by Elle Croft
She wanted to run out of the shed screaming, Brad beside her, and keep running until they couldn’t breathe and the scene before her was just a distant memory. But she knew that if she did that, she’d have let her brother down. Would he still want to see her, if she betrayed him like that? She couldn’t bear to think about how it would feel to be rejected by him, too.
What he was asking her to do was wrong. She knew that. And she knew that she didn’t want to do it. Of course she didn’t. She wasn’t a monster.
Was she?
If what Kat had told her was true – and she didn’t know if it was, but she couldn’t really tell what was fabrication, what was manipulation, and what was real – then the grotesque and the monstrous … it ran in her blood. It was imprinted in her DNA, a part of every cell in her body.
Imogen wouldn’t do what Brad was asking. Not in a million years. But Amy? Well, she didn’t really know Amy; not yet. She wanted to get to know her, wanted the chance to be her, to try her on and wear her in. She wondered what she would do if she’d been Amy for her whole life instead of pretending to be Imogen for so long. Would she do what Brad had asked of her without hesitation? Or would Amy still know that what he was asking was too terrible to bear?
She tried to picture every possible outcome. If she dropped the knife, refused to do what Brad wanted, would he let Kat go? Even if she was brave enough to refuse the one thing he’d ever asked of her, even if she made that choice, would the end result be any different? Would Kat be allowed to go free?
And then another thought forced its way to the forefront of her mind. Would she be allowed to go free if Brad didn’t believe she was loyal, if she betrayed him, just like Kat had? He had changed in Kat’s presence, become angry and vengeful, nothing like the gentle, nurturing brother who had pulled her back from oblivion. She didn’t recognise this version of him, didn’t know how he’d react, what he was thinking. A shudder reverberated up her spine.
There was no right answer, no way that things could end without her being heartbroken, without Kat being in danger. And that was the best-case scenario.
Perhaps it was better if she just did it, did what Brad wanted, drove the knife into Kat’s chest. The thought horrified her, but maybe she could do it in a way that would hurt – of course it would hurt – but not kill. If Brad saw that she was willing, that she was worthy of all the sacrifices he’d made, maybe Kat would be OK and she and Brad could still be together.
Yes, she decided, her birthmark pulsing again, a reminder of who she was. That could work. It would prove to him that she really was on his side, that she loved him just as much as he loved her. But Kat wouldn’t die. No one would die. She wouldn’t become a killer.
She racked her brain, wishing she’d paid more attention in biology to know exactly where the knife could go without causing life-threatening damage.
She needed to act before Brad got impatient and decided her future for her. Her hand trembled. She knew this was the only way to make sure that everyone got out alive, that she could be with her family, but she still wasn’t confident that she could do it. Even if she knew exactly where the knife needed to go; even if it might save Kat. And her.
She held the blade over Kat’s heaving chest and tried to picture everything that made her angry about the bleeding, terrified woman beneath her. If she was going to hurt her like this, risk her life, even, she needed strength she didn’t have. And short of courage, she figured that anger would probably do the same thing.
She made herself remember the moment when she opened that email and discovered that her life had been a lie. She thought back to the fight they’d had about Emerald, when Kat completely refused to trust her. A flicker of understanding ignited somewhere deep inside her. She tried to tamp it down, but it came rushing at her all at once. Kat was scared that she would turn out like her parents, she realised. All this time, Kat had been worried that nurturing wasn’t enough; that her adopted daughter’s nature was rotten.
She tried to conjure rage at the idea of Kat believing that she wasn’t fundamentally good. But, instead, she felt resignation. Here she was, a knife held over Kat’s beaten body. Perhaps she was right not to trust her.
She shook her head. She needed the burn of anger. She needed something to fuel her into action, not acceptance of her adoptive mother’s behaviour.
‘Think of the lies she told you, Amy,’ Brad whispered beside her, as though he could read her thoughts. She could feel his excitement from where she stood; it was like electricity crackling off of him. They were connected, feeding off one another’s energy, her brother seeming to know what she was going to do before she even moved. A thrill rippled along her nerves, all the way to her toes, the tips of her fingers. She took a breath. He was right. Kat’s lies. That was what she needed to remember, that’s how she would get through this.
Memories whirred through her mind, and she tried to grab hold of one, of anything that would ignite her anger, but it was like trying to snatch a dandelion seed in the wind. Her thoughts were jumbled, the information she had been given all swirling around her, a tempest of secrets and lies and truth.
‘Amy is damaged,’ Brad hissed beside her. ‘Remember? That’s what she said in that message she sent me, before she came here to ruin your life again.’
Fury burst behind her eyes, red-hot and blinding. Damaged. That was what she had said. Her heart pounded. She focused on Kat’s chest, moving up and down, up and down, faster and faster. Her eyes were squeezed closed, her hands balled into tight fists.
She mouthed the word sorry, knowing Kat would never see it, never know the truth, but needing to say it anyway, and then she closed her eyes and lifted the knife higher and higher.
And as it hovered there, another thought popped into her mind, unwelcome now, when she had come to a decision already, when she needed to take action.
‘Amy is damaged,’ Brad had said. That was the message Kat sent to him.
Except she knew. She knew without any flicker of hesitation. To Kat, she was Imogen. Kat would never call her Amy.
Chapter 57
KAT
My body is clenched, ready – as ready as I possibly can be – for the pain of a blade slicing through my skin, into my muscle, piercing my vital organs, ending me. My eyes are squeezed tightly closed, but I can see it, visualise the flash of the knife and the searing agony that will follow. And it’s OK; I understand. Imogen doesn’t have a choice.
If she disobeys her brother, there’s no way of knowing what he’ll do. This is the best chance she has of getting out of here alive, whether she grasps the truth of that or not. But I understand. I want to tell her that I get it, that it’s OK, but I don’t think I can move, or speak, and I don’t want her to hesitate. She needs to do this; she needs to do what it takes to survive.
I lift one eyelid a sliver, just enough to see my beautiful daughter one last time. Her eyes are tightly closed, the knife held above me with both of her hands. She mouths something. I think it might be sorry. My stomach wrenches, but I barely notice the dull ache that remains after the spasm is over. Nor do I notice the pounding in my head, or the red-hot burning sensation that’s shooting up my arm.
The pain doesn’t matter any more. Nothing does, because this is how it ends. My life, punched out of me in a dark shed in the hills, by the hand of my eldest daughter, while my youngest sleeps, unaware, in the car outside.
I wish I could go back, could explain to Imogen that she has been loved – so completely – since we first laid eyes on her. That we chose her, that we loved her fully and fiercely, and that we’d always protect her from anyone who tried to hurt her.
Except that promise would be a lie. Look at how badly I failed, look at how I neglected to protect her when it mattered the most.
I want to groan, to scream with the shame and self-loathing of it all, of the utter failure I am, at the nightmare I’ve created for the people I love most in the world. All along, all I needed to do was believe that she isn�
�t her parents. And rest in the knowledge that we’ve done a good enough job of raising her, of nurturing her, of loving her, that she’d make the right choice if faced with something unthinkable. Something like this.
But I was paranoid, I was scared, and this is all my fault. All I can do is hope that she’ll be OK, that she’ll survive, and that one day she’ll look back and understand how much I love her, how I adore her regardless of her choices, or her background.
I think of Dylan. Of Jemima. I know they’ll be OK together. He’s an incredible father, and she’s strong and brave. They’ll find a way through this.
I breathe out slowly, deeply. I’m ready.
Seconds pass, and I will Imogen to just do it, to get it over with. More seconds tick by, and then out of nowhere there’s a shriek, high-pitched and piercing. My eyes fly open and land on Brad, who’s looking directly at me, his face a picture of disbelief. His eyes are bulging, that golden colour almost hidden by his dilated pupils. My mind is frantic. What is happening? Why am I still conscious? Where is Imogen?
My eyes flit back and forth until they find her. She’s standing back from the table, both hands clamped over her mouth, staring at her brother. The three of us are frozen in this strange tableau for what feels like eternity, me alive, but not comprehending anything. It dawns on me, the facts clicking into place, that Imogen is no longer holding the knife. Brad still hasn’t moved; he’s been halted by something that, judging by his expression, he can barely believe.
And then, as though a fast-forward button has been pressed, Brad sways once, to the left, then to the right, except it’s not a sway, it’s a fall, and he’s out of my view, replaced by a face so familiar and yet so out of place that it takes a moment for me to realise, for me to understand that it’s definitely her, that it’s not a hallucination.
My daughter is in front of me, where Brad was standing just a second ago.
But it’s not Imogen.
It’s Jemima.
Chapter 58
KAT
‘Jemima!’ I choke, still not able to grasp what’s going on.
My twelve-year-old daughter’s face is completely blank. She’s standing still, one arm lifted out in front of her, the other pressed rigidly against her side.
Before I can arrange all of these new pieces of information into place, Imogen screams, long and loud and swelling with such emotion that it slices through my heart. She throws herself down to the ground, to where her brother just disappeared.
I’m immobilised. Even if I wasn’t tied down, I don’t think I’d be able to move. I’m frozen, staring into the eyes of my youngest daughter, trying desperately to understand what’s happened and what to do next.
‘Jemima, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be here!’
She doesn’t move. My thoughts are spinning, a whirlwind that’s gathering pace, gaining momentum, drowning out logic. I need to get out of here.
‘Help me,’ I gasp, and Jemima blinks.
Something flickers in her eyes and then she moves, stepping around an object I can’t see but which must be her sister hunched over Brad. Calmly, methodically, she begins untying the ropes that are strapping me down.
‘Jemima,’ I pant. ‘How did … what …?’
My sentences stutter and start, but there are too many questions, too many layers, to articulate them all.
‘It’s OK, Mum, you’re going to be OK.’
I want to wail at my little girl’s assurances, to grip her and never let go, to let myself melt into her arms, but I can’t. I need to get my children away from here, to safety, away from Brad. He’s dangerous. He wants to tear us apart.
But why is he on the ground?
I try to sit up, but my head is screaming and my arms won’t work. Jemima lifts the glass that Imogen brought in to my lips and I tilt my head and gulp down the warm, metallic water, not caring that it’s brown or full of wriggling mosquito larvae. The liquid hits my stomach with such force that I almost bring it up immediately, but I wait a second, swallow again, and steel myself to get up.
Slowly, gingerly, I wriggle my fingers, waiting for the blood to pump back into them. When it does, the pain is almost unbearable. Ignoring it, I haul myself into a sitting position, the room spinning as the blood rushes from my head. I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them, the sight that greets me makes my stomach curdle.
Blood is everywhere. The floor is slick with it, a red pool that’s spreading, leaking, crawling like a macabre glacier across the concrete. Brad’s body is limp and still, the knife lying next to him, the blade dark red and dripping. Imogen is huddled by his side, heaving with sobs so deep and so consuming that they wrack her entire body. I watch her convulse again and push myself off the bench, crying out in pain as my feet hit the ground and the jolt reverberates in my tender head. My legs give way and I collapse onto my knees.
Kneeling in the blood, still warm, now seeping up the hem of my dress, I wrap my arms around Imogen and hold her with as much strength as I can muster. Her cries grow louder and I press my face between her shoulder blades, wishing I could absorb her pain, wondering if she will ever recover.
‘Mum,’ Jemima is shaking me by the shoulder. ‘Mum, can we go? Please?’
I look up at her, her brown eyes wide and pleading. Countless questions clamour for priority in my mind. What happened? How did Jemima get in here? What has she done?
Jemima pulls at my dress. It doesn’t matter what happened. We’re safe now.
‘Immy,’ I say, gently tugging her towards me. ‘Immy, we have to go.’
‘NO!’
Her scream is primal. This is not my Imogen here, covering her brother’s body with her own, gasping for breath between sobs. It’s Amy.
The girl who, just moments before, was holding a knife above my body, eyes closed, poised to kill.
Chapter 59
IMOGEN
She didn’t see Jemima coming in. She didn’t hear her. None of them did.
If she’d known her younger sister was outside, if she’d known there was a possibility that Jemima could become involved, could find herself in the room with them all, things might have been different. Maybe she would have convinced Brad to run, to get away and leave Kat in peace and worry about the consequences later. Maybe.
She hadn’t flinched. Jemima, that is. Imogen had been standing, the knife held over her head with both hands, trembling, trying to find the strength she needed to do the only thing she could think of to get everyone out of that shed alive, trying to separate facts from lies.
There hadn’t been a sound; there had been nothing to warn her. Out of nowhere, a sharp burst of pain had exploded in her stomach. The air had left her lungs with a gentle oooof, and she must have leaned over to grab the part of her abdomen that sang with pain. She didn’t even notice the knife being wrenched from her hand, was still trying to work out what had happened, was trying to protect the part of her that was wounded. She was disoriented.
So she didn’t see the knife – the same knife she’d been holding just seconds before – going into her brother’s body. She wasn’t looking, the moment when Brad felt the blade slicing through his flesh. She felt his hand brushing her arm, looked up at him, her movements slow and dreamlike, and saw his wide eyes, spotted the fear and surprise written across his face. In that moment, he was just a little boy, lost and alone and confused.
She knew, with terrifying certainty, what had happened. She sensed Jemima’s presence before she saw her. She might have screamed, then, although she couldn’t be sure if it was her or Kat or even Brad. It wasn’t Jemima. As Brad swayed and collapsed, Jemima just stood, stock-still, watching as the scene unfolded before her.
When he dropped to the ground, Imogen threw herself on top of him. He was lying on his side on the hot concrete, blood seeping from the wound in his back, where the knife that Jemima had snatched from her hand – the knife intended for Kat – had punctured his skin.
She didn’t know how long they ha
d been lying there. She could feel his breath, each one shallower and shorter than the last, against her cheek, and she knew that he was dying. Sobs burst from her, a flood of fury and loss and abandonment. Because that was what he was doing: he was leaving.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispered into his ear between cries. ‘Please don’t leave me. Not when I’ve just found you.’
‘Amy,’ he croaked, his face so pale she was sure he was fading into nothing, as though he could eventually disappear altogether. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she wept, and she knew it was true. She was connected with him, tied by strands she couldn’t see or explain or understand. All she knew was that they shared the same blood, the same DNA, and that made them part of one another.
But he was leaving her, and she would never have the chance to find out what it was like to have a family. Not really.
His eyes fluttered, the movement so fragile and innocent that it crushed her heart.
‘I’m scared,’ he said, his voice barely audible. But she heard him. She gripped his hand tightly. He tried to squeeze back, but his fingers just curled weakly around hers.
‘I know you are,’ she said, instinctively knowing the words that would comfort him. ‘But I’m here. We’re together. That’s what matters, Brad. I’m here.’
She repeated those final two words over and over again, until long after she knew that he was gone. His chest was so still, his breath no longer whispering against her skin, his eyes closed. There was no more flickering. No movement in his hand, still wrapped around hers. For a few seconds, there was silence. The world, it seemed, was holding its breath.
But her grief was too expansive to stay trapped inside her body. If she didn’t release it, it would tear through the flesh of her lungs to find a way out. She wailed, her ribs aching and her eyes burning, her loss a physical presence that was coursing through her, swirling around her, pouring out of her.
