Page 97 of I Would Die for You

If it weren’t for the heroin I got from Larry outside Dallinger’s that night. If I’d not stupidly left it in my rucksack. If I’d not told Cassie of my plan for revenge…

Who knows whether I would have been brave enough to plantit on Michael myself, safe in the knowledge that a phone call to the police was all that would have been needed to bring about his downfall. But that’s all that it was ever supposed to be. A wake-up call, to let him know that he couldn’t carry on walking around as if he was untouchable. I wanted him to know what it felt like to have your dignity stripped, your innocence snatched away…

I was going to do it for Cassie—to show her that people don’t get to do what Michael did to her and get away with it. But my bravery had deserted me just as her impatience had seemingly kicked in.

I realized the heroin was missing just before Ben called to say that Cassie had been at the press conference. I daren’t imagine what she might do with it, but in that moment all I could think was that she would use it to do herself harm, such was her desolation.

But it seemed that that was never her intention.

“What the fuck happened?” I’d screamed at her as we were released from police custody after being held until the early hours after Michael’s death. They’d wanted to know who I was, why I was there, my relationship to Cassie and the troubling connection between me and the man who had been found hunched over Michael’s body, covered in his blood.

“They said Dad was trying to resuscitate him,” I’d cried, as panic threatened to block my airways. “What was he doing there? Does he know that you gave Michael the heroin?”

Cassie had looked at me, wide-eyed.

“You need to tell me what happened,” I’d yelled. “If they find out you took the drugs from me and gave them to Michael, we could both go to prison for a very long time.”

Her brow had creased. “I didn’t give the drugs to Michael,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, thank god.” I sagged with relief. “So, it wasn’t my drugs that killed him?”

She’d bitten down on her lip, knowing that even one wrong answer could get her in deep water.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, after what felt like an eternity. “Because I gave them to Ben.”

“Fuck!” I yelled, my brain about to explode with the myriad of ensuing consequences. “What did you dothatfor?”

“He wanted to get high, and I thought it might make him love me again,” she said.

I’d held on to the railings outside Charing Cross station to stop my knees from buckling as a tsunami of responsibility washed over me.

“But he went straight to Michael’s room with it,” Cassie went on.

I’d headbutted the unforgiving metal railings, drowning in a sea of guilt and deceit.

“It was Ben who killed him,” she said, making it sound as if he’d done it with his own bare hands.

And I’d believed her.Until now.

I bang my hands on the steering wheel, swerving dangerously close to the central reservation as I dare to imagine how my father must have tortured himself over the past twenty-five years.

It’s not difficult to envisage his heart-stopping panic when he realized his daughter was guilty of so much more than she cared to admit. And when the evidence against Ben began to mount, he must surely have wondered what harm it would do to add a little context to keep the police focus on the undeniable facts: his highly publicized drug habit, the fight in front of the world’s press, the threats to kill, Michael’s blood on his T-shirt, his jacket that lay casually draped behind Michael’s corpse.

Maybe my father had convinced himself that he didn’t see what he knew he saw. Maybe he was so intent on keeping Cassie out of the picture that his guilty conscience was easy to ignore. I can almost sympathize with the cross he’d had to bear, because now that my own family are at risk, there isnothingI wouldn’t do to protect them.

54

Dusk is falling by the time I get home, and the darkening skies create an ominous aura. But there’s nothing to suggest that my family are under siege or that my house is under surveillance. The windows are devoid of movement and light, and Hank’s unmarked car sits idly across the street.

“Has anything changed?” I ask as I slip into the back seat.

He shakes his head without taking his eyes off the porch.

“Not since I went inside and checked,” he says. “Which was about an hour ago.”

“And you’re sure that nothing was amiss?” I ask, my words strangled by the panic in my chest. “There was no sign of anything untoward in Hannah’s bedroom? No sign of anything being out of place?”

“Not as far as I could see. Everything looked as it always does.”

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