Chapter 62
The face reflected back at me is hardly recognizable.
I’ve got a goose egg on my scalp, my forehead has a greenish hue, and my cheeks are covered in scratches.
I lean in close to the glass, almost mesmerized by the thing that stares back at me.
I used to care what I looked like. Perhaps more than I should.
Now I only care about minimizing the damage for Topher.
I can cover the goose egg up with a winter hat and makeup can help with the face.
Once I’ve made myself passable, I head downstairs.
I feel like death, almost as though I have a hangover.
Everything feels blurry, everything hurts.
It also feels like I’m not fully present in my skull, almost as though I’m observing myself from the outside.
It’s a strange sensation. I’m sure it’s caused by my body being on high alert, from lack of real sleep for months on end, from the fall.
My phone pings. It’s a text from an unknown sender. I open it.
Hi Elinor, it’s Joan. How are you feeling?
I’d almost forgotten I’d given her my number.
Okay. Thx again for helping me. I’m going to go for a walk.
I head outside, pulling a knitted winter hat on my head, and start walking up and down the road, calling for Hugo. I know it’s futile. But I will go crazy if I sit in the house all day. Joan comes down the road to join me.
“Any luck?” she asks, her breath fogging the air in front of her. It feels like it might snow soon. The air is cold and heavy, the clouds dark and ominous above.
“No,” I shake my head. “Thank you again for helping me yesterday.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes on the ground as we walk.
“I’m not going to find him, am I?” I ask, my voice beginning to quake.
Joan falters. “I mean, it’s possible he’s still out there.
” She gives me a small smile, but her eyes tell me not to hope.
It feels like we are having two conversations.
One with our words, where she’s telling me all the right things.
One with our eyes, where she is telling me the truth.
And not just about Hugo. I feel her wanting to talk to me.
But I don’t know how to break down the barrier.
The last thing I want is to scare her off, now that she’s only just warming to me.
“What’s that?” she asks. We’ve turned around and are heading back in the direction of my house.
I look up and see a police car parked in our driveway.
The full details of last night suddenly come flooding back to me.
I remember the call to the police I’d made, late last night.
When I was still in the throes of what had happened, when my body was still buzzing with adrenaline.
The long, rambling monologue I’d given to the police.
“It was a recording,” I’d shouted. “The Brooks murdered my dog. Their family is hiding something. They’ve murdered people. They executed a witch!” I’d said it all. It had all come pouring out. Months of anxiety and nightmares and fear and confusion. And then the loss of Hugo. It broke me.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Did you call the police?” Joan asks, her voice tense.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, and I run as best I can to my house.
What have I done?