by Pip Drysdale
Then I pulled the plug, let out the water, and once the water had all drained out, I squeezed the moisture out of the cloth and dried it off. Holding it over my sleeves so I didn’t leave prints, I took the taser back to where I’d found it, and I thought of that Google search: Where to buy a taser in London …
That had been Brooke. But when? And how?
It was as I nestled it back under her pyjamas that I found the answer.
Cool and metal.
Keys.
I pulled them into view. There were three on the ring. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. A big one and two smaller ones. And they looked terrifyingly familiar. Yes, they looked just like my keys: one to the shop, one to the security door of our building and one to our front door.
I ran over to my bag and pulled out my own set to compare and my throat grew tight. They were exactly the same. My memory flung back to the day I lost my keys and found them again beneath my computer. She’d been there on the day I lost them. She could have copied them and then let herself into the shop. After conducting her little taser Google search all she had to do was leave them there on my desk and let me assume it was my oversight.
Those keys were also how she got into our flat.
Shit.
Because that posed a new problem for me: I’d been right, there would be no forced entry. Which, I assumed, was intentional. Because that would make me look even more guilty. She most definitely had set me up. But why?
I clenched my jaw and pushed the keys back where I found them then looked around the room. The closet. She might have hidden it in the closet.
My hands covered by my sleeves, I pulled open the door. The rails were filled with an array of dresses, shirts and skirts all hanging on misshapen wire hangers. Beneath those lay rows of shoes – nothing there. And above those, a series of sweaters. Mustard yellow. Pink. Red. Just like the red one in that photograph on the USB stick I no longer had.
Holding my breath, I reached beneath them, feeling around.
Nothing.
I clenched my eyes shut. Where would she keep it? Where would she keep it? Where would she keep it?
Because I knew she had a computer. A Mac. I’d used the charging cord. And her handbag wasn’t big enough for her to have taken it with her, so it had to be here somewhere. I closed the cupboard doors again and faced back to the bed.
The bed.
I knelt down and looked beneath it.
It was dark and dusty, the rough outlines of balls of hair and fluff just visible in the low light.
And then there, towards the wall at the head of the bed, lay something rectangular.
Something the size of a laptop.
I reached for it, pulling it to the light.
Yes. It was a laptop. In an old grey zip-up case.
I pulled it out, the noise of the zipper opening echoing off the walls. I pulled the grey metal laptop out. Balancing the laptop on my legs, I powered it on and, as the white Apple logo glowed in the dimly lit room, that’s when I saw it.
The ‘w’ key was missing.
The walls warped inwards.
This was Oliver’s computer.
The one that had been stolen months before.
It was Brooke who had broken into our flat while we were away on honeymoon. Brooke who had stolen his computer. Only his computer.
Why?
What had she hoped to find on there? What was all this about?
As I closed my eyes and tried to recall the screenshot I’d been studying on that train platform: How to reset a Mac’s password.
Because nothing in life is an isolated incident, is it? Everything seeps into everything else.
Everything is useful in the end.
I held down two keys.
Step one: Hold down command and R at the same time. The screen went black.
Step two: Go to ‘Utilities’.
Step three: Click on ‘Terminal’.
Step four: Type in resetpassword.
Step five: Enter new password.
I entered the only word I had on my mind right then: Oliver.
Step six: Save.
Step seven: Restart.
Step eight: Re-enter password: Oliver
A moment while the computer loaded, and then, just like that, I was in.
Episode 8
WEDNESDAY, 13 JUNE 2018 (8.58 AM)
My throat tightened as I stared at Brooke’s desktop. The face staring back at me in that darkened room was one I recognised. But it wasn’t Oliver’s. And it wasn’t Brooke’s either.
It was Alyssa’s face.
The same picnic-blanket-red-glow picture that was used on her memorial page. The room rang with silence and adrenaline pumped through my veins. What was going on? Everything just kept getting weirder and weirder.
If Brooke was some stalker in love with Oliver, why would she have Alyssa’s picture as her screensaver?
I stared at her desktop: it was much like mine – like Oliver’s – a mess of documents and blue folders, and I didn’t know where to start. What was I even looking for? How do you prove someone killed your husband?
What I needed was direct access to her twisted mind. Her every little secret. But I’d have to settle for the next best thing: her social media feeds and emails. Because, thanks to Oliver, I knew exactly where to find the passwords to those.
Chrome was the only browser on the ribbon at the bottom of the screen so I clicked on it and went to ‘Preferences’, then ‘Passwords’.
I scanned the list, looking for her Facebook login and my breath caught in my throat. Because Brooke had told me her last name was Thompson – Brooke Thompson: Personal Styling – and I’d never had any reason to question it. And yet, there was her email address: [email protected].
Yes: Shaw.
The same last name as Alyssa.
And, in that moment, everything I’d been missing came tumbling into view all at once like someone was adjusting the focus on my lens in real time. Now that I thought about it, there were some similarities between the two: same colouring, same build. And with the same last name, only one thing made sense.
They were sisters.
So, had Brooke met Oliver when he was dating Alyssa? Was that when her obsession began?
My heart thudded in my chest as I clicked on the eye beside her email address and, when prompted, entered O-l-i-v-e-r.
A moment later, there it was. Revealed. Her email password.
The floor spun beneath me as my mouth sounded it out: AlyssaRIP.
I clicked on the eye beside her Facebook login and the same password flashed up: AlyssaRIP.
My stomach clenched. I was no expert on the subject but it seemed to me that if you were stalking your dead sister’s ex, you wouldn’t want things around that might remind you about your sister at every turn. You wouldn’t, say, have her picture as your screensaver and her name etched into your passwords.
Which meant I was missing something.
Keeping the passwords tab open, I opened another window and logged into her Facebook account, the Facebook account she’d pretended not to have all those weeks ago when we’d first met and I’d wanted to add her on Facebook. Oh please, Facebook is for my Mum. But you can add me on Instagram.
Slowly, I entered her password: A-l-y-s-s-a-R-I-P.
And then, after a moment of white, the screen filled with her secrets, the true Brooke I’d never seen. Brooke Shaw didn’t post to Facebook that often. But a quick click through her photographs showed a number of images with her and Alyssa together. They were definitely sisters. And more than that, they were close.
I clicked through to her Facebook wall and scrolled down. She hadn’t posted anything in a few months, not since April, around the time she wandered into my Pilates class. I guess she’d been busy with me. But my heart clenched when I saw what she’d posted back then. It wasn’t the subject matter that scared me: a coffee cup (innocuous enough). It was where it had been posted from: Instagram.
Fr
om an account named @lover7.
I’d been right. It was Brooke who’d been watching me.
I was filled with a need to see what was on that account. Everything I’d not been able to see before.
Her Instagram password wasn’t listed there with the others, but I was pretty certain I knew what it would be. People often think Instagram is only a mobile app but you can use it from a computer too. I used it that way every day at my job at Boulevard. So I didn’t need to turn on my phone and infect it in a way that might later be used against me.
I opened a third tab and went to Instagram.
I knew her username: @lover7 so I entered that. And then I took my chances with her password and entered AlyssaRIP.
Two seconds later, the screen filled with photographs of her and Alyssa together. Each had a caption beneath it, all variations on: I’ll never forget you; I will never stop looking for the truth; When you lose a sister you lose half your soul.
Brooke wasn’t a woman in love.
She was a woman in mourning.
But why take it out on us?
Did she blame us for her sister’s death? Oliver for breaking her heart? Me for stealing him away? It wasn’t like that, but Brooke didn’t know that. I could hear the words rattling around in my head: He left his ex for me. She was batshit crazy though. We bumped into her once at Sainsbury’s – Wow, she was a mess.
Shit. No wonder she hated me.
The room spun as I thought of that taser search in my browser history. What else had she planted for DCI Holland to find?
And how the hell was I going to get out of this?
Because it’s one thing to know someone killed your husband, but it’s quite another to be able to prove it. I didn’t have the photograph of her and Oliver together any more, so for all intents and purposes I couldn’t even prove they’d met. I could tell DCI Holland that Alyssa was Brooke’s sister, but being sisters with someone doesn’t exactly make you a criminal. Not as much as, say, breaking into someone’s flat and accessing all their social media and email accounts. And if Brooke had planned things well enough to copy my keys, drop that tracker in my bag, and put the taser search in my work computer search history, it was highly likely that she’d have an excellent excuse in case any connection was made. She’d have an alibi.
No, I needed more. A lot more. And so I went back to Hotmail and entered [email protected] and then typed in A-l-y-s-s-a-R-I-P.
My ears roared as the screen flashed white and her inbox came into view. It was as though I already knew I was about to learn something I couldn’t unlearn. My stomach grew tight, my breathing shallow. Whatever was in there, I suddenly didn’t want to know. But that didn’t matter. I needed to know. It was potentially the only thing that would keep me out of prison.
The first message I saw was a helpful one from Instagram alerting Brooke to the fact that her account had been logged into from a new location. I deleted it immediately, before she spotted it on her iPhone, and then removed it from the deleted file too. No point leaving an e-trail.
Back in her inbox, I scanned the unopened messages, their titles still bolded. As I read them, the entire world lapsed into slow motion. The top two read: Oliver1982 you have a new message.
The third read: @Oliver1982 somebody likes you.
The senders differed but all three came from dating apps.
All thoughts in my head were now on mute and all I could hear was: ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. What was going on?
Why would Brooke have emails from Oliver’s dating apps in her inbox?
My eyes burned with tears as I blinked quickly, staring at those messages on the screen, struggling to compute.
The walls swayed in towards me. Could this really be happening? No. Surely not. My hand moved to my mouth and I swallowed hard. Because there was only one reason I could think of: it wasn’t him I’d seen on that app, after all. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t going to sex parties. It was all a lie.
It was her.
I clenched my jaw and my eyes burned with tears as I remembered Oliver’s reply to Justin: I didn’t make that profile. But I think we have a problem.
I should have trusted him.
My eyes blurred with tears. What had I done? If I’d believed him I’d never have stormed out, he might still be alive.
Battery acid filled my mouth.
But why was she doing this to us? People get their hearts broken every day. We didn’t mean to hurt anyone – we just fell in love.
Then came the next thought. If Brooke made those profiles, then it was Brooke, not Oliver, who was messaging me that night I went out with Tess to that gallery. It was her I was sexting with, not him.
The messages she sent me came flooding back: I want someone to tell her. I want her to know, I want it over, but I don’t have the heart to let her down.
Was Brooke doing that with every woman she matched Oliver with? Encouraging them to tell me, Oliver’s wife?
And then I realised – yes, if she was planning on killing him, that’s exactly what she’d been doing. Because Brooke wanted someone to tell me, for me to think he was cheating. She wanted me to have a motive. She wanted us to fight.
No, she needed us to fight.
For me to tell people he was cheating, for the neighbours to hear us argue – she’d have known there was a good chance there would be a screaming match at some point. Who wouldn’t get angry if they found a garter belt in their husband’s pocket on top of everything else? A garter belt she knew Oliver would deny any knowledge of, which would make me doubt him even more.
A garter belt she’d planted because, as I now knew, she had keys to our flat.
But when?
I thought back to that night I went through Oliver’s computer. Something had felt different about the flat. About the air. The faint smell I couldn’t put my finger on. I knew what it was now: Moroccan hair oil. Vanilla.
I clenched my eyes shut, trying to stop the thoughts but it didn’t work. A hot, thick guilt was pulsing through me.
Because I’d done this. I’d made it possible for her.
She’d found the pictures for his profile on my Instagram page.
And he’d warned me.
He’d tried to tell me and I hadn’t listened. A small cry escaped my lips and something deep within me punctured: he had loved me, he hadn’t cheated on me, I’d never see him again and it was my fault.
The room was spinning now and my face was wet with tears, but the time in the top right hand corner read 9.22 and I needed to leave before someone realised I was here. Roughly wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, I focused on the screen and scanned down through the rest of her emails. There was nothing there. Nothing I could use. And that’s when I noticed the highlighted messages at the top. Five of them. They’d been pinned; they had to be important.
The first one was from ‘Alyssa Shaw’ so I clicked on that one. Of course I clicked on that one.
The subject read: This is what I sent him.
I clicked through to the body of the message and quickly scanned the words.
Dear Oliver,
I still can’t believe you did this to me. To my parents. They’re going to lose their house if we don’t pay them back. Please, I’m begging you. I know this isn’t who you are. Because I fell in love with the most wonderful man, a man who would never use me like this, who would never lie to me like this. Please, be that man. Please get us our money back. You promised me we couldn’t lose it. You PROMISED me. And I promised them. And please, for the love of god, reply to me this time. I miss you. I’m not even sure if you’re coming home again. Please.
I love you, Alyssa.
Okay – what?
My eyes darted to the date: 11 November 2016. They were still together at that point. But why would Oliver have borrowed money from her, from her parents, for an investment?
It made no sense.
And not just because using personal money for a business venture was a risk Oliver
would never take, because I knew my husband at least that well: he wouldn’t have bet on a horse that would lose. He was too ambitious, too capable.
If he’d taken her money and not paid her back … he’d meant to.
But why would he do that?
I clicked on the next message. It was from Alyssa again and it was dated early June 2017. It read:
I saw them together, Brooke. I can’t do this. She looks so happy, just like I did. He’s never going to talk to me again or give me anything back. Mum and Dad are never going to forgive me. I’m never going to forgive myself. I can’t sleep any more. I just don’t know what to do.
My pulse tapped against the soft spot in the middle of my throat and my hand shook as I clicked on the next message. It was from a lawyer this time, dated January 2018, just a few months earlier. And it was addressed to Brooke’s email address:
Dear Ms Shaw,
As per our conversation today, I regret to inform you in writing that we cannot take your case any further as there simply is no proof to support your allegations against Mr Buchanan.
In addition, it is vital that you cease emailing Hornsby Private Equity immediately – they’re threatening to take action against you for harassment. We offer our gravest sympathy for your situation and your loss, yours sincerely …
Were those the emails Justin had mentioned? We can’t afford any more attention after those emails …
Oliver made it clear he never wanted to talk about her. About any exes. No wonder.
I sat there in the stale air trying to piece it together simply for myself – a colour by numbers attempt. So Brooke was Alyssa’s sister. Oliver had dated Alyssa, he’d invested money for her and her parents and lost it. Or kept it. Or something. But whatever it was he hadn’t paid her back. Then he’d left her for me. Alyssa had killed herself. And Brooke blamed us. When lawyers couldn’t help her, she took matters into her own hands. She’d broken into our flat and taken his computer.
