I barely heard as the girl gigglingly obeyed. I felt as though I’d been sucker punched, the air knocked clean from my lungs. I don’t remember what they said after that, only that afterward I went into the kitchen and felt the room spin around me. As I clung to the table, I was dizzy with shock.
Emily.
Emily Lawson.
Oh please God, no.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
TWENTY-ONE
LONDON, 2017
Her head felt full of cotton wool, her mouth and throat dry as sand. She became aware of the strong whiff of disinfectant mixed with the boiled-veg-and-gravy smell of school dinners. Her closed eyelids prickled. For a while she drifted, sleep ebbing and flowing.
“Clara?” A voice from far away, then the gradual shift forward into consciousness. “Clara, can you hear me?”
A sudden sharp awareness of pain in her throat and chest, each breath a dragging rasp. She opened her eyes, daylight harsh against her retinas. A face leaning in that was female, middle-aged, framed by a dark bob. The features took shape, a stranger’s patient gaze upon her. Clara tried to speak. “Uh—”
“Well, good! You’re awake.” The voice was briskly kind.
All at once, the memories rushed back: her smoke-filled flat, the looming threat of Alison, and her fear returned in one violent rush. She tried to raise her head.
“How are you feeling?” The stranger’s face was nearer now: pale pink lipstick, crow’s-feet around wide blue eyes, a white coat.
“What happened?” Clara asked.
“You were in a fire. You were brought in last night suffering from smoke inhalation. I’m Dr. Patricia Holloway. We had to sedate you in order to examine the extent of the damage to your lungs and throat.”
“Alison. She . . . it was her . . . in my flat. . . .”
The doctor got up and wrote something on her clipboard. She shot Clara a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any information on what happened. The police were here earlier. They’ll be back later, I’m sure.” She smiled. “The good news is you’re going to be fine. You were remarkably lucky.”
“But . . .”
“Try to relax now. You’re quite safe.”
—
It was half an hour later when Anderson knocked on her door. He looked incongruous here, besuited and authoritative amidst the pale green hush of the hospital room. He also looked exhausted, and she had the vague memory of him saying he had one-year-old twins at home. “How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting heavily down on the chair by her bed. She caught the faint whiff of coffee and cigarette smoke.
“I . . . don’t know. What happened? Did Alison . . . did you catch her? It was her. . . . She tried to kill me.”
He considered her for a moment, brow furrowed. “It was Alison Fournier who alerted the emergency services, Clara. She and your downstairs neighbors dragged you out of your flat. She helped save your life.”
She stared at him, stunned. “But . . . are you sure? I mean, how did she get in?”
“Your door was open when the couple in the flat below went to investigate the smell of smoke.”
Clara shook her head, unable to make sense of this new information. “Open? But—”
“Were you alone when you went to bed?” he asked.
“I—yes. Yes, of course I was. . . .”
“And you shut the door to your flat securely?”
“Yes! I mean, I think so.” She remembered how upset she’d been about Mac, the wine she’d drunk, her wooziness as she’d fallen into bed. The door had been closed, though; she was sure of it.
“How’s Mac?” she asked. “Is he okay?”
Anderson nodded. “He’s going to be fine. He’s been discharged already.” He leaned forward, fixing her with his tired gray eyes. “The fire was caused deliberately. Officers found a bottle of lighter fluid in your lounge near where it looks to have started. If you’re quite sure you closed the door behind you when you got home last night, whoever got in must have used a key.” He paused. “Is there anyone apart from yourself who has a copy?”
She pulled herself more upright in the bed, aware suddenly that her head ached horribly. “I . . . no. I changed my locks after it was broken into last week.”
“How many copies of the key did you make?”
“There were three: one I dropped off at the letting agent, the other I kept, and the only other one I left at Mac’s. I went to stay with him after the break-in.”
Anderson nodded. “I see.”
She stared at him, the fog in her brain slowly clearing. Her throat still felt horribly sore. “Whoever broke into Mac’s flat yesterday turned it upside down—they were looking for something. They could have taken my key. It was in my bag in Mac’s spare room.”
“We’ll look into it,” Anderson said.
Suddenly she remembered Emily’s visit to her flat and, her words coming out in a rush, blurted, “I think it was Tom.”
He looked up sharply. “I’m sorry?”
“I think it was Tom Lawson, Luke’s brother, who attacked Mac and set fire to my flat.”
Anderson blinked. “And what makes you say that?”
Quickly she told him how Tom, who never came to London, had been in the city the first time she’d been broken into, how he’d turned up at hers shortly afterward. How the day that Mac had been attacked, he’d phoned to say he’d just been over there; then that same night her flat was set on fire. She didn’t mention the scene she’d walked in on between him and his mother, the strange feeling she’d always gotten from him, Emily’s palpable fear at the mention of his name.
Anderson nodded slowly. “And why do you think Mr. Lawson would want to hurt you?”
“I don’t know! I don’t understand any of it!” A nurse came in and they watched her in silence as she cheerfully took Clara’s blood pressure, then wrote something on her clipboard before leaving again. “What about Alison? Is she all right?” Clara asked.
“She’ll be fine, minor smoke inhalation, but she was very lucky. You both were.”
He left, finally, trailing distracted promises he’d be in touch, and Clara
