What had made her believe that things were coming to a head?
I stood up, looking around at the scattered mess of papers on the floor. There were also notes in my phone, screenshots, and some information I’d tried to commit to memory – I needed to file everything properly, make sure it was all written down in one place. There were gaps in this story, and I needed to see where they were. Grabbing a pen and paper, I started to put together a timeline of what I knew, and make notes about what I still had to find out.
When had Amy ended things with Phil? That seemed like a crucial piece of the puzzle. I poured myself another vodka and picked up the laptop to log back into Amy’s Facebook account.
I hadn’t looked at her page since I’d first found the messages from Phil, and it was full of new posts. Her friends had shared quotes, photos and memories of her. Some were paragraphs long and others just a line or two. As I scrolled down through her page, seeing them all knocked the wind out of me. I allowed myself to read a few, just for the sweet indulgence of seeing other people share my grief, validating my pain.
The newest posts were angry commentaries on Phil’s arrest. I read these recent additions carefully, combing for clues, but nobody else seemed to know any of the details – yet. At least, nobody was sharing them here. Another nurse from the hospital had uploaded a photo of herself with Amy, and my sister’s beautiful smile transfixed me for a moment before I scrolled on. People were sharing the donations that they had made to charities in Amy’s name. There were tributes from university friends, work colleagues, people who she’d known from her various community groups. There must have been hundreds of messages.
I scrolled down, looking for names I recognised – there was Richard Pringle. He had posted a photo of Amy at a school bake sale, smiling down at kids as she handed out treats. He was standing behind her, and the angle of the photo had cast him in a shadow, gazing at Amy. He would be heartbroken when he learned that she wasn’t as perfect as he thought.
Did people write such lovely tributes for everyone for who died, I wondered? What about unpopular people, or people who had done something bad – did they end up with everlasting digital monuments built in their name, too? Was that what it came down to, when we died – a legacy of likes and shares and emojis and words on a screen?
Had these people even known Amy that well? There was no way she’d had as many friends as this. These were strangers, intruding on our grief. What should be private was plastered here, permanently, for all to see. Had any of them really known Amy, known her like Rachel or I had? Would they feel differently when they found out what she had done?
I had allowed myself to get distracted – a quick scroll had turned into me falling head-first into a Facebook hole. Two minutes had become twenty. I clicked on the messages tab.
Some people had even sent her messages since her death – who did that? Apart from me, of course, but that was different. Amy was my sister, not theirs. My grief was in another league – bizarre behaviour from me was entirely permissible. I was tempted to read these other messages, but figured it could wait. I scrolled down, looking for the messages from Phil.
They weren’t there.
At first, I thought it was a slip up, that the vodka had made me bleary and not focused enough. I blinked hard several times to make the screen clearer. I started again from the top, this time looking forensically, message by message. But they really had gone, vanished from the inbox, and I couldn’t find any way of viewing deleted items. Had I imagined them? Hallucinated?
No, I was certain of what I’d seen. There had been three messages to Amy from Phil Turner, just a week ago – so what had happened to them?
Chapter Twenty
Amy was shouting to me. She was trying to tell me something, but the sound of the sea was too loud, overpowering, and I couldn’t hear her above the crashing of the waves. I yelled at her – Speak up! She came closer and put her hands on my shoulders, shaking me. Her eyes were wide, her face contorted with the effort, but still she made no sound.
The dream started to slip away. I tried to hold on to it – to Amy’s face, to her voice – but it was like trying to grab a handful of sea water.
My pulse was pounding at my temples. I pulled the duvet tighter around my head, keeping my eyes closed. There was no water by my bed and my mouth felt sandy, but the kitchen was miles away.
The pounding continued, and I realised that it wasn’t my head – there was someone at the front door. I staggered to the bathroom, sticking my face under the cold tap, taking gulps of cool water and letting it splash over me. I dried my face on the sleeve of my dressing gown as I stepped carefully down the stairs.
I opened the door to Richard, a dark silhouette against sunlight that was unfeasibly bright. Definitely not the person I wanted to see right now. I squinted, shielding my eyes from the glaring daylight.
‘Sorry if I woke you.’ He gave a nervous laugh.
What time was it, I wondered?
‘I brought coffee?’ he added. It sounded like a question.
I eyed the steaming cups in his hands.
‘And I owe you an apology,’ he continued. ‘I was way out of line the other day, and I’m so sorry about… Well, you know.’ He shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Amy’s death hit
