‘I grabbed a mask from one of the trees, as I wheeled Jackson to the car in the chair. It squeaked and I was so afraid I might be heard.’
I heard – it hadn’t been a dream.
‘But nobody came, so I heaved him into the back of the car. I knew where I was heading – and took mainly back roads here – avoiding cameras – and wearing the wig and mask if a road had CCTV. Easy really.’
I can’t believe my sister had been so calculating. All this time I’d feared she was the helpless one. ‘How have you survived?’ I whisper.
‘Working at a local farm, cash in hand.’
‘They never recognised you?’
She shakes her head. ‘Once I’d cropped off my hair, nobody would have thought I was the blonde-haired girl covered in make-up that they shared all over the media.’
Jackson’s breathing is shallow. ‘He’s going to die, Lark,’ I say. ‘Please don’t let him die. You’re not a killer.’
‘Aren’t I?’
‘Please. I don’t want to lose you again. I’ll be here for you. Please. Let’s get Jackson to hospital.’
A tear rolls down her face. ‘Do you miss Mum, Amelia?’ she whispers.
‘All the time.’
‘I was at the crematorium. I was there. I said goodbye to her.’ Tears stream down her face, and I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
‘I know. I felt you there,’ I say. ‘Please let me get my phone,’ I go on, stepping forward and reaching for it. She doesn’t stop me.
‘I love Jackson. I love him so much it makes my insides ache,’ she says. ‘Why did he hurt me? Why did he break my heart?’ She drops the needle to the floor and climbs onto the bed next to him. His lips are dry – his breathing raspy, but he’s hanging on. She puts her arm around him, curls her body into him, like she’s joined, growing there. ‘I love you,’ she whispers and closes her eyes.
I pick up the phone, but before I can dial, I hear sirens.
The police are on their way.
Epilogue
Three months later
Amelia
I’ve officially moved back in with Dad and Thomas, unable to face returning to London. After everything that happened, I need the security of my childhood home. And it’s worked out well for Thomas too, as I’ve been caring for him, being there as he improves day by day. He can feel his legs now, and he’s building up his muscles. It’s a miracle – when everyone thought he would be in a wheelchair forever.
He’s confided in me many times how much he misses Maddie, and he’s talked about the woman he loves in America who he insists he doesn’t stalk on Twitter. He hasn’t contacted her, but says he will. One day.
I’m still coming to terms with everything. Attempting to move my life back into the normal zone, whatever that is. It isn’t easy, as I’m battling through a mixture of insomnia, and traumatic dreams, whilst grieving for everyone we’ve lost – including the part of Lark we hopefully haven’t lost forever.
My cat jumps onto my lap, startling me from my thoughts. ‘Hello, Bella, my little furry ball of love,’ I say as she nibbles my chin. She’s a bit overweight from staying in London with the girl with the pink hair, but I’m working on cutting down her diet. It isn’t easy, as Misty, who never stops purring, is rather thin. He’s a stray that Jackson fed regularly when he went to the caravan in Laurel Wood – he’d even put in a cat flap for him, so he could get warm on cold nights. We’ve adopted him officially, as once the trial is over Jackson intends to return to the US.
I’m still reeling in shock at what Lark was capable of, and wonder now, if I’d had my eyes fully open on our first visit to Drummondale House if I’d seen how close to the edge she was. If I’d studied more closely the looks that passed between her and Jackson, would I have seen how besotted she was? But instead I was blinded by my own sadness.
Now Lark is going through a traumatic court case for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Jackson – but I’ll be there for her, always. She told me only yesterday, how she would sit in the caravan and listen to Maddie’s vlogs. She’d found out when Mum died that way. I try to understand how desperate she must have been to take Jackson. She’d fallen so deeply for him, and he’d messed with her young mind, fooling her into thinking he loved her.
Dad has fully recovered from his injury. He’s shaved off his moustache, and his dyed black hair has almost grown out. He has more threads of grey than before, but looks like my dad again. He’s rehearsing an Agatha Christie Miss Marple production with the Berwick-upon-Tweed Players. He says it’s the only way he can keep sane – losing himself in a role – pretending to be someone else. Ironically, he’s playing the murderer.
I guess we all have our methods of survival. Mine was alcohol. But I’m battling with my addiction, getting by without booze and feeling better for it.
Rosamund is awaiting trial. The prosecution are pushing for diminished responsibility. The distressing, emotional way she lost her baby when she was pushed against the coffee table, followed by the shock of killing Elise, left her in a delusional, psychotic state. Is it wrong that I feel sorry for her? Perhaps I understand more than some how traumatic it is to lose your unborn baby.
*
The doorbell rings. ‘That’ll be Finn and Julia,’ I call to Dad and Thomas, who are in the kitchen preparing dinner. I rise, and fling open the door.
‘Hey,’ Finn says, brandishing a bottle of wine I know I won’t touch.
‘Hey,’ I say, hugging them both.
We’ve become good friends – survivors of a terrible tragedy. I’ve been searching desperately for some good to come out