They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Caskie seemed genuinely angry yesterday that the caretaker wasn’t here,” Lorna said. “What if he’s innocent after all? He left like we thought and MacLeod came back here to take care of us for the weekend.”

  “The fire,” Ellie said. “Mr. MacLeod must’ve relit the fire this morning. And why would he do that unless he really was here to look after us and the house?”

  “This where you found him?” Oliver pointed to the open room beside them.

  “He fell out,” Ellie said. “He just . . . fell out when the door was opened.”

  What might have once been an office now served as a large storage area. Cardboard and plastic boxes. Mops and buckets. Tins of paint. Bins. There was another door on the opposite side of the room. Oliver tried to open it, but it was locked. He left the junk room and returned to the others, who had started arguing.

  “Maybe Hollis killed him?” Ellie asked. “Or he and Hollis killed each other?”

  Lorna shook her head. “And then what? Hollis staggers up the stairs with half his head missing, somehow not leaving any blood trail? Then places a note card on his own chest—again without leaving any blood on it—before he dies?”

  “There’s only one thing we can be certain of,” Oliver said. “If Hollis killed MacLeod, then someone else killed Hollis. And if it was MacLeod who killed Hollis, then someone else killed MacLeod.”

  “Either way,” Ellie realized, “it means there’s someone else in this house.”

  “Caskie’s letter,” Lorna said. “Remember? In the letter, Caskie said those gifts were left by our benefactor.”

  “But who is that?” Ellis asked.

  “Maybe someone who’s been hiding here the whole time,” Oliver said. “Or someone standing here, who hasn’t been telling the truth.”

  The distrust returned and rippled through them all. He saw it in the way they moved away from one another. In the way their eyes darted from one person to the next. In the way they tensed their muscles and folded their arms. Where upstairs they had been united, now they had splintered apart.

  “Who opened the door?” he asked.

  He watched them as he waited for an answer. Waited to see which way the wind blew. And he couldn’t say he was surprised when Lorna and Ellie both turned toward Maeve, who, Oliver realized, had yet to speak.

  “Why did you open the door, Maeve?”

  Maeve’s hand fluttered to her neck, and she blinked several times before answering. “I was looking for another way out. We all were.”

  “Tell me again why you were down here when you were supposed to be upstairs with Ellie.”

  “I don’t know how many times you want me to repeat it. I was looking for the attic key. I mean I heard something. Someone.” Maeve backed away.

  “Which was it? You were looking for the attic key or you heard something? And how did you hear something down here from all the way on the top floor?”

  “I didn’t. I mean I did hear something. But I was mostly looking for the keys. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Why are you getting so defensive?”

  “I’m not being defensive! You’re . . . you’re being aggressive. I swear I had nothing to do with this. With him. Lorna, you believe me, don’t you?”

  “She admitted to Facebook stalking me,” Ellie said. “All of us.”

  They circled Maeve, corralling her against the staircase.

  “Wait. You’re twisting my words. I never said I stalked you. I said I looked you up sometimes. That’s all. And what does that have to do with a body that just fell on me?” Her voice pitched higher on each word. Lorna stepped close and squeezed Maeve’s shoulder.

  “Take a breath, Maeve. I know you’re upset. Just tell us what really happened. We’ll understand. I’ll understand.”

  Maeve looked as if Lorna had stuck her with a knife. “What do you mean, what happened?”

  “If this was self-defense . . .”

  Maeve jerked away from Lorna. “I didn’t kill that man! Why are you accusing me, Lorna?”

  “You left me alone,” Ellie answered.

  “You were downstairs when you weren’t supposed to be,” Oliver said.

  “And you found this poor man’s body,” said Lorna.

  “And you were so mad at Callum that night,” Oliver continued. “Madder than the rest of us. You were the one who—”

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare bring Callum into this. I never hurt Callum. You know I didn’t. And this man? I’ve never seen him before in my life. Besides, if I had killed him, why would I open that door in the first place? That’s insane. I would try to hide it, not . . . not . . .” She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

  “Why don’t you tell us more about why you came here this weekend?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, so you can humiliate me further? I told you all last night. I thought I was meeting my boyfriend.”

  “Right. Your online boyfriend. A believable story coming from you. Maybe a little too believable? Fits you a little too nicely?”

  “It’s believable because it’s true. His name is Tom. He’s fifty-one, and he lives in Inverness and—”

  “Then why not meet in Inverness?”

  “Because he thought this would be more romantic. He said he knew this house. He’d stayed here before.” She was blubbering now, tears falling too fast to wipe away.

  “And you fell for it? Come on, Maeve. Isn’t there something else? Something you don’t want to tell us?”

  “That I’m an idiot? A gullible forty-year-old fat lady who tried online dating and got screwed?” She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “Do you really think I could strangle a man? Me?”

  “Why not ask Callum what you’re capable of? Oh, that’s right. He’s dead.”

  Her wet cow eyes fixed on Oliver. “Oliver, I wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t hurt any of you. You are, you were, my friends. I care about each of you. That’s the only reason why I looked you up. I missed you. Lorna, you know I—”

  He grabbed her by the arm.

  “Please! Oliver, I swear I wouldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t. I—”

  Oliver tightened his grip, but in the struggle, Maeve’s oversized jumper caught on the corner of the banister. As she fought to free herself, a stack of cards fell from her pockets. Oliver scooped them up before she could get them.

  “What do we have here?”

  “Give those back! Those are personal!” She grabbed for them, but he held them out of reach.

  “We know how much our benefactor loves note cards. Oh, and these are laminated! How posh. Let’s see what they say. Accept the kindness of others. Be strong, stay strong. Oh, this is a good one. You’re a good person. People like you. What kind of self-help bullshit is this?” He laughed. “So what else do you have in your pockets, eh?”

  “Nothing!”

  He grabbed her again.

  “Stop touching me!”

  And pulled a long, thick piece of twine from her pocket.

  “What’s this for, Maeve?”

  Then he saw the specks of red where the rough twine had cut into MacLeod’s neck as he was strangled. As Maeve had strangled him.

  He looked at Ellie. He looked at Lorna. Then they all looked at Maeve.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t know how it got there, I swear.”

  Oliver took three steps back and knelt by MacLeod’s body. He held the twine against the marks on the neck. It matched.

  “So,” he said. “Did you suffocate Callum, too?”

  But Maeve was already running up the stairs.

  Maeve

  The smooth cards slipped from her fingers, leaving a trail like breadcrumbs. Maeve knew she should let them go, but she couldn’t. Not yet. She managed to stuff the ones that were left into the pocket of her jeans and keep running. She wasn’t sure where she was in the house. She had gone upstairs, but one flight or two? All the halls looked the same. It hadn’t been far, but her lung
s were burning. When was the last time she’d gone jogging? Sometime in her thirties with Bev, who lived next door during that brief stint in Birmingham.

  Their voices sounded on the stairs.

  This wasn’t the time to be thinking about Birmingham.

  She tried the door nearest to her, which turned out to be a linen closet. She shut it and tried another. A guest room. She slipped inside and closed the door as quietly as she could. Her first thought was to hide under the bed. And maybe she could have when she was younger, but the years had added another layer of padding barely concealed by a John Lewis jumper. So she went into the bathroom and hid behind the door. The floor was cold and hard beneath her, but she didn’t dare move, not until the sounds quieted outside. She tried to calm down, tell herself this was like playing hide-and-seek with her niece and nephew. All she had to do was sit very quietly until those searching got bored and forgot about her. But she wouldn’t emerge to find this pack of animals watching Teletubbies.

  That’s what they had transformed into again: the pack. Ravenous, rabid animals that would do anything to protect themselves, including attacking one of their own. Someone had called them that to their faces once. It had been in the spring because she could remember the rain and the green leaves outside. Who had said it, she couldn’t recall. Possibly Lorna or one of the hundreds of girls Oliver brought around during those months. Or had it been Callum? It didn’t matter. The pack had returned and singled her out as the weak link, the easy target, and they would stop at nothing until they had trapped her, and once they had . . .

  Maeve lowered her head to her knees. She didn’t want to think about what would happen, but now that the thought had entered her mind, her anxiety wouldn’t let it go. Nervous energy filled her like bubbles in a shaken soda bottle, and the breathing exercises her therapist taught her weren’t working. She pictured Hollis’s body—his head split open, a piece of his skull missing, the pink-gray color of his exposed brain—and imagined her own cracked head lying beside his. How had a piece of twine she’d never seen before ended up in her pocket? How did a man who wasn’t supposed to die turn up dead?

  Crouched in the bathroom, she bit her knuckle to muffle the sound of her crying as footsteps ran back and forth in the hall. Doors slammed. Once someone shouted, but the shout came to nothing and eventually Maeve heard nothing more. How long she’d been sitting there she couldn’t tell. Minutes? Hours? Long enough that her bum had gone numb and her right foot had fallen asleep. Pins and needles shot up her leg when she stood, but she stopped herself from crying out.

  She hopped from the bathroom to the bedroom on one foot, shaking her leg as she went. With some relief, she lay back on the firm mattress. Her body wanted sleep, and she wanted to give in, but how long would this room remain safe? If she were at home—at Max’s home—she would be in bed, watching an afternoon documentary on the little television Max and his wife moved in for her from her nephew’s bedroom. Maybe with some popcorn and a glass of wine, the taste of which she was teaching herself to enjoy because that was what adult women were supposed to drink.

  Her eyes closed against her will, her body sinking into the mattress, and she wondered if it even mattered if they found her. Why not let them take care of things once and for all? Twenty-three years was a long time. Twenty-three years Callum had lain in his grave. She remembered how they used to lie next to each other on the floor of her bedroom, staring up the ceiling, pretending the stains were stars. They’d talk about how much of a dick Oliver was being that day, plans for the weekend, where they saw their lives headed after university. It used to calm her before an exam or after an argument with her mum. Callum would reach out his hand. Sometimes she’d take it. More often, she didn’t.

  Her chest rose and fell, the tears drying on her face as the memory passed her by, and she took a deep breath.

  Lavender.

  Maeve opened her eyes. She hadn’t imagined it. The room smelled strongly of lavender. Bottles of perfumes, lotions, and air freshening sprays lined the back of the desk. A silk nightgown lay folded on the seat of the armchair. A silver suitcase stood in the corner of the room. Maeve read its tag:

  Eleanor Landon

  “Shit.”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth and hoped no one had heard her. Of all the rooms she could have stumbled into, it had to be Ellie’s.

  Shit shit shit, she mouthed and tugged at her hair. If they got tired of the hunt, if Ellie said she needed to lie down for a little while . . . At any moment that door could open. But was it safe to move? Maybe they’d given up searching. Maybe they were drinking. Maybe they were searching the house for weapons they could use to beat her to death. Buckets to put her different organs in after they tore her apart like a pack of dogs. She bit her cheek to stop the thoughts whirring around her brain and imagined her therapist’s words:

  Don’t overthink. Find a way to relax.

  “Relax,” she whispered. “Relax, relax, relax. They think you’re a murderer and probably want to kill you, but relax.”

  Something down the hall thumped and Maeve threw herself to the floor. She lay down with an ant’s-eye view of the room, afraid to move, and spotted a square white box leaning against the wall beneath the bed with a long cord that was plugged into the electrical outlet. Maeve didn’t have Ellie’s skinny arms, but she could reach the cord and used it to pull the box toward her. The plastic was warm to the touch, and she turned it over in her hands, trying to figure out what it was. It had no markings or product name but looked sort of like a large Wi-Fi router. Had there been one in her room? Then she remembered the signal jammer.

  “Yes!”

  If she had time to explain before they attacked, this could be the proof she needed to make the pack turn from her to Ellie. But could she take that risk? Ellie might return to her room at any time. With her anxiety on the rise, Maeve reached for her cards. Only one remained, the most recent from her collection: Be the shark, not the minnow.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

  She left the jammer plugged in and tiptoed to the door to press her ear against the wood, listening for any sound. Hearing nothing, she opened the door inch by inch.

  She peeked into the hall.

  Empty.

  She left the room, not bothering to close the door.

  They probably were in the study, debating what to do next. She would approach them with hands raised, ask for permission to explain, then tell them what she had found in Ellie’s room.

  From the top of the main staircase, she could see down into reception. When she listened, she heard voices coming from the study. They were all so predictable.

  Two hands shoved her from behind.

  The world somersaulted as she tumbled down the stairs. The fall seemed eternal until she stopped, eyes on the undulating ceiling. Her arm hurt, and her neck, and she couldn’t stand. One by one their faces appeared above her, Ellie, dusting off her hands, the last.

  Maeve tried to say, “No, it’s her!” but garbled “Noooser” as Oliver grabbed her under her arms and dragged her across the floor. She clawed at his hand and arm but couldn’t get a hold of him. They passed the armchairs by the fireplace, and somewhere near a door opened. A cool gust of air stroked her face. Oliver released her, but she remained too terrified and in too much pain to move. He pushed her into the cellar. She managed to grab the railing and stopped herself from tumbling down the wooden stairs, but before she could get to her feet, the door closed, shutting out the light.

  6

  Lorna

  Light strands of dried blood traced the lines between Lorna’s shaking fingers, her skin cracked from the cold. She pulled down on her sleeves, the comedown from the rush of adrenaline plus the lack of food and caffeine giving her the shakes, making her act nervous. The morning had been spent in a rush, each event blurring in her mind like someone had pressed fast-forward, then rewind, then fast-forward, unable to land on the right spot. Her body a crumbling VHS tape, her image blurre
d and distorted. One more rewind and she would break. They were all being rewound, turned back into past selves. While she found her confidence slipping, Oliver bounced on his feet, a shadow of the ball of energy he used to be. Ellie, the wide-eyed princess, fretted.

  “Was she hurt? I didn’t mean to push her so hard.” Ellie looked up and down the stairs as if by standing there long enough she, too, could rewind recent events.

  Oliver stuffed the cellar key in his pocket, then flung his arm around her shoulders. “She’s fine, love.”

  “So that’s it then, isn’t it?” Ellie asked. “We’ve got her. We can leave. Get the police.”

  “Absolutely. Except they’re probably going to need proof. Which is why we need to soften her up a bit before the interrogation.”

  “Interrogation?” Lorna asked.

  “Well, there’s two things we need, isn’t there? One, the keys to get out of this house. And two, her confession. Who knows if she’s left behind enough evidence to prove she killed Hollis and MacLeod? And there certainly isn’t any that she killed Callum. Her confession will make the case airtight. I say we leave her there five, maybe ten minutes. Then we yank her out. Tie her up in, maybe, the kitchen? Plenty of tools there to scare the truth out of her.”

  “What do you even know about interrogation?” Lorna asked.

  He hung on Ellie like a drunk at a club. “It’s only Maeve. It can’t be that hard. What is it? You’ve got your weird thinking bitch face on.”

  Lorna tried to relax her face. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  She turned on her heel.

  “Where are you going?” Oliver asked. In Lorna’s mind, she saw the younger version of him calling to her. The full head of hair, the cocksure grin. “Oi! I asked you a question.”

  “To get some food.” But when she looked, it was the older Oliver who stood there.

  “Right. Good time for lunch, is it?”

  “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving. And we’ve been running around this house like a bunch of wild dogs looking for Maeve. So yeah, it’s a good time for lunch.”