Page 44 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘I’ll have to make sure it’s a good ’un, then.’ Serena gives me another hug, kisses me on the cheek and climbs into her car. I stand on the pavement and wave until she disappears from view before walking up the road. As I reach our row of houses, I catch a shadow passing behind my car on the pavement opposite, and goosebumps prickle my skin. Was that him again? I’m relieved I didn’t let Serena come to the house now, that I’ve kept her away from this; kept her safe. I give a furtive glance around then dart up the path, my hands trembling as I try to get the key in the lock.
I’ll feel safer when I’m inside, I think. On the third attempt, I jam the key in and the door swings open. The hall is dark, the atmosphere cold, like no one lives here, and I have the urge to ring Serena and get her to turnher car around and come back. Stay with me, like she suggested. But she has someone to go to; I don’t want to get in the way of that.
I lock the front door, then slide the chain across. Like that’s going to keep me safe.
Chapter 30
Despite the traces of this morning’s hangover still making themselves known in the form of an ever-present nausea and a pounding headache, it doesn’t stop me from opening a new bottle of wine and pouring myself the equivalent of half a pint now. Speaking to Serena made me realise how important her friendship is. And here I am, keeping things from her, telling her half-truths. I swallow a mouthful of wine, relishing the burn to my throat. If – when – the truth comes out, how will she feel about me then? Way to go to ruin the only good relationship I have left. I’ve never had groups of friends, always preferring to put all my eggs in one basket. Focus on putting my all into one friendship for fear of spreading myself too thin. Or possibly because I don’t feel comfortable opening up to people. My old psychologist would have had some theories about this, saying it has roots in my childhood, that I have an inability to trust people because of being let down so badly by my parents and then those at thechildren’s home. We were supposed to be protected at Finley Hall. Meant to be safe, looked after; loved, even – or at least given the impression of being loved, rather than suffering its withdrawal as a punishment.
It’s safer to only rely on yourself, I realise. I laid myself bare to Ross – or as bare as I was able, given my past – and now he has joined the list of those who’ve let me down. Abandoned me. Serena is all I have. My nose tingles with the onslaught of tears and I rub my nostrils with the back of my hand, sniffling loudly. Sitting in the armchair with my legs tucked up, I gulp down more wine and look around my lounge. All the curtains and blinds are drawn, windows and doors locked. The house is secure, but I still don’t feel as protected as I do when Ross is here. The silver-framed photo of our wedding day, with the two of us smiling widely for the camera, stares at me from the bookshelf.
Tearing my gaze from it, I switch the telly on and flick absently through every channel, not really seeing what programmes are on. I stop on one randomly, turning the volume up to create the illusion that there’s someone else in the house with me. Then I scroll through my phone, checking WhatsApp to see when Ross was last active. My heart jolts when I see he’s online now.
I quickly exit the app. I wonder who he’s talking to. Or is he seeing ifI’monline? I’d have thought at the very least he’d have made contact by now to check if I was okay. However guilty he’s feeling – or relieved, maybe? – that his affair is out in the open, surely our years of marriage meansomething? Enough for him to make sure his wife hasn’t been slain – or taken her own life, for that matter. He must know the devastation he’s caused. Heknew I was already in a state about Henry; adding to that burden by ignoring me feels cruel.
And Ross isn’t a cruel person. It was his genuine interest in me as a person, his desire to know what made me tick, that attracted me to him in the first place. He drew me in, enabled me to trust him. No mean feat, considering how damaged I was thanks to my years at Finley Hall. Everyone from there left with scars, either physical or mental – often both. It was a given.
My mind drifts to Henry. Looking back now, it’s clear that he had needed help, and he didn’t get any while he was there. I doubt he sought it later in life, either. It had taken me a while to admit I needed therapy, having been afraid of it for such a long time. I’d had no idea what a therapist actually did; I’d believed they had a powerful ability to see inside your mind, know things you didn’t want people knowing. I’d convinced myself that I was managing the triggers, the awful memories, the trauma all by myself. It took a few ‘incidents’ before I had come around to the idea that positivity and self-talk could only get me so far. That I would benefit from outside help, and that in fact, therapistsweren’tmind-readers.
Now things are crumbling around me, the coping strategies I was armed with, the cognitive behavioural therapy sessions that covered all the skills to enable me to manage difficult situations, don’t seem enough. I’m faced with losing everything I’ve worked so hard for. Watching everything you care about slip through your fingers is a crushing experience, one that could tip you over the edge. One wrong move, a wrong path taken, could lead to doing the wrong things – illegal things.
Even murder.
The line can be thin; it might not take a lot to cross it.
My eyelids droop, my blinking slows as I begin to fall into the darkness of unconsciousness.
What feels like minutes later I sit bolt upright, breathing fast. I peer around, taking a few moments to gather my bearings. I’m on the sofa, in the lounge. I check my mobile and see I’ve actually been asleep for two and a half hours.
Something woke me. A noise outside?
Or inside.
I stay stock still, listening, my eyes wide in anticipation – my senses on high alert. I feel comforted by the soft glow of the lamp, which offers evidence that there’s no one standing over me with a knife. So, with my heartbeat pelting against my ribs, I start to slide off the sofa an inch at a time, careful not to make a sound. I hear a scuffling noise outside. I move to the window, pinch the curtain back a tiny bit, but I can’t see anything, or anyone. I’ve got a limited view here, though, so I creep upstairs to gain a better vantagepoint, unlocking the bedroom balcony doors. I sneak out, edging forwards on the balcony until I am close enough to see through the glass balustrade, then I keep low to avoid detection. Shadows flit across the road, over the pavements.
Is someone out there, watching? Or is it just nocturnal animals – my imagination?
My unease in Craig Beaumont’s office yesterday, and my wild thought about him having something to do with my predicament – or the wilder one thatheis Henry – come back to me now. Is it as implausible as I tried to tell myself? A few days ago, I’d have said Henry being aserial killer was far-fetched. If someone were hellbent on destroying another person’s life, it could be possible they would redirect their own life to make the two paths cross. Infiltrate their target’s life. Craig was appointed headmaster of Seabrook just six months ago …
Is it Craig who is watching me now?
I shiver – I’d fallen asleep in just my thin shirt – and as I’m unable to make out a figure or anything unusual in the street, I shuffle back into my bedroom, then close and relock the balcony doors. I’m wide awake now; there’s no chance I’ll be able to drift off again for a couple of hours, so I may as well do something productive. I steal back downstairs, the thought that someone is inside still not flushed out of my system, and I get my laptop to bring it up to bed. I undress, put on my pyjamas and dressing gown, then sit cross-legged and begin searching the internet for anything to do with Seabrook Prep and Craig Beaumont.
It’s not long before I make a startling discovery: Craig’s brother. He’s never mentioned him, but I can’t say that’s abnormal as I’ve never mentioned mine, either. However, his brother, Neil, is referred to on an old Facebook profile of Craig’s but with a different surname: Holsworthy, not Beaumont. Alarm bells ring in my head; my entire body stiffens.
I know that name.
Chapter 31
FINLEY HALL CHILDREN’S HOME
Miss Graves peers over her glasses at Anna and Kirsty.
‘I’ve had rather a disturbing report that two nights ago you violated the rules laid down by me in order toprotectyou. Sneaking out of the grounds is bad enough; breaking curfew is irresponsible; but attending a gathering and underage drinking is downright inexcusable, and what’s more, dangerous. You two have given Finley Hall a bad name.’
Anna scoffs.
‘Something to say, Ms Lincoln?’ Miss Graves’s face turns an even deeper red, her eyes bulging from their sockets as she stands up and leans over her desk.
