‘I haven’t seen one of these in years,’ she said, running her fingers through the doll’s red corded hair. ‘They’re American, you know, you don’t tend to see them over here. Was it a gift? Or did your mum pick it up in one of her charity shops?’

  Olivia barely glanced up from her Nintendo DS. Teachers said she had got on well in school, although she was yet to speak. Jennifer was painfully aware this was the first Saturday without Abigail, and couldn’t begin to comprehend what was going on in her head.

  The whirr of the dehumidifier hummed from the back of the room as it drew the damp from the walls. Fiona had the Aga on at full blast again today. It was the beating heart of the house, and the heat it pumped made the place more bearable. The whispers that breathed through the walls had died down to manageable levels. There was only one voice she wanted to hear. Jennifer chatted as Olivia played, the game being paused each time she mentioned ponies, and resumed when she spoke of her father.

  ‘Sweetheart, I know about your daddy’s secret. He told me everything. It’s okay. You don’t need to be scared.’

  A meeep sound emitted from the DS as the Mario character died, and Olivia pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before glancing up.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Matt, your daddy’s friend, too. He said he’s sorry. What you saw . . . well, it was wrong. He’s not going to come around here any more.’

  Silence passed between them as Olivia stared with moon eyes, magnified by the lenses of her glasses.

  ‘I’ve spoken to your mummy too, about how special you are. I’m different too. But you know that. That’s why we’re such good friends. You mustn’t be afraid. We’re all here to help you.’

  Olivia slowly nodded in understanding. Her eyes were wary now, like those of a fox about to be lured into a trap with the temptation of food. She wanted help, but was scared of the repercussions when it was accepted. Downstairs people milled about, muffled conversations carried on about expanding the search, and Nick spoke of printing more missing posters, for all the good it would do. Jennifer touched Olivia’s shoulder, grateful the little girl didn’t flinch.

  ‘Can I speak to Abigail now? I know it hurts, but I really need to speak to her just one more time.’

  Olivia snapped the DS game shut before sitting against the pink padded headboard and closing her eyes. It appeared that she had known all along that that’s what Jennifer wanted.

  Her breathing became shallow, and despite the heat Jennifer felt the stirrings of a cold fog envelop her. But there was something wrong with this communication. There was no simple transition like before. It was strained, and Olivia’s face relayed the effort involved as her eyes squeezed shut. Finally, she took a gasp, but the voice was weak, barely a whisper.

  ‘Tell . . . tell Mummy and Daddy I love . . . them. And Olly, tell her . . .’ Silence ensued, and it seemed as if the communication was lost. Jennifer held her breath as Abigail struggled to form the words. ‘Tell her not . . . to . . . be . . . sad.’ The last words were spoken with huge effort, as if granted with a last breath. A trickle of blood lined Jennifer’s gum as she realised she had been biting down hard. She swallowed, willing the little girl to come back to her. ‘Abigail, we’re still looking. We’ve not given up. Please, tell me anything. Can you hear any sounds? Is it far from the house?’

  Olivia’s face turned waxen, and her shallow breath made Jennifer’s heart quicken. This was not good. It was as if Olivia had swapped places with her sister, and her weakness was taking its toll on Olivia’s body. Jennifer’s heart lurched as realisation dawned.

  ‘No,’ Jennifer whispered, clenching her lifeless hand. ‘Come back, Olivia. You come back here right now. Your mummy and daddy, they need you. I know it’s hard but, please, come back.’

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The healing dog was making an appearance at the care home today. Cedar Homes had a wide range of activities for the elderly. A visit from the priest was another important aspect of Mr Hines’s day. He had always hated religion. It was the main reason why his daughter had chosen this home, knowing that as he was forced to sit through daily masses somewhere inside he would suffer, just a little bit. Another push of the knife. But today he was in hospital. He would not be returning to the care home again.

  To everyone else the blonde-haired woman looked like a bereft daughter leaning over her father to offer words of comfort. The beep of machines, the stale smell of antiseptic; it was more than he deserved. Soon he would be in the ground, and it could not come quick enough as far as she was concerned. Playing the doting daughter really was beginning to wear thin. Her eyes followed the trail to his IV line, carrying fluids to sustain his life. She imagined injecting poison into the bag of saline, and watching as the cocktail seeped into his withered veins.

  ‘This is your fault,’ she whispered. ‘You made me do this. She’s dead because of you.’

  The memories were coming fast now, and she could not stop them. She knew it had been a bad idea, but they had insisted; reliving her childhood would allow her to be free. They were wrong. It made her sick to the core as each memory returned with sensory clarity; his rough hands on her skin, her shame highlighted by the blinding flashes of light. Click click click . . . the camera was never satiated, always hungry for more. Her shame felt like grease on her skin, but it was something she could never wash away. Happiness came only in brief moments, when she was made to feel like someone else. Someone good.

  Hines snuffled from under the blankets. She lightly placed her hand over his, as a nurse breezed past. Wasn’t this what normal daughters were supposed to do? A flare of anger rushed into her chest. How dare he lie there lifeless when he had so much to account for? He had never apologised for ruining her childhood. Not a word, a note, a gesture. Not a flicker of guilt in those steel-blue eyes. Not even when tears streaked down her cheeks. Surely he knew it wasn’t normal? At least they didn’t have the internet back then. If it were happening now, her face would be plastered all over it; there for the titillation of sick minds to play out their darkest fantasies.

  She thought about Abigail, the farm, the car crash that was her life. This was all because of him. Would Abigail’s death really cleanse her from all of that? She had thought that being here, seeing the old man so close to death would at least help. All it did was make her feel as hollow as the shell before her. But each breath he took was like a slap in the face. She couldn’t bear it, not now her memories had returned. And it was the thought of Abigail’s tenth birthday that had sparked it all off. Now, the only way she was going to feel better was to wipe out every reminder.

  ‘Your precious granddaughter is dead,’ she spat as she leaned over his sleeping face. ‘She’s dead and it’s all your fault, do you hear me? Think on that, old man, think on that.’ She drew away her hand, the touch of his skin making her stomach roll around the cheese sandwich she’d eaten earlier in the day. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth to mask a belch.

  She knew what people would say. Photos weren’t the same as actually being abused, were they? They were just pictures. Nobody had ever laid a finger on her, not really. It wasn’t as if she came to any harm. That’s what she told herself. But she was soiled. Dirty. She had to turn her back on the past and put on a brave front. And she could. Once he was gone she could move on with her life. It was a necessary evil. A purging.

  * * *

  She briefly thought of Abigail. It was unfortunate that someone had to be hurt, but there was always Olivia. It wasn’t as if they would be childless. People had told her that her lack of empathy was abnormal, her inability to care for others. She looked at the man lying in bed, so helpless now, not the giant he had once been. Had he ever been that big? Or had she carried that since her childhood? He had ignored her tears, laughed at her pleas to stop. The threat of meeting the monsters behind the photos was enough to make her submit. But now she wondered if they had ever really existed. If the monster was just the man behind the lens. Tears pricked her eyes and she wiped them away.

  She jumped as the nurse hovered past her, giving her a watery smile as she disguised her distress for daughterly love.

  The nurse’s voice was soft and sympathetic. ‘Your father is comfortable. He’s not in any pain. It’s his loved ones that suffer, not him.’

  Her words were meant as comfort but inside she wanted to laugh. Loved ones? He didn’t have any loved ones. His death would be a blessed relief and it couldn’t come quick enough. She waited for the nurse to leave before leaning over for one last farewell.

  ‘Why don’t you just do us all a favour and die, you old bastard?’

  * * *

  She pinched her handbag between her fingers, clutching it to her chest. To the outside world she was a doting daughter, but she knew what she was. She was the spectre at the feast, waiting for the end. But when he went, all reminders had to go with him. Only then could she get on with her life. She could not live through another tenth birthday. She would erase the day forever. She thought of Abigail and sighed. It was necessary. It was just. But first she had to take care of the monster.

  * * *

  She slipped out of the ward long enough to set off the fire alarm, distracting the staff before returning to the room. It did not take long to slip the pillow over his face; far too gentle a death for such an evil man. She could have waited for nature to take its course, but that would risk him being alive on the day. The plot had come quickly, perhaps her brain ensuring self-survival. Just when she had been on the point of ending it all, the idea of revenge had come. She had thought to herself, what have you got to lose? And it was true. Cold and calm, she had worked it out. All the reminders of the past could be deleted, just like when she rebooted her computer. Delete. Reset. And begin all over again. And if it didn’t work, then she could revert to plan B and end it all. Either way, there would be no more pain. Wasn’t that all she really wanted?

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Diary Entry

  So he’s dead. I have played the part of somebody who is suitably upset. The last thing I need is to be implicated, not with everything else going on. Should I have waited? He was so close to the end. But that’s precisely why I had to kill him. It’s a shame he wasn’t awake. I would have loved to see the fear in his eyes as they met mine. I would have returned the same heartless expression he afforded me as a child. He was an evil bastard and I don’t feel remorse for killing him. It wasn’t just for me, because I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. It was for all the victims. It’s better that I don’t go to the funeral. I’m so close to the edge, I can’t trust myself.

  Sometimes I look at Olivia and wish it had been her. She turns her face on me and all I can see is accusation staring back. There’s no love there. I was foolish to think there would be. I thought perhaps I could replace her sister. She didn’t need to love me when she had Abigail. But all she does now is wander around like a spirit, as if a gust of wind could just take her away. It would be better if she was dead, then they could be together. But how? A tragic accident? Drowning, looking for her sister? Or falling through the bedroom window that she’s always staring out of? But when I try to work things out, my head gets all fuzzy and starts to pound. I cannot act on impulse like before. But . . . nobody has caught me yet. And I’m so very close to the end.

  Chapter Sixty

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your dad?’ Nick said, cupping his wife’s cheeks in the palms of his hand. ‘If I’d have known he was that ill . . .’

  ‘I thought he was getting better,’ Joanna said, her eyes glazed as she looked away.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jennifer said, wondering how much tragedy one family could endure. But then, there weren’t many people living in Haven who hadn’t suffered loss of some kind or another. Something she was all too familiar with.

  She had not heard the call come through, as she had been distracted with Olivia, shaking her gently in an effort to bring her back to herself. The child had drawn in a sharp breath, allowing Jennifer’s heart to return to normal as the blueness left her lips. It prompted Jennifer to embrace her in a hug, apologising for asking her in the first place. Olivia had shrugged and returned to her game. The experience put Jennifer firmly in her place. She wouldn’t go risking communications of any kind with Olivia again. For all she knew, she could have been adding to her trauma. She was so desperate to find Abigail that she had ridden roughshod over her sister’s feelings, and she felt thoroughly ashamed. But there was no time to dwell on it, as news of Joanna’s father had filtered through. Heart problems had plagued his later years, but his death had come as a surprise. He had fallen into the realms of dementia, which had left any line of questioning a fruitless task. Another secret in the lips of the town that held many secrets.

  Jennifer sighed. She was close, she could feel it. But Abigail’s voice had grown weak. The connection with her sister was dying out. Her staggered words felt like a bad omen. Abigail was letting go, saying her goodbyes.

  ‘Father Murphy called. He’s going to come around later to speak to you about the funeral,’ Fiona said, laying a mug of sweet tea before Joanna.

  ‘I’m not going,’ Joanna said, staring at the swirling tea.

  Nick reached across the table and touched her hand. His voice was soft, with none of the harshness of recent days. ‘Sweetheart, you healed the rift with my parents, and I want to be there for you now.’

  But Joanna responded with a cold, sharp smile. ‘He had a funeral plan. It’s all paid for. I don’t need to get involved.’

  ‘But you were his daughter, you’re the head of his family,’ Fiona said from behind her, a hint of irritation in her voice. ‘Your relations . . . they’ll expect to see you.’

  ‘Estranged daughter,’ Joanna said, her face pallid, her chest rising as she took deep breaths. ‘And the family . . . will get by without me . . . I’ve not . . . seen them in years.’

  Jennifer recognised the beginnings of a panic attack. She had experienced enough of them in the past to pick up on the symptoms. The feeling of dread enveloping you. A tightness to the chest, the air leaving your lungs faster than you could breathe it in. The sense of being dragged into an underwater tide of doom.

  Fiona nudged the mug of tea closer, passing a knowing glance to Nick. ‘You’ve had a shock, and you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take some time to think about . . .’

  ‘I don’t need . . . to think about it.’ Joanna’s breathing regulated, but the usually cool exterior evaporated as she banged her fist on the table, making the tea splash over the rim of the mug. ‘I’m not going and that’s it. Call the priest. Tell him to arrange it.’

  Fiona nodded quietly. ‘Fine. I’ll do that. By the way, my wages weren’t paid in this week. Perhaps you’d like to see to it when you get a moment.’

  Joanna rose, regarding her coolly. ‘I’ll do it today. If anyone calls, I’m going up for a . . .’

  ‘Lie down. Yes, I know,’ Fiona said, before throwing the tea down the sink.

  Nick followed his wife as she ascended the stairs, his voice trailing behind him as he tried to coax her round. Jennifer joined Fiona at the kitchen counter. Steam rose from the tap as she washed and rinsed the mug.

  ‘That was a bit sharp. Are you okay?’

  Fiona gave her a wry grin. ‘Sorry. Did I come across really pissed off? I struggle to understand her sometimes.’

  Jennifer nodded. ‘You don’t need to apologise to me. It’s only natural that tempers are running high.’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ Fiona gave an exasperated sigh and folded her arms. ‘Oh, never mind.’

  ‘No, go on,’ Jennifer said.

  Fiona regarded her cautiously. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I didn’t mean to snap.’

  Jennifer lingered, hoping Fiona would open up about whatever was troubling her. But the moment was lost; Fiona’s loyalty lay with Joanna.

  ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ Jennifer said. ‘They’ve also scaled back on the search on the woodlands.’

  Fiona gently dried the mug in a red checked tea towel. ‘I know. What do we do after you go? Just carry on as if Abigail never existed? He’ll never stop looking, you know. He’ll keep searching, even if it kills him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jennifer said. ‘I think he’s strong enough to start again. You’ll be given an exit strategy. We won’t completely withdraw. But the family can’t go on like this either.’

  Fiona draped the tea towel on the rail in front of the Aga before turning around. ‘Ever since I met Joanna she’s been living in a different era. I thought about what you said about trying to get her to open up and I’ve scheduled a meditation session. Well, I say meditation . . . it’s more like a relaxation session, where we talk about what’s worrying her. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought you’d never offer,’ Jennifer said.

  In any other circumstances, the thought of returning to Haven nick may have been a welcome one. But Jennifer would be returning under a shadow, having let down Abigail and her family. With all her enquiries exhausted, Fiona was quickly becoming the best hope Jennifer still had of finding answers.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Six Days Gone

  Joanna awoke with a start, as she realised she was not alone. For the first time since she could remember, her husband was in bed beside her. Unaccustomed to the warmth of his body, she lay still so as not to waken him, and then realised he wasn’t pretending to be asleep like before. He was actually snoring. Sleep had been gifted to her husband at last.

  So he had made his decision. They had both come to the edge of the precipice and decided to face what lay ahead together. But for how long? Would he stay with her if the truth was not to his liking? She had given herself to him on their wedding day. She had meant the vows when she said them out loud, even if she had reinvented herself a dozen times over since then.