Page 67 of The House Guest

A shovel. To bury my body.

He opened the back door.

‘Get out,’ he said.

‘No way.’

He stuck the gun in my face.

‘You know something, Adam? You should have gone home. Or just waited.’

‘For Ruth to come back? Changed?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘That what Callum Maguire told you? That asshole is next. I’m gonna enjoy dispatching that motherfucker, after what Eden’s told me.’

What did that mean?

‘What about Wanda Brooks? Don’t deny it – you told me you’d talked to her. You know where we can find her?’

‘No. We met her in public.’

He put the gun against my forehead. ‘You sure?’

‘I swear. She wouldn’t let us go to her place. She’s totally paranoid.’

‘Hmm.’ He seemed to believe me.

‘Who else you been talking to, huh?’ he asked. ‘I know you went to see Mona. And I also know you went to Columbia. What did they tell you?’

‘Nothing. They wouldn’t tell me anything.’ I didn’t want Krugman going there and murdering Professor Kyle and Brenda. ‘I showed them Eden’s photo but they said they couldn’t say anything because of confidentiality. Listen, I—’

‘Shut up! Talking, talking, always talking. Jesus Christ. You’re worse than Jack. Now get the fuck out of that car.’

He grabbed my arm and yanked me out, twisting me round so he was behind my back. He held on to my upper arm.

Behind me was the road that cut through the woods; ahead I could see nothing but trees. I felt like they were watching me, a solemn crowd, silent and still. Witnesses to an execution.

A path, muddy from the recent rainfall, led into the woods.

‘Let’s go,’ said Krugman, letting go of my arm and pushing me ahead of him.

I forced myself to walk, one foot in front of the other, my way illuminated by the beam from Krugman’s torch. As we entered the woods, the trees closing around us, welcoming us in, I heard a car drive by on the road. Krugman paused and glanced over his shoulder. I thought about calling out but there was no point – they would never have heard me – and by the time I’d dismissed the idea, the road was quiet again. The car gone. I considered running, wondering if I could lose myself in the trees. That might be my only chance. But I would be in the pitch-darkness, hands cuffed, pursued by a man with a flashlight and a gun. I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere.

‘Why did you kill Jack?’ I asked. ‘Were you worried he was going to own up to knowing Eden?’

I thought he might deny it, but he said, ‘You know, Jack begged for his life. Like a little kid begging not to be beaten by his dad. Is that what you’re going to do?’

‘Would it do any good?’

He laughed.

‘Ruth will want to know what’s happened to me,’ I said. ‘She’ll know who was responsible. She’ll go to the police. The real police.’

He shoved me forward so I stumbled and almost fell. ‘I am the real police.’

We carried on walking, deeper into the woods. It was almost dry here, the canopy of trees providing protection from the rain, but the air still burned with the scent of the summer storm. Something landed on my face – a bug, some kind of fly – and I tried to shake it away, realising my cheeks were wet. I had been crying without knowing it. Crying for Ruth. Perhaps, though I was loath to admit it, for myself.

A little way into the woods, close to a ditch that ran alongside the path, Krugman said, ‘Stop.’

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