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Books. Change. Lives.
First published in the United States in 2020 by Sourcebooks
Copyright © 2015, 2020 by Claire McFall
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Vanessa Han
Cover images © Dana Sohn/Shutterstock; Roxana Bashyrova/Shutterstock; leungchopan/Shutterstock; Sean Pullen/Shutterstock; schab/Shutterstock; Photo Boutique/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Originally published as Black Cairn Point in 2015 in the United Kingdom by Hot Key Books, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
About the Author
Back Cover
For Harry.
You saved me from the monsters.
One
Now
Waiting. My fingers drum out an uneven rhythm on the hard, plastic armrest of my chair. The noise jars against the light, methodical patter of the receptionist on her ergonomic keyboard. I see her wince and know I’m rubbing her the wrong way, like nails down a chalkboard.
Good.
My nonverbal protest is the only complaint I can make because waiting is a privilege. It means I’ve moved up one rung on Dr. Petersen’s “ladder of trust.” One rung on a ladder that stretches all the way up to the cloud-covered sky. I’m at the bottom. And I have no intention of climbing to the top. Still, my small ascent has its advantages. I’m wearing my own clothes, for a start. My hands are free, and I can continue my discreet torture of the snooty-faced secretary. Smiling serenely at her, I increase the volume of my tapping.
The door opens. Both the receptionist and I look toward the rectangle of space, but no one appears. Through the doorway I can just make out the cream-colored wall, covered with certificates, and the plush shag of the crimson-red carpet. At no sign that I can see, the receptionist takes her cue.
“Dr. Petersen will see you now.”
She’s perfected that sickly sweet voice. Professional, polite, and dripping with disdain. I avoid looking at her as I rise out of my seat. The rubber soles of my slippers—real shoes are at least another six rungs—make no sound on the cheap laminate. Instead, slightly out of step with me, the heavy tread of my escort announces my presence loud enough for Dr. Petersen to know I’m coming. Loud enough for him to look up and greet me.
He doesn’t.
“How are you today, Heather?” he asks the piece of paper in front of him.
It doesn’t answer. There are at least eight seconds of silence before he deigns to lift his eyes to me.
“Hmmm?” He raises his eyebrows, his expression open, pleasant. As if we’re friends. Confidants.
We’re not.
I hold his gaze as I ease myself into the plush leather chair facing his desk. No ugly molded plastic in this room. He drops his eyes first, and I allow myself a small smirk of victory as I watch him go through the rigmarole of shuffling the papers on his desk, clicking his engraved silver pen several times, and adjusting his tie, his shirt. Then he clears his throat and fixes me with a piercing look.
Now we’re really playing.
“Are you ready to talk today, Heather?”
To you? No.
He reads it in my face and sighs. Leaning forward over the desk, he drops the pen and presses the fingers of both hands together into a steeple. The soft yellow spotlights on the ceiling make the signet ring on his right little finger sparkle. I can’t see what’s imprinted on the circular face, just the hint of etchings rubbed worn with age. Like the lines around his eyes, the repugnant folds of his jowls surrounding a mouth puckered by dislike—the expression he wears every time he looks at me. The feeling is mutual.
“I have a report to make to the court, you know.”
I lift one eyebrow disdainfully. Do you?
“The judge wants an update on your progress, your state of mind. Heather, I can’t do that if you won’t engage with me.”
Written down, these words seem considerate, the rhetoric of a doctor who cares about his patient, about her welfare. When this is transcribed by the receptionist outside—and I know I’m being recorded, even if I can’t see the equipment—I’m sure that is how it will read. Only I can hear the razor edge of threat.
I have the power to send you somewhere where there will be bars on your window instead of straps on your bed. That’s what he’s really saying. Play nice, open up to me, let me inside your mind, and you can climb up the ladder until one day, blue sky and blazing sun will be the only things hanging over your head.
What Dr. Petersen doesn’t understand is that I’m not safe. Whether I’m here or in prison, not even if I’m free. It doesn’t matter where I am. I’m not safe. A darkness infinitely more potent than his bureaucratic intimidation hovers. Makes this puppetry a ludicrous sideshow.
And he just wouldn’t understand. So why the hell should I play his game?
He sees the thought shining clear as day from my eyes and grimaces. Momentarily defeated, he flicks through the sheaves of paper about me—reports, medical notes, facts and figures—and scans for something, anything, to fill the minutes. He’s not quite as comfortable with silence as I am. Suddenly, his eyes light up. In response, mine narrow to slits. What has he found?
“I have a release form here,” he says, waving a single piece of blue paper in the air for a brief moment. Before I can focus on it, he returns it to the pil
e. Release form? He has my interest now. There’s no hiding it. Victory number two goes to him, and he is not above preening. “I have to sign to say that you are stable enough to be allowed out of this establishment temporarily for the surgery on your right hand to be performed…”
My hand. I look down at where it’s folded in my lap, unconsciously shielded from view by my unblemished left. I can’t see it, but I can still feel it: the puckered rivets, the rough unevenness of the scars. Slowly I shift position and lightly place a hand on each knee. Stare at the difference.
Left: pale, white skin, fingers long and thin, nails bare and unvarnished but as long as they’ll let me keep them. They could be a weapon, after all. They have been, when I’ve had the chance.
Right: ravaged, red, misshapen, nails missing or twisted. More a claw than a hand. Ugly. Monstrous.
I feel my eyes tear up, and I’m helpless to stop it. My hand.
Petersen’s still talking, but I can’t hear him. “Heather? Heather, are you listening?”
No.
“For me to sign this, you need to show that you can communicate. That you’re rational enough to be allowed out of this establishment for the procedure. You have to talk to me today. It’s important.” He lifts another document. This one is thick, its multiple pages straining the staple that holds it together. “We’re going to go over your statement to the police. What you told them.” He pauses as if he’s waiting for me to say something, give him permission to go right ahead. “Your own words, Heather. Exactly as you said them. Let’s start at the beginning.”
The beginning?
I think about it as I cradle my hand. Close my eyes and imagine I’m not here, that I’m flying down the highway, surrounded by my friends. I can almost hear the song blaring from the radio.
Two
Then
The music erupted out of the speakers, but the smashing drums and high-pitched screech of the lead singer were lost under the cacophony of our five voices, all trying to outcompete one another. The band took over again as the melody twisted and turned its way across the bridge. Then there was a collective intake of breath followed by laughter: none of us knew the words to the verse.
“I love that song!” Emma, flip-flopped feet propped up on the dash, turned around and grinned at Martin, Dougie, and me squashed into the back seat.
“Yeah? Who’s it by?” Her boyfriend—Darren—took his eyes off the road to raise an amused eyebrow at her, lips twitching into a smirk.
There was a moment’s pause, punctuated by a quiet snort of laughter from the boys on either side of me. I kept quiet. I didn’t have any idea, either.
“I don’t know,” Emma huffed, put out. “It’s ancient!”
“It’s by Faces,” Martin said quietly. “They were Rod Stewart’s band before he became famous.”
Ah. I’d heard of him.
“Whatever,” Emma replied airily. She tossed her long, blond hair. I wasn’t fooled—the gesture was something she did when she wanted attention rather than when she was genuinely upset—but it was enough to get Darren to take his right hand off the steering wheel to rub her thigh in apology.
“I’m just joking,” he assured her.
His hand continued to run up and down the length of tanned skin from her knee to the hem of her skirt. Since I was stuck in the tiny middle seat, his fondling fingers were directly in my field of vision. I counted to ten in my head while I waited for him to cut it out, but he didn’t, so I twisted to my right and contented myself with staring past Dougie’s profile, becoming hypnotized by the dazzling sunlight and green of the countryside. Feeling me shift in his direction, Dougie turned to look at me. The corners of his lips quirked up, putting a matching pair of dimples in his cheeks. I loved those dimples, just as I loved his eyes—blue and warm and looking right at me. I lasted three seconds under his scrutiny before I had to turn my head and fix my stare out the other window to hide my burning cheeks. This time Martin eyed me quizzically, registering the heat in my face, but him I could ignore.
The view wasn’t as good from this side: the rolling hills and farm fields were interrupted by two lanes of traffic charging in the other direction. Safer, though. It’d do until my pulse stopped pounding.
“Pit stop,” Darren announced from the driver’s seat, and I felt the car swerve as he peeled off onto the exit ramp at the last second. Emma squealed dramatically and gripped the seat as he floored it up the hill. I did likewise, although much more quietly, my nails digging into Martin’s leg to stop myself from being pushed over into Dougie’s lap.
“Sorry,” I muttered as Martin massaged the bruised skin.
He smiled briefly at me, telling me I was forgiven, then shot Darren a look. I smothered my own grin. Since we’d set out that morning, I didn’t think Martin had exchanged more than ten words with Darren. He’d referred to him (outside of Emma’s presence) as a meathead—“that muscle-bound moron.” But it was Dougie’s birthday, and that meant making nice.
Initially, it had been just the three of us going camping, but my parents had gotten all funny about me going off with two boys. Dougie had been the one to suggest we invite Emma and Darren along (because Emma would never have come without him). I’d been disappointed at first, worried their presence would ruin things, but Dougie convinced me we’d still have fun, we could still do everything we had planned. And Darren had a car, so we were able to head farther afield, out to the middle of nowhere rather than just the outskirts of the city.
“What are we stopping for?” Dougie asked over my shoulder.
“Supplies.” Darren swiveled around to wink in the direction of the back seat.
I raised my eyebrows. The car was already chock-full of stuff for the trip. We had enough to stock a bunker and survive a nuclear winter, never mind four nights in a tent.
“Right.” Darren cruised into a supermarket parking lot far too fast, causing a woman in a Kia to steer herself hurriedly into the curb. “You guys stay here. Dougie and I will get stuff for everyone.”
“What?” Emma complained. She stared beseechingly at her boyfriend. “Why can’t we come?”
Darren squealed into a space, then turned off the ignition as he shot her a grin that revealed two rows of dazzling white teeth. No dimples, though.
“Because I’m the only one with a good fake ID, and if I go loading up a cart with you all trotting along behind me, they won’t serve me. Then we’ll have to drink seawater all weekend.”
Or cola, or orange juice, or any of the eight types of soft drinks squashed into the trunk. But Darren had something a little harder in mind. Beside me, Martin shifted on the seat, clearly disapproving but not wanting to say anything. I kept my mouth shut too. I wasn’t a big drinker—mostly because I wasn’t allowed—but I was curious and not so pure that I’d turn down the opportunity.
Fresh air tickled my side as Darren and Dougie threw their doors open in tandem.
“How much do you want us to spend?” Dougie asked as he slid across the vinyl.
“Twenty each?” Darren suggested. Twenty each? My eyebrows slithered up my forehead. “It’s for four nights, remember,” he continued, reading my expression, which I knew would be echoed and then some on Martin’s face.
“Twenty’s fine,” Emma replied, shooting me a warning look. I made a face at her, unimpressed. My best friend Emma didn’t drink, said it turned people into mindless idiots. Darren’s girlfriend Emma, however, apparently thought differently. Resigned, I reached for my purse.
There was a definite air of annoyance in the back seat as Dougie and Darren shut their doors on the three of us. Emma didn’t seem to notice; she was too busy staring at Darren’s broad shoulders as they disappeared into the warehouse-style supermarket.
“Isn’t Darren gorgeous?” she sighed.
Martin huffed a laugh that he managed to turn into a half-convincing cough. Emma slan
ted her eyes at him before turning her attention to me.
“Isn’t he?” she prompted.
“Um…” I shrugged.
He was good-looking, I supposed, in a tough kind of way. He was a big guy, one of those compulsive gym-goers, and his clothes came from the sorts of stores that blared out dance tunes and sold shirts with brand names emblazoned in huge letters across the front. Two years older than us, he had a job in the construction company Emma’s dad managed—that was how she’d met him. He was confident too, walking with a pronounced swagger. But it was all very deliberate, very affected. A paper-thin facade. To be honest, I thought he looked a little like an idiot. Dougie, on the other hand…
Dougie was as laid-back as Darren was pumped up. He was just as tall as Darren but nowhere near as bulky. Nicely normal-sized. He had similar blue eyes, but they were usually smiling rather than eyeing the world with barely veiled aggression, and his thick, brown hair stuck up everywhere, nothing like Darren’s gelled masterpiece.
“Heather?” Emma waved a hand in front of my face, pulling my attention back to her and her question.
“Sure.” I smiled at her, putting just the right amount of enthusiasm in my voice.
I’d had quite a lot of practice at that recently. For the last six months, Emma and Darren had been inseparable. If I wanted to spend time with her, I had to put up with him too. Which didn’t make me happy because the Emma I knew—the one I’d been friends with since we were shy five-year-olds together on the playground—turned into someone completely different as soon as she was within swooning distance of Darren.
“He is!” she asserted, smiling dreamily. “And he’s such a good kisser.”
Given that I knew for a fact Emma hadn’t kissed a single boy before she’d caught Darren’s eye, I wasn’t sure how she was in a position to judge, but I kept my mouth shut.
Martin gave a cough—a real one this time—and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Emma didn’t notice.
“And he knows what he’s doing, if you know what I mean.” She gave me a smug look. “I mean—”
The Last Witness Page 1
