I stared at her, unflinching, until she looked away. Then I laughed, a harsh sound, devoid of humour. ‘You know, I’ve heard of this. People who convince themselves of something, when in actual fact it’s a lie. But I’ve never seen it for myself before. You’re weak, Amy. You could convince yourself of anything. You don’t even realise you’re doing it, do you? You’re one of those people who actually believe their own bullshit.’ Angrily, with a single hand, I swept a pile of letters off a shelf onto the floor. Then taking a deep breath, I tried a different tack. ‘We need to talk, don’t we?’ I tried to sound persuasive. ‘You need to face up to what you did. Then maybe we can both put it behind us – for good.’
‘You have a nerve coming here.’ Amy stared at me. ‘We have nothing to talk about. I never want to see you again. Get out.’
‘Ooo,’ I was taunting her. ‘Ever so slightly losing it, are we?’
‘This is my house.’ Amy’s voice was hostile, her body rigid. ‘Don’t come here again. If you do, I’ll call the police.’
I stood there for a moment, challenging her. ‘I don’t believe for one moment you’d actually do that.’
‘Who do you think they’d believe?’ Her eyes blazed into mine. ‘My life is sorted. Yours clearly isn’t.’ As she speaks, her eyes deliberately linger on my hair, my clothes. ‘You might wear the right clothes, but I wouldn’t mind betting that underneath, you’re the same as you always were. Reckless, acting first, thinking later …’
‘You have no idea who I am,’ I snarl at her. ‘You just wait. One of these days it will be me people listen to – I’ll make sure of it. You won’t have a chance. You’ll regret the way you treated me.’
‘Are you surprised?’ This time, she sounds outraged. ‘After what you did?’
‘You may have convinced yourself otherwise, but we both know who is the guilty one. But if you want me to, I’ll go.’ I hesitated. ‘Just so long as you know you haven’t heard the last of this.’ Picking up my bag, I walked towards the door. Just before opening it, I turned around briefly. ‘There are two sides to every story. Don’t ever forget that.’
‘But there’s only one version of the truth,’ I heard her call after me just before I slammed the door. As I walked away, I wondered if she’d sunk into one of her velour armchairs, with God knew what going through her head. I hadn’t wanted to lose it, but for too long there’d been an imbalance between us, one it was time to redress. Sweet, innocent little Amy who got off scot-free, while my entire life had collapsed around me. Well, she wasn’t getting away with it any longer.
Knowing she’d done everything in her power to prevent our paths from crossing again, I had no doubt my visit would have shaken up her cosy little world. She might have thought she was safely ensconced in her dull suburban life, that she held the trump card. But as I walked away, I swore on my life that one day, our roles would be reversed. It would be me holding the trump card. This time, it would be Amy no-one would listen to, Amy who ultimately suffered and who at long last, paid the price.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
With Matt still missing, my conviction grows that the police are right and Amy is connected with his disappearance. From speaking to Matt, I know exactly where she lives, in the house I know from way back, on a quiet lane. I don’t think even Matt knew it was her gran’s house. For a moment, I picture it as it was when we were teenagers; the thick walls with stories embedded in the age-old Chinese wallpaper; where overgrown hedges and flint walls guarded an alchemist’s garden. I wonder if it’s changed. Then I try to imagine how life is there, in a home tarnished by the memory of what happened all those years ago.
One evening before Amy’s arrest, idle curiosity – or obsession, as no doubt some people would call it – took me to that house. Amy’s house. As I stood outside, I couldn’t believe she’d made it her home. It used to be a magical place with a wilderness of a garden. Now, the memory of what happened here is hidden behind the neat front lawn, the closed wooden gate, the curtains masking the glow from an upstairs window.
My idle curiosity satisfied, I drove back to Brighton, as something Matt said came back to me. It was about Amy refusing to sell the cottage, and it causing endless rows between them. At the time, it had puzzled me, but now, knowing who she is and who it used to belong to, I wonder if there’s more to it than she’s letting on.
Back in my flat again, I was struck by the fact that that this was some coincidence. I’d thought about calling her to confront her about Matt, but also, because I was curious, to find out what she knew about me. Instead, I poured myself a drink, trying to ignore my conscience pushing me to do what I didn’t want to: to tell the police what I knew about Amy and what she was capable of.
But seeing the house again stirred up memories of that day, twenty-three years ago, as I remember the teenager who died. The elderly woman who took the blame, a woman who was innocent. Amy and I knew that, just as Amy and I know the truth. But it’s a truth that will remain hidden, like the vow we made, forever binding us, in silence.
Blood sisters.
Suddenly irritated, recklessness gripped me. Picking up my phone, I dialled the number I’d found online for Amy’s business. Waiting as it rang, imagining what her reaction would be, irritated with the way she’d clung
