Page 112 of The New House

‘Stacey was the adult here,’ I say. ‘Whatever Peter may or may not have known, he’s only ten. She probably terrified him half to death. What happened here is on her.’

Tom looks at me over Harper’s head. He doesn’t need to say anything. We both know what our son is. Stacey and Peter had a meeting of minds, a partnership of equals, regardless of the age difference between them.He was the one who made me see I couldn’t let Felix leave the cellar.Without her acolyte to egg her on, would she still have doomed her husband to his excruciating death? Who was the real master here, and who the disciple?

‘This is on Stacey,’ I insist. ‘She tried to kill our son. She put him in thefreezer.’

‘She put him in the freezer,’ Tom echoes.

I wonder if the words sound as hollow in my mouth as they do in his.

This isn’t just on Stacey, and we both know it. For all her monstrous behaviour, Stacey wasn’t entirely irredeemable. She felt some compunction about what she did; maybe even regret. Her relationship with Felix was far more complicated than we’ll ever know: I think she loved and hated him in equal measure. And she wanted me to be with my son when he died: however warped her thinking, she was trying to do right by me. She gave me the Stanley knife, either to give me an easy way out or a fighting chance: I honestly think she meant it when she said she liked me. And she certainly admired my son. Was actuallyfondof him, in her own way.

I don’t think Peter is fond of anyone.

I think my son is incapable of empathy. I think he could kill a man as easily as swatting an ant, without doubt or hesitation.

There must have been a reason Stacey turned on Peter. A reason she tried to kill him. Something he’d done that she found unforgivable.

He thought he could do what he liked and it’d be too late for me to be able to do anything about it.

There’s a story in Native American culture that describes the battle between two wolves that live inside us all: one wolf is evil – it is anger, violence, resentment, darkness, despair. The other wolf is good – it’s love, hope, light. Which wolf wins?

The one you feed.

It’s not too late for Peter. I can still save him, if Tom will let me.

‘How could he?’ Tom whispers. ‘How could he be part ofthis … thishorrorshow?’

‘He’s our son,’ I say. ‘He’sours.’

Tom puts his hand over his mouth, as if physically holding back words.

‘He’s our son,’ I insist. ‘He’smyson.’

‘This isn’t you,’ Tom says harshly. ‘Don’t you dare put this on yourself. He didn’t get this from you. You’re nothing like this. You’re not a monster. You save lives, Millie, you don’t take them. Yousavelives,’ he says again.

He’s right. The dark wolf in me is strong, but I’ve worked hard all my life to starve him into submission. My childhood forced me to armour myself against the world, to detach myself emotionally for my own self-preservation. But I’m not a psychopath: if I were, I wouldn’t distinguish between the good wolf and the bad. I wouldn’t even know they were different.

I’d be like Peter.

My son’s forced me to confront whattruepsychopathy looks like. But he can’t help the way he’s wired any more than I could help the family I was born into. I have to save him if I can.

‘We can’t tell anyone he knew,’ I plead. ‘We’ve got to protect him.’

‘Who’ll protect everyonefromhim?’

‘Tom,’ I beg. ‘Please. We don’t know. We don’t know he did anything wrong. We don’tknow.’

Harper moans softly on the cellar floor beside us. In the distance, the sound of sirens grows louder. The ambulance is nearly here. ‘Hold on,’ I tell her urgently. ‘Think of Kyle and the boys. You can do this, Harper. Hold on for them.’

Her breathing is getting shallow. I’m a doctor: I know the signs.

She’s twenty-seven years old. She has two little boys called Tyler and Lucas.

She saved my son’s life.

I stroke her hair back from her forehead. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ I lie. ‘You’re going to be fine. You just have to hold on a little bit longer.’

‘Peter,’ she whispers.

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