‘But,’ Oliver started tentatively, ‘this is ridiculous. It’s not human.’ He tightened his hold on me. ‘What kind of parent would put their own child at risk?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.’ My throat was tight and dry. ‘I don’t know what he’s capable of any more.’
‘From what you’ve told me, Paul certainly sounds like he’d do anything to ensure he has sole custody of Amy,’ Oliver agreed, ‘but he loves her, doesn’t he?’
‘I can’t imagine he would do anything to her because, as much as he hates me, he does love Amy. I know he would die if anything happened to her.’
‘Has anything else happened?’
I told him about the woman outside the burger place, the same woman I thought I had seen talking to Amy.
‘Who is she? A stalker?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t recognise her, but her voice was so familiar. Made me think of Bethany right away.’ I looked at him. ‘The detective wants me to have therapy sessions, try and jog my memory as to why I know her. I told her about Bethany and the night she was murdered.’ I shrugged. ‘Not sure what she was thinking. Their records state Bethany committed suicide. Which is a lie.’
He studied my face. Oli had never believed me. He had agreed with the Priory doctors; I was suffering from post-traumatic stress.
‘I might go and take a shower,’ I said quietly.
‘Good idea.’ He smiled brightly, almost too brightly. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
I walked slowly up the stairs and, not able to make it as far as my bedroom, I sat down on the middle stair, with a thud. I heard Oliver pad along the hall and watched him lift an envelope off the mat.
‘Sophie?’ he hollered and bounded up the stairs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I thought you were in your room. You’ve got a letter here. Strange there’s no stamp.’ He touched the top of my head tenderly. ‘I’ll be downstairs, OK? I’m going to make you something to eat.’
‘There’s nothing in the fridge.’
‘There will be.’ He smiled and caressed my cheek between his forefinger and thumb. ‘I’ll go out and get something. See you in a bit.’
‘Thank you.’ I grabbed his hand as he turned. ‘And Oli?’
‘Yeah?’ He looked back.
‘Thank you.’ I leant my forehead against his hand. ‘I just want to start looking for her, you know? But I don’t know where to start.’
‘What did the detective say about searching?’
‘She said to stay at home. There was no point in looking unless we had some idea where she could be. Also, just in case she turns up or calls the landline, I should be here.’
‘You’ve tried her friends?’
‘Paul rang around.’ I sighed heavily. ‘She’s never had many friends. Sometimes I wonder if her not having many friends is down to the divorce, down to me and Paul.’
‘No,’ he said simply. ‘You are a good mother and I know that you will not only have Amy back very soon but that the court will see that she really is best off living with you.’ He withdrew his hand and smoothed the top of my hair. ‘Just be strong. For Amy.’
He bounded down the stairs, grabbed his coat off the banister and smiled at me. ‘See you in a bit.’ He opened the door. ‘Have that shower.’
The door shut and for the first time that day I was truly alone. I couldn’t remember the last time the house had felt so empty. Strange, when I thought about it, because I lived by myself – surely, I should be used to the silence? But it was different now. The silence was filled with uncertainty, palpable fear and worry: was Amy OK? Had she come to any harm? Would I see her again?
I flipped the package over. The writing looked familiar and yet I couldn’t place it. It had been hand delivered. Sliding my forefinger along the flap, I tore the end open. Inside I found what appeared to be two photos. I tipped the envelope upside down and the contents fell on the stair in front of me. Bile rose in my throat and I shoved my fist in my mouth, stifling a scream. I could feel the familiar ringing in my ears and my vision started to blur over. My breathing grew shallower and I thought I might faint, I couldn’t think straight.
I picked up the photos one by one; I couldn’t bear to look at them. Ripping the first photo in half, I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. Grabbing a lighter from the odds and ends drawer, I burnt the photo over the kitchen sink, my hands shaking. Bethany’s face smouldered, her face reduced to ashes. I couldn’t watch any longer; it wouldn’t burn fast enough. I set fire to the second photo, watching the glossy paper curl up and shrink, when I suddenly realised I needed to keep it, keep the evidence. I blew hard on the smouldering paper and held the small remnants of the photo. My vision had started to return, the ringing in my ears subsided, and I looked in dismay at what I had done. I needed people to believe me and, yet, I was powerless in the clutches of a panic attack.
Turning on the tap I washed away any remnants of ash.
A cold sweat moved over my body, my legs buckling beneath me. I had no idea who it was from but I knew now that this wasn’t a hoax. This was revenge: my past had finally caught up with me and was threatening to drag me backwards to a very dark place.
I took out my mobile and punched in the detective’s number – off the back of her card – and she picked up on the first ring. ‘It’s me.’ I told her about the photographs.
I could literally feel her perk up at the end of the phone. ‘OK, great. Don’t touch them any further. I need to get forensics onto them.’
I was trembling, unable to hold the phone steady. ‘I’ve burnt them.’
‘What?’ DI Ward spoke sternly, disbelief flooding the line. ‘Why would you do that, Sophie? I’m trying to help you here.’
‘I was scared, I just wanted to be rid of them.’ My voice cracked. ‘I’ve got a piece of one though, and the envelope.’
She didn’t say anything but after a pause exhaled loudly. ‘Can you put it in a bag for me? Don’t touch it.’ She paused. ‘What do you think about the therapist I told you about? Have you thought about it?’
‘Yes, I’ve thought about it and I just think it would be a waste of precious time.’
She let out a long breath. I could sense her support for me had dramatically waned.
‘I’m sorry about the photos.’ A sob rose up and I cried openly now. ‘But I need you believe me that it’s something to do with the night Bethany was murdered.’
‘Really?’ She wasn’t convinced. ‘Actually, I think you’re wasting my time. You burn the photos and you tell me you don’t want to see a therapist who might be able to help you. You’re not giving me much.’
‘I’m telling you everything I can.’
She hesitated. ‘Your friend, if you even knew her, committed suicide. I have it on record.’
‘But you said, something didn’t look right about it. I don’t know what it is you can see that doesn’t look right but I can assure you it’s not right.’
‘Then why not see the therapist?’
‘Because therapists don’t believe me.’
Her silence spoke volumes.
‘The only therapist I’ve agreed to see since all those years ago when Bethany died is my AA counsellor, to help me get my child back. I don’t need anyone prying into my past.’