One For Sorrow

by Sarah A. Denzil

  One thing that keeps playing on my mind is whether James Gorden learned the truth about what happened to Maisie before he died. Did Isabel tell him? Or was James killed without ever knowing?

  There are voices outside the hospital room. Since I arrived here, a police officer has been standing guard outside, which worries me because no one has told me what happened to Isabel yet. If they’d recovered her body, would I need a bodyguard? The wounds on my back itch as I wait to find out what happened after I made it to Seb’s farmhouse.

  When DCI Murphy walks into the room avoiding my gaze, I already know what he’s going to say. “We didn’t find her. We searched the area and we brought in tracking dogs to pick up her scent. There was a blood trail for a while, but then it went cold.”

  Not as cold as my flesh. “She survived?”

  I can see that he’s tired after the last few days. The stubble on his chin gives him a dishevelled, worried appearance, and his skin has taken on an unhealthy sallow complexion. I’m not the only one tormented by Isabel Fielding.

  “It looks that way. It wasn’t a straight drop down the gorge. There were a few protruding rocks and cliff edges. If she landed on one of them, chances are she would have walked away.”

  I turn my head away and stare out the window towards the minster. Isabel is clever and she knows how to evade capture. She has every chance to come back stronger after this.

  “We’re searching the Fielding property now.”

  “At least David died. He was dead, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was dead when we found him. Tom hit the aorta when he stabbed him through the back. The boy did good.”

  Thinking about it only makes me feel sick. I hate what Tom had to go to save my life. Everything that happened to him was because of me. If I hadn’t taken that job or been pulled into Isabel’s games… if only I’d recognised what was happening to me, that I was ill and needed help. The regrets keep piling up, and I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for them. But guilt is a burden I’m familiar with, and a load I can continue to shoulder to get through the day.

  “We’re searching Fielding’s various properties for bodies. If what he told you in the abandoned house was true, he’s been getting away with murder for a very long time. And as a man who owns a property developing business, he certainly had the opportunity to dispose of the bodies.”

  “And the Earnshaws? Did you tell them what Isabel told me?” They deserve to know what happened to their daughter.

  “They’ll be told.” He pauses. “Anyway, how are you doing?”

  I’m not sure whether he means the injuries on my back, or the psychological trauma of the last six months. “Sore. Waiting to get out of here so I can go home.”

  “About that.” He pulls up a chair and moves it closer to my bed. “I strongly suggest you move away, change your name, and start somewhere fresh. I’m working on keeping your name out of the media, but you will need to give a statement about David Fielding’s death, and so will Tom. But after all of that is over, keeping you safe will be the next priority. I can get you into witness protection.”

  “Tom too?”

  “Yes, both of you. It’ll move fast. I’ve set up a meeting with two officers in a hotel a few streets from here. They’ll arrange everything. You’ll be gone in less than a week, and you can’t tell anyone where you’re going,” he warns.

  Maybe Leah Smith could leave all that guilt behind. Maybe shouldering regrets could be a thing of the past.

  *

  I place my keys, purse, and mobile phone in the tray before stepping through the metal detector. I remembered to wear my wireless bra this morning so as not to set it off. The security guard hands me back my items, and I move through the hallway into a room set out like a break room, with cheap armchairs dotted around low circular tables.

  He sits on the bright green chair, slumped over, but with his watery eyes directed up at me. Before I came, I told myself I wouldn’t feel anything, that I wouldn’t shed a tear for him because of the things he’s done, but here I am with tears in my eyes and a strange desire to hold him. I know he feels the same way because he half stands, and then sits back down. The tears roll down his face and onto the veneer surface of the table.

  “Leah.”

  I can’t utter the word, so I just say, “I’m here.”

  “I never thought you’d come.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I admit.

  He sits silently, with tears rolling down his cheeks and his shoulders moving up and down as the sobs rack through his body. It’s a wonder he manages to stay silent. After a while I can’t look at him any longer, so I turn and brush away my own tears.

  “It’s good to see you,” he says. “You won’t believe me, but I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you both more than you could imagine. But it’s good that I’m in here. They give me what I need to recover. I’m learning how to be a good man again.”

  I pity him, despite a growing sensation of rage burning and bubbling beneath the surface. I can’t help but pity him.

  “You look well.” He stumbles, his words growing less and less sure the longer we sit and stare at each other.

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m not sure I ever will be because of what you did to me and to Mum.”

  His shoulders sag, but the sobbing has stopped. “I know. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth. I know that’s not enough, is it?”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “But it’s good to see you,” he says. “Because I love you and I always have.”

  “Don’t say that to me.” I’m almost on my feet, but I tell myself to stay longer. This is about confronting what has held me back my entire life. I need to give it time.

  “About the night I… I hurt you,” he says, carefully looking away. “I wasn’t in my right mind. I used to black out and wake up in different places. I know what I did, but I don’t even remember doing it.”

  “That’s no excuse,” I say bitterly.

  “I know. I did a lot I can never take back. I know now that I can never atone for my sins, but I can try, and I’ll never stop trying.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I wish you all the happiness in the world, and I know you’ll have more chance of finding it while I’m in here,” he says.

  “That’s true.”

  “I’ll never come out,” he says. “And if they make me, I’ll never try to find you.”

  “Then this is the last time we’ll see each other.”

  “I love you, Leah,” he says.

  It’s then that I realise he has cast a larger shadow as a memory than he ever did as a man. All I need to do is turn on the lights and chase out the darkness. “I love you too, Dad. I wish I didn’t. I wish I hated you, but I don’t. Sometimes I hate you, but deep down I think I’ll always love the dad you once were, and could have been if you’d been a stronger man.”

  *

  Rose Cottage seems alive as I spend the morning moving around the rooms with Tom, gathering our belongings and cramming them into suitcases and boxes. Despite living to our means, we’ve managed to accumulate both stuff and memories—mugs from the farm shop, feathers from the chicken coop, pretty stones collected on the moors, and Seb.

  But we can’t take all of them with us, which is why, despite the Best of Britpop blaring out in the background, my heart still feels heavy. The fresh coat of paint and the tiny marks in the walls from where Tom hung his posters remind me of the life we could have had here. I may have been experiencing a psychotic break at the time, but that didn’t change the potential I had to be happy here, with Tom, and with Seb, both of whom saved my life.

  It’s three days since I left the hospital. After meeting my dad for one last time, I went to a Travelodge just outside of York and received all the information I need to begin a new life. Tomorrow we travel to a rendezvous point at ten in the morning. I don’t know where that rendezvous point will be. A man called Robert will telephone me with further instructions tonight at
eight.

  From there, the new life begins, and it doesn’t include anyone from my old life, apart from Tom.

  Partway through Sellotaping boxes, I leave the house to meet Seb, who gave me a home and a job when I needed them the most, and who never gave up on me no matter what happened. One of DCI Murphy’s police officers waits outside the cottage to make sure Tom is safe, while I walk the main path down to the Braithwaites’ farm. I want to walk our path along the moors, but Isabel has ruined those memories for me. The moors remind me of wild eyes disappearing into the darkness, and fingers stretching out towards me.

  He waits for me in his Land Rover and drives us away from the farm. We’re on our way into Hutton for a last lunch, but I can’t wait that long.

  “Pull over.”

  He turns to me. “What? Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  When the car comes to a halt, I grab hold of his wax jacket in both hands and press my mouth against his for the first time. He’s hesitant at first, but then his hands are in my hair, and his body presses against mine. Heat spreads through me so aggressively that I have to force myself to pull away. We’re both breathless when we stop, but he takes my hands gently into his and kisses them.

  The lunch we eat tastes like nothing. It’s quiet and melancholy. We both know what might have been, but we both know I have to protect my son. The witness protection won’t stretch to a non-family member, and I wouldn’t ask him to give up his life for a “what if” scenario. And I can’t tell him anything about where we will end up, because I don’t even know myself. All he knows is that we’re moving away and that we’re going to be safe.

  “Another time,” I say, as he drops me off at the cottage. “Another place.”

  He nods and sighs at the same time. “Yep. I know.”

  “Do we get free eggs for the road? Or is that pushing it?”

  “I’ll be round with a dozen.”

  If I stop smiling, I might cry, and if I touch him again, I’ll never leave this place. It has to be quick, and sting like a bastard, a waxing strip ripped from flesh. Seb must feel the same way, because the Land Rover makes a quick exit after I slam the door shut.

  Tom is cleaning the cabinets when I walk in through the kitchen, sidestepping the spot on the doorstep where I found James Gorden’s severed head. He takes one look at me and says, “You look like you need chocolate and Freddy Krueger.”

  “I think you’re right. Do we have either of those things?”

  “One last bar of Dairy Milk and Netflix on my laptop.”

  “You’re a good kid.” I ruffle his hair and pinch his cheek until he groans and squirms away.

  It’s not the time to tell him yet, but one day I will.

  *

  Our last night in the cottage is spent curled up on the sofa watching our version of a comfort movie, Nightmare on Elm Street, on Tom’s tiny laptop screen, with police surveillance outside taking turns in shifts to make sure we’re safe. It’s a wonderful night, despite the circumstances, and my tetchy, frustrating, brave-as-hell teenage son makes me believe that there’s a future for us after we’ve adapted to witness protection.

  We have a chance for a new life.

  The next morning, before we leave, Tom and I watch the postman dance with Pye the feral cat as we drink our last cuppa in the kitchen gazing out at the stunning views beyond the dry stone walls. I open the door and take the mail, apologising to the poor red-faced bloke with scratch marks on his calves.

  “I know we shouldn’t laugh, but…” Tom says as I shut the door and carry the post over to the table.

  “It’s okay,” I reply. “After what we’ve been through, a little schadenfreude is acceptable.”

  Without paying much attention I slide my thumb into the corner of an envelope and tear it open. Inside is a folded letter of cream paper with a texture almost like linen. It’s expensive art paper.

  Carefully, I unfold the paper, already knowing what to expect. My heart is pounding, but I force myself to remain calm. This is okay. We’ve not made our new start yet. This is the last time it’ll happen. The last time. The half-healed wounds on my back itch as though they’ve been recently opened again.

  It’s as beautiful as always, illustrated to perfection with an iridescent sheen across the wing. There are no words, simply a stunning drawing of a magpie. She didn’t need to write any words—the picture says it all.

  Isabel Fielding isn’t done with me yet.

  About the Author

  Sarah A. Denzil is a Wall Street Journal bestselling suspense writer from Derbyshire. Her thrillers include the number one bestseller Silent Child, The Broken Ones, and Saving April. In her alternative life—as YA author Sarah Dalton—she writes speculative fiction for teenagers, including The Blemished, Mary Hades, and White Hart.

  Sarah lives in Yorkshire with her husband, enjoying the scenic countryside and rather unpredictable weather.

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  Acknowledgements

  A note of thanks to the nurses of the world, and everyone who works in the medical profession. You help us in our darkest hours, when we are at our worst, and when we are sometimes unable to say thank you for ourselves. Thank you, and this book is dedicated to you all.