams, and she’s as perfect as ever.
But I can’t. Wren knows it too.
And we can’t tell her the truth either.
“We don’t know what happened to her,” Wren says. She reaches over now too, taking Patricia’s hand from my arm and holding it within hers. “We’re sorry, Patricia. We thought you might know something. That’s why we were so keen to talk to you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, because I can’t help it. Before I can stop them, tears are falling down my cheeks.
When Patricia passes me a tissue, I feel like the worst person in the world.