by Amy Cross
“I have some questions,” a voice says suddenly.
I turn and find that Harry is standing in the doorway. Immediately, I realize there's a shade of concern in his eyes. Doubt, even.
“Don't you want to get out there and join the party?” I ask, although the words sound so hollow as they leave my mouth.
“I've been checking reports from other parts of the county,” he continues, stepping closer. He's holding a folder in his hands, and I get the feeling that he's found something he doesn't like. “I just had a hunch and, well...”
His voice trails off.
“Spit it out,” I tell him.
“I don't want to cause trouble.”
“What have you got there, Harry?”
“It's probably nothing,” he adds as he reaches me, “but -”
“Dammit!” I hiss, snatching the folder from him and setting it down, before opening it and finding several print-outs that seem to have been sourced from a surveillance camera. “What's all this crap, anyway?”
“It's from a camera outside a pharmacy in Dudley,” he explains, and now there's a hint of fear in his voice. “It's a little family-run place, a real Mom and Pop store and... Well, I guess that's not important. But there was a robbery two days ago, or an attempted robbery. Nobody got hurt and nothing much was stolen, but if you look at one of the pictures later on in that set of papers, you'll see -”
“I can turn a goddamn page for myself!” I snap, pushing his hand away and flicking through the print-outs, only stopping when I see a familiar face staring out from one of the grainy images.
It's him.
It's the drifter, the guy who was hit by Matt Beamish's car. It's the guy who, even now, is believed by everyone else to have killed Mo Garvey.
As I stare at the image, I can still hear the gathered crowd outside.
“I'm not saying you've got things wrong,” Harry continues cautiously, “but I've kind of been thinking, and the way it seems to me is that this guy was pretty definitely in Dudley on that night. And if that's the case, then how could he also have been here when little Mo was kidnapped? The time-lines don't match at all.”
Still staring at the image, I see that the date and time are very clear.
Harry's right.
“I wondered whether he could've driven,” he continues, “and maybe sped here, but even then, it doesn't seem likely that he could've made it. Which really leaves two other possibilities. One is that he had someone with him, like an accomplice. And the other is that... Well, I know this sounds crazy, but I'm starting to wonder whether maybe this guy didn't kill Mo after all. Maybe it was someone else.”
We stand in silence, as voices continue to laugh outside. I want to speak, to tell Harry that he's wrong, but I can't get the words out.
“So I figured,” he adds finally, “that I should bring it to you and then you'd tell me why I've got my facts all muddled up. I mean, this guy was the killer, wasn't he? You seemed so sure.”
Turning to him, I realize that he's desperately waiting for me to put him straight, to calm his fears and tell him to stop worrying.
“Leave it with me,” I say after a moment, as I close the folder to hide the man's face. “I'll look into it.”
“But -”
“Just leave it with me, Harry!”
He hesitates, before taking a step back and nodding.
“Like I said,” he continues, “it was just a hunch. I thought I should bring it to you. 'Cause you're the boss and all.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I'm sure it's nothing.”
“I'll look into it, Harry. I promise.”
“I'm probably just wrong again. You know what I'm like, I always -”
“I said I'll look into it!” I snap, momentarily losing my temper. Turning to him, I immediately see the shock in his eyes. “Just get back out there,” I continue. “I'll look into this new evidence you've brought me, and then I'll decide whether it merits further investigation. Until then, I need you to go back outside and talk to people. Tell them everything's okay. Tell them they can sleep without fear.”
“Absolutely.”
He mutters something else under his breath, probably just another apology, as he turns and heads to the door.
“And Harry?”
He glances back toward me.
“Don't mention this to anyone else,” I add, holding the folder up for him to see. “Not yet. Like you said, it's probably nothing, bet me look into it first.”
“You're the boss, boss,” he replies, before hurrying outside.
I should go and join him, but for a moment I simply stand in the gloomy office, listening to the sound of distant laughter. Finally, opening the folder and flicking through to the print-out showing the man's face, I stare down at the image that proves he couldn't possibly have been Mo Garvey's killer. There's no wriggle-room, there's no possibility of an error. This simple piece of paper proves beyond all doubt that we've pinned the blame on the wrong guy. I knew that already, of course, but I still feel a tightening sense of dread in my chest as I realize that there's actual proof of the fact.
And then I close the folder and slip in into my desk drawer, and then I head back outside, where people immediately start congratulating me again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alex Roberts
Today
“God, do you remember that bear I had?” Sabrina asks, before taking another sip of white wine. “My parents' dog used to carry him around for me, and the poor bear ended up covered in slobber! And then it kind of dried and went all crispy, and kinda moldy, but I wouldn't let my parents wash it. Gross, huh?”
“That rings a bell,” I reply, smiling for the first time in a few days.
“And do you remember the woman who used to live opposite my house?” she continues, having peppered me with questions over the past twenty minutes and showing no sign of stopping just yet. “Do you remember how she'd always scowl at us whenever we played outside? And she was always at that window, like she had nothing better to do with her time than stare out at the street and get annoyed whenever anyone else was having fun. I mean, what kind of person is like that?”
“I'm not sure that I -”
“Oh, and do you remember her husband?” She nudges my arm. “God, you have to remember him. He was such a weirdo. Like, he had properly shifty eyes and he always looked like he was up to something.”
“Sorry,” I reply, “I don't...”
My voice trails off.
“I don't really remember very much of that,” I say finally. “I'm sorry.”
“Of course,” she says, clearly feeling uncomfortable, “it's totally my fault. I forgot about your memory thing.” She pauses for a moment, eyeing me carefully, and I can tell that she wants to ask me something specific. “So do you really not remember very much from those days at all?”
“I remember you.”
“Of course, because I'm fabulous. But what about the rest of it?”
“My therapist thinks I suffer from elective amnesia,” I reply cautiously. I knew this topic would come up eventually, and I guess it's better to get the whole thing out of the way fairly early in the evening. “I remember some things, but a lot is hidden behind this kind of fog. I have very few clear memories from before I was seven years old. Before that, it's just a few impressions and images. I remember people and places pretty well, but not so many actual events. I was kind of hoping to get some memories back after I moved here, but so far not much is budging.”
I force a nervous smile before taking a sip of water. I thought coming to meet an old friend would help, even if I barely remember Sabrina at all. I thought maybe she'd jog some memories. Then again, lately I've been wrong about a whole lot of things.
“It's so good to see you again, Alex,” she says after a moment, reaching over suddenly and touching my hand. “It's so weird how we were pretty much best friends back then, but then we lost touch for so many years. Then again, I can'
t blame your grandparents for wanting to keep you well away from anything that might have reminded you of Railham. Trust me, you haven't really missed much. The place is still a dusty old town filled with dusty old people getting on with their dusty old lives. It's like they all enjoy being bored.”
“There's something to be said for living a normal life,” I point out. “It doesn't seem so bad.”
“Not for you. You got out. I've been here the whole time.” She takes another, bigger sip of wine, and now her glass is down to half-full only a few minutes after it was last refilled. “I know you don't like talking about your father,” she continues finally, “and I totally respect that, but I just want you to know that I always thought he was a decent guy. I know he went crazy at the end, but before that he was real good at his job. I was totally shocked when it came out about how he'd killed those people, and how he'd murdered little Mo. I guess his mind must've, like, split into two separate parts. Maybe the good side of him didn't even know what the bad side of him was doing.”
“Sure,” I reply, trying not to let her see that even the mention of my father makes me feel sick to my stomach. “Maybe.”
“I saw her once, you know,” she adds.
“Who?”
“Mo. Little Mo Garvey.”
“She wasn't that much older than us,” I point out.
“I'm not talking about when she was alive.” She pauses, keeping her eyes fixed on me. “This is going to sound totally sick, but when I was about fifteen or sixteen, some friends and I used to sometimes go out to this old cabin, way out of town. We used to go and do all the usual stuff kids do at that age. We smoked, we drank, we fooled around sometimes. And 'cause we were total dorks, we sometimes used to shout Mo's name in case... Well, we were young. You know what it's like.”
I nod, even though I'm not sure what it's like at all. My childhood, after leaving Railham, was kind of sheltered. My grandparents kept a tight leash on me at all times, and I was fine with that. I wanted to feel safe.
“One night we were out there at the cabin,” she continues, “and then Mark, this guy I was dating, said we should all go to the river. I didn't really want to, but I went along with them anyway. And as we got to the bottom of the hill, I just happened to glance back up at the cabin, toward the spot where we'd been hanging out a few minutes earlier.” She leans closer, her eyes widening as if she thinks she's about to tell me the most amazing, shocking story ever. “I saw the silhouette of a little girl in the doorway. It was as clear as I'm seeing you now. Mo Garvey was there, she must have been there the whole time we were in the cabin, but we hadn't been able to see her. But I could see her then, at that moment, when I looked back. And that was the last time I ever went near that cabin, because I do not want to see that kid again, if you know what I mean.”
I want to tell her that she must have been mistaken, and that I've avoided getting into the details of the Mo Garvey case, but I'm worried that I might just make her feel awkward. Or, worse, I might end up prompting her to start explaining the whole thing to me, which is the last thing I need. I just want a normal night out with an old friend, and I want to minimize the chat about evil parents and dead children.
“It's complicated,” is all I manage to say finally, hoping to draw a line under the topic. “I guess a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.”
“I didn't believe in ghosts until that moment,” she continues, clearly not getting the message. “I always thought the whole idea was a load of bull, but seeing her that night made me do a complete one-eighty. I guess it stands to reason that she might still be looking for some kind of closure. The poor thing died in such -”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” I tell her, forcing a smile but not quite succeeding. “Sorry, I just prefer to look to the future, rather than thinking about the past all the time.”
“Totally!” she replies. “You're right, what was I thinking? The last thing you want is to have the past dredged up like this, especially when it's linked to your father and...”
She pauses, before finishing her wine and immediately taking the bottle so she can refill her glass.
“God, I know how to put my foot in it, don't I?” she adds with a nervous smile. “Classic Sabrina. I'm about as subtle as a sledgehammer in a china shop.”
“It's fine,” I reply, taking a tiny sip from what is, in fact, still my first glass of wine. There's a strange churning sensation in my belly, one that I'm not sure can be entirely explained by nerves. After a moment, I hold the glass out toward her. “Let's drink a toast. To the future!”
“To the future!”
We clink glasses and drink, although I can tell that a couple of people on the other side of the bar are watching me. Still, if that's all they've got to do with their time, then I guess that's their problem. I'm not going to let this town drag me down, not anymore.
Turning to look out the window for a moment, I feel genuinely hopeful.
To the future.
And then I blink, and everything changes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sheriff Michael Blaine
20 years ago
“Daddy, can you come and look in my room?”
Startled, I look up from the papers on the kitchen table and see that Alex is standing in the doorway. I quickly grab an old folder and open it out, using it to cover some of the photos from Mo Garvey's autopsy. The last thing I want is for Alex to see anything so gruesome.
“Are you still up?” I ask, trying to act casual. “Weren't you supposed to be brushing your teeth before bed?”
“Mommy said I could come downstairs and say goodnight again.”
“You already said goodnight to me a few minutes ago.”
She pauses, before nodding. “I wanted to do it again.”
“Why's that?” I ask.
She pauses again, and then she starts shuffling across the room. Before I have a chance to ask if she's okay, she stops next to my chair and puts her arms around me. I wait for her to say something, but she seems to just want a hug, and for some reason she's showing no sign of letting go.
And then I see him.
Neil Bloom, staring at me through the window. His dead face looks so haggard in the low light, but for a fraction of a second he's right there, until he seems to take a step back and finally he's gone. I watch for a moment longer, feeling a flicker of panic, before realizing that the last thing I need right now is to start seeing ghosts.
“Mommy doesn't believe me,” Alex whispers suddenly.
“About what?”
“There's someone in my room.”
A shiver immediately runs through my chest. “What do you mean by that, honey?” I ask cautiously.
“There's a little girl in my room.”
“Of course there's a little girl in your room,” I tell her, hoping against hope that she's just being silly, that she's just being a normal kid. “There's supposed to be. It's you.”
“No,” she whispers, sounding very serious and also a little scared, still hugging me tight and resting her head on my shoulder. “There's someone else in there. I don't like her. Can you make her leave?”
“Alex, I'm sure there's no-one else in your room.”
“I told Mommy, and she said I was making things up. She didn't take me seriously, but I thought that maybe you'd believe me, because you know the girl.”
“I know her?” I pause, still trying to convince myself that this is just some dumb, childish game. “You've lost me, honey. I don't know what you're talking about, and I certainly don't know any other little girls who might be in your room.”
“You don't?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “I thought you did. She knows you.”
I pull back and look into her eyes. She looks very serious, and she's furrowing her brow slightly, and I can tell that she means every word she's been saying.
“What makes you say that?” I ask cautiously.
“She w
atches you when you walk past my door,” she continues, very matter-of-factly. “I think sometimes she tries to say your name, but she can't talk properly. I don't like her voice. All this black stuff comes out of her mouth, and it's almost like she's growling. She doesn't call you Daddy. She's trying to say Michael.”
“That's not possible,” I reply, forcing a smile. “You've just had a bad dream, Alex. That's all.”
She shakes her head.
“Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference,” I continue. “You're just confused and -”
“No!” she says firmly, with a hint of a whine in her voice and perhaps even tears in her eyes. At the same time, she stomps her right foot against the floor, as if her exasperation is in danger of overflowing. “Daddy, there's a little girl in my room, in the corner! I want you to make her go away before I get into bed!”
“Alex,” I sigh, “why would there be another little girl in your room?”
“I don't know, but there is!” She stomps her foot again as a tear runs down her cheek, and now it's clear that her sense of frustration is growing. “Daddy, I can't sleep if she's there! You have to come and make her leave me alone!”
“Alex -”
And then I hear a creaking sound from upstairs, from Alex's room. I look up at the ceiling, but I know full well that there's a loose floorboard next to Alex's bed. Louisa is in the bathroom, so there shouldn't be anyone else in the house. A moment later, just as I'm about to tell Alex to stop worrying, I hear the creaking sound again.
“I told you!” Alex whispers, her voice tense with fear. “There's another little girl in my room.”
***
“That's really creepy,” Louisa whispers as she turns to me, after switching off the bedside lamp. “Like, she actually thought there was someone in her bedroom?”
“I took her up and she admitted she couldn't see anyone anymore,” I reply, staring up at the dark ceiling. “It's fine. I dealt with it.”
“Do you think she's overheard people talking about Mo Garvey?”
The mention of that name sends a shiver down my spine.
