Chapter Twenty-One
Raven
Using muscles in the throat, ravens can mimic human voices, even laughter.
I chose the name Raven, not because it suits me (which it does . . . intelligent, mysterious, dark) but because in certain folklore, ravens are said to have the power to reveal secrets.
Ravens, like most things in life, are viewed differently by different cultures.
Some see them as a bad omen, a link to death; others call them prophets, turn to them for guidance and knowledge.
I like that. The contrast. The ambiguity.
And I like that no one will ever really know which one is correct, if either are.
Are they all just fables? Tales told to children at night before they close their eyes.
A way to learn the ways of right and wrong, the consequences of actions.
Perhaps I should have been read to more as a young girl — maybe that would’ve changed things.
But my childhood? It was different from others, marked by struggle, by hidden bruises and loneliness.
I lived a life of depravity, of scarcity.
Survival was the only thing I really knew how to do, the only thing I was good at.
Love and kindness did not feature in an adolescence that shaped me into steel.
Raven wasn’t the name I was born with, but it was who I became through time.
* * *
I let myself into the Rushmore home, and why shouldn’t I? I am part of the family, after all. Even if they don’t know it yet, they will. Soon.
Breathing in the soft perfumed detergent that seems to forever linger in the hallways, I pocket the keys Skyla told me were hidden under the solar-powered fountain in case of emergencies. Such a sweet girl, but naive. Too trusting.
The antiqued limestone tiles are warm, and I luxuriate in the underfloor heating for a moment, my toes and the balls of my feet curling with satisfaction.
I have to unravel the scarf from around my neck and remove my coat.
It’s sweltering in here. My fingers touch the radiators, but I draw them away quickly.
They’re piping hot. It’s not even that cold outside yet.
In the houses I grew up in it was always a challenge to see how long we could put off turning the heating on in autumn. We’d make a game of it.
It’s not even mid-September yet. The mornings aren’t even that foggy.
What must it be like to keep your heating on all day, even when you’re out?
To come home to a house that isn’t an ice box.
To not care about the gas bill at the end of each month?
I shake my head in disbelief. This is a different world — and I want to be a part of it.
I deserve to be a part of it. It is my right, isn’t it?
I had to make sure to come today. The only day I knew the Rushmores’s cleaner wouldn’t be here.
James, Bella and Skyla won’t be home anytime soon.
According to the stream of updates from Skyla, James had to show face for a few hours at work.
She’d said Alfie was out of surgery, telling me he’d pulled through.
I had hoped he’d spend longer in recovery — it’s what I’d tried to achieve anyway.
An injury not enough to kill him but to incapacitate him.
Just to be safe. Dogs are unpredictable, after all.
I guess I’d always assumed he’d spend the night at the vets, but a short while later she messaged again. I only open it up after a few hours, hadn’t been worried about what it said, but now as I stare at the words on the screen of my phone, I still.
Hey Raven. He’s being discharged! Vet said he’ll make a full recovery. Sky x
You learn quickly to change plans when you’re in shoes like mine.
You have to. With Skyla spending the day with her grandad and James at work, the only person I don’t know the whereabouts of is Bella, but with no cars in the driveway I was thrown off when I arrived.
I thought I was alone, but an angry growl thunders from down the hallway and my stomach tightens.
Whipping around, Alfie, their dopey golden retriever is baring his teeth at me, head enclosed in an amusing cone.
When I bare my teeth back, he darts his eyes down, puts his tail between his legs.
I’m frozen, assessing the situation. Is he going to attack?
He should. But could he even get to me through that stupid cone? Doubtful, I step warily closer.
My ears are pricked, though I already know from Alfie’s food and water bowls inside rather than out that Bella isn’t in.
She never leaves his bowls inside if she’s here.
So, the question is . . . where is she? How long will she be out?
This wasn’t exactly part of the plan. But plans change, Bella.
Plans change. She’s kept him indoors, safe — until now.
I’ll admit my heart flutters as he continues to sniff at me, but instead of safeguarding his home the way he should, the way I’m sure the Rushmores intended for him to do, he moans unhappily. Yielding at my presence, he scratches at the door. Wounded, pathetic.
‘Stupid dog,’ I hiss, letting him out. There’s a remote on the wall for the iron gates at the bottom of the drive, and as Alfie limps towards them, I let them open.
Good riddance.
Closing the front door behind me, I notice a pile of post jammed into the letterbox and pull them through, inspecting each one carefully.
I drop each envelope from HMRC and banks with disinterest but pause at one in particular.
It’s stamped with the name of a company that sends my eyebrows into my hairline. DNA Match.
Bingo.
A shiver runs through me, making me tense as it works its way up the back of my neck. My jagged fingernail runs along the seal of the envelope, breaking it open. I hold the paper with trembling hands.
Skimming over a case number, and then over the two columns on the page, my eyes inspect the page until something big stands out to me.
Something huge: Sibling A, and Sibling B.
The bitch has taken our DNA. She’s tested my DNA against Skyla’s.
I don’t know how, but she has. This confirms it.
And what the results say needs to change before she can get her hands on them.
There are so many numbers, calculations and words like ‘alleles’ I don’t understand.
I’m instantly overwhelmed. But down at the bottom is a certified signature and a summary of the findings, and it turns me numb.
Numb like how I got after attempting to surf at Fistral Beach that one time, when Vicky was dating that beach bum with a van.
I hadn’t been able to feel my actual fingertips for days afterwards, even after standing under a scalding hot shower just to work up the courage to peel the neoprene wetsuit from my body.
Staring at the words on the page, I become paralysed, stop breathing.
The parties tested have adequate DNA markers in common to confirm that they are half-siblings with 25% shared autosomal DNA.
Half-siblings. Not twins. Well, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.
* * *
It’s amazing what you can do with AI. All I have to do is ask the app to replicate the letter but change the results to show a match for fraternal twins.
I don’t even really need to do any research; AI is that clever.
It calculates everything for me, confirming that I, Sibling B, am a fifty percent DNA Match with Sibling A.
I do check these results on Google, just to make sure it’s accurate, a precautionary step.
I’m not taking any chances. It creates a letter with words like ‘dizygotic’ and adds in some impressive looking mathematics. It’s all very professional.
I watched Skyla using her dad’s laptop and printer in his office when we had a study session the other evening, so I swagger over to it confidently, touching the screen to wake it up. The little touch screen is blindingly bright in the darkness of the room.
Typing out the letter into a Word document, I read through it a couple of times to make sure I have it all down, word for word.
I only have one chance at this, and I’m not about to muck it up now.
The page is hot as I retrieve it from the printer.
Dr. Jessica Reid’s signature is more of a scribble, and easy enough to recreate.
The last step is to reseal the envelope with some glue and place it back with the other post for Bella to find.
As I’m leaving the office with the letter, I catch sight of a car by the gates from the window.
The Ferrari. Bella’s home again already.
Fuck. I race down the hallway, grasping hold of the pile of envelopes, and jam everything into the letterbox as quickly as I can before I slip out the back, through the French doors, and disappear into the tart, sickly sweet apple orchard, out of sight.