Carrie extended her arm, bringing the toy closer. Cal was still staring. Good. This was progress. She took a step forward, offering the toy to him.
“Here.”
Immediately, Cal shrank back against the bed frame, bringing his knees up to his chest and balling his hands into fists. Carrie took a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She could feel tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Failure pressing down on her chest.
She set the dinosaur down on the mattress. Returning to the foot of the bed, she waited a minute until Cal had peeled himself from the bed frame. His gaze moved from Carrie to the dinosaur and back again. Another minute passed by. Carrie held her breath, not daring to move.
Cal leaned forward. In one quick movement, he shot out a hand and snatched up the dinosaur. He stared at it for some time, turning it over in his hand. Then he closed his fist over it and returned his gaze to the bag.
Carrie’s heart hammered in her chest.
“How about this?” she said, her voice faltering as she removed an unframed photograph from the bag. “Do you remember? It’s you and me. It was taken just after your sixth birthday. You see the bike you’re sitting on? It was your birthday present. We were trying to teach you to ride without the stabilisers. You were scared but you kept trying. And then suddenly, you did it. All by yourself.”
She held out the photograph as far as she could. In it, a six-year-old Cal sat on his blue bike beaming with pride. She knelt next to him, an arm wrapped around his waist. She was younger, happier.
What a different picture it was now.
Cal regarded the photograph, the crease in his brow deepening. He returned his gaze to the television.
She placed the photograph on the bed and waited for Cal to snatch it up. He remained unmoving, eyes trained on the television screen.
Out of ideas, Carrie turned and watched the television for a while. Every minute or so, she could sense Cal’s gaze seeking her out. She avoided it.
She was a failure.
How could her son not know who she was? She should have kept a close eye on him that day at the beach. She wondered what life would be like now. Grief would not have thrown her into Dylan’s arms. Melissa would never have been born.
It was an uneasy thought. One that filled her with confusion and guilt. Cal was staring at the photograph again.
Holding her breath, Carrie took a step back. She watched as he plucked the photograph between finger and thumb and held it up in front of his face.
He stared at it for a long time. Then at her. Then back at the photograph. When he looked at her again, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Carrie’s heart thumped. Was it recognition? She returned his gaze in exhilarated silence. Yes, she was sure of it. He was remembering.
And then his eyes grew frightened and darted to the open door.
Carrie turned. A second later, she heard footsteps echoing in the corridor. Detective Turner appeared, waving a hand as he passed the window. He came to a halt in the doorway.
Cal glanced at Carrie, and for a second, he looked just like the frightened little boy who used to call for her in the middle of the night after having a bad dream.
“I’ll be right back,” she told him.
In the corridor, Detective Turner muttered to the uniformed officer, who stood and walked away.
An uneasy feeling sank its teeth into Carrie’s mind. Through the window, she could see Cal on the bed. His head swivelled on his shoulders as he turned to watch her.
“How is he?” Detective Turner asked.
A smile spread over Carrie’s face. “I think he recognised me.”
“That’s great. Has he said anything?”
The smiled faded. “He won’t talk. Or can’t. The CT scan was clear so it’s nothing physical. I’m still waiting to hear from Doctor Singh.”
“The psychiatric evaluation?”
The words sounded so clinical. Images of padded cells taunted her mind.
Detective Turner’s eyes softened. “How are you holding up?”
Carrie shook her head. She honestly didn’t know how to answer the question.
Both adults stared through the glass at the boy in the bed.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Turner said. “After all, it’s not every day you find out your son isn’t dead.”
Carrie flinched at the words.
“Sorry. Probably not the best way to frame it.” Detective Turner cleared his throat. “Callum’s reappearance has set tongues wagging at the station. Detective Sergeant Mills will be leading the initial investigation. She’s very keen to speak with him when he’s ready.”
“She's not the only one,” Carrie breathed. She turned to face the detective. “Have you found out anything? About who took him?”
A moment of silence passed between them.
The detective adjusted his tie. “It’s early days yet. Until we’ve fully established that this is a criminal investigation, we—”
“What other kind of investigation could it be?” Carrie stared at him, not quite believing his words. “Or do you think my son has just been gallivanting around the county these last seven years, eluding search parties and investigations, and TV reports? This is hardly America, Detective Turner. You can drive from one end of Cornwall to the other in two hours.”
She fell silent, realising she had raised her voice. She glanced back at Cal through the window. He was watching her, his knees still tucked up to his chest, the toy dinosaur gripped in his right hand.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Turner said. “The toxicology report came back today. It was clear. So, unless Cal can tell us what happened, or our enquiries lead somewhere, we have nothing else to go on.”
He paused, for a moment, staring at Carrie with serious eyes.
“If Cal was snatched, we don’t want his abductor knowing that it’s him we’ve found. Which is why the longer we can keep your son’s name out of the press, the larger window of time we’ll have. But unless something comes up very soon, we’ll have little choice but to release his name. Rumours are flying. Media interest is growing. It won’t be long until someone finds out the truth and then any control we have over what information gets released will be gone.”
Carrie turned away. Her head spun and her limbs ached. Exhaustion was taking hold.
“Our best chance of finding out what happened to Cal is for Cal to tell us,” Detective Turner said. “But until he’s able to, we’ll keep searching for answers.” He touched Carrie lightly on the shoulder and turned to leave. A few metres up the corridor, he stopped. “Your DNA test results came back, by the way. They were a match.”
When she was alone, Carrie folded her arms across her chest and stared through the glass. Cal was no longer watching her but was transfixed by the toy dinosaur.
He really was her son. Her flesh and blood. Her Cal.
She was about to go back inside when she heard more footsteps approaching. She looked up, expecting to see the uniformed officer returning, but it was Doctor Singh.
As she came closer, Carrie felt a chill slip beneath her clothes.
“Good afternoon, Carrie,” the doctor said. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”
The exhaustion sinking into Carrie’s bones vanished and was replaced by fear.
9
EVENING FELL OVER THE cove. The rain had ceased an hour ago. Clouds had melted away to reveal a blazing sunset that seared the ocean. The beach had finally reopened and music was filtering out from The Shack, floating through the air to reach Carrie’s ears as she stepped out of her car and stared at her home. She listened for a moment. There was something strangely soothing about the muted beat. A slice of normality, she supposed. Life continuing as usual. For some.
Her discussion with Doctor Singh played in her mind as she stepped onto the pavement. It had been an unpleasant conversation, one that left her with difficult decisions to make.
But decisions could wait for a few
hours, until she had slipped into a hot bath and put some food in her stomach. She knew she should check in on Melissa, who had barely seen her mother in three days. She knew she needed to have a conversation with Dylan about how their lives had been turned upside down and inside out.
But if she didn’t get some sleep soon, she would be no good to anyone. Not to Melissa. Not to Dylan. Not to Cal.
“Carrie Killigrew?”
She stopped at the gate. Climbing out of a blue Renault was a man in his late thirties. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt, and carried a bag over his shoulder. A journalist. She’d had enough experience to recognise one immediately.
She glanced back at the house. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Not yet.
The man approached. Carrie moved quickly, stepping through the garden gate and shutting it behind her.
“Scott Triggs. I write for The Cornish Chronicle.” The journalist reached a hand across the gate. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”
Carrie stared at his open hand. “About what?”
“About what’s been happening here in Devil’s Cove. It must be a terrible reminder for you. It must bring back awful memories.”
Carrie felt a flash of anger heat her insides. When Callum disappeared, the press couldn’t wait to paint her as a terrible mother; one who had neglected to watch her son on a busy beach with known dangerous currents. She had a sudden urge to inform this journalist that her son was not dead. That he was alive and recovering at the hospital. That she was not a terrible mother.
Instead, she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ll excuse me.”
“I couldn’t help but notice your shop has been closed these last few days,” Scott Triggs said. “Were you just at the hospital?”
Carrie’s heart thudded. Fumbling for her house keys, she marched along the garden path.
“It’s him they’ve found, isn’t it?” Scott Triggs called out. “It’s your son, Callum Anderson.”
The keys slipped from Carrie’s fingers and hit the ground. She stooped to pick them up, then fought to get the right key into the lock. How had he found out?
Scott Triggs stood at the gate, a triumphant smile on his lips.
“Let me tell your story,” he said. “Give me an exclusive and I’ll make sure you’re paid substantially for your time. More than that, I can clear your reputation.”
At the door, Carrie froze. She turned and glared at the man.
“Don’t you want that, Carrie? For the world to know you’re not the terrible mother they think you are?”
Carrie turned the key between trembling fingers. She pushed open the door and staggered inside.
“Leave my family alone,” she hissed.
She slammed the door hard, sending ripples through the house.
Upstairs, Melissa began to cry.
At the end of the hall, Dylan stepped out of the kitchen. His face was lined and shadowy with stubble.
“What is it?” he said.
Leaning against the door, Carrie let the tears come.
Dylan moved up to her.
A moment later, she was in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably into his chest.
“HOW ARE WE DOING?”
After settling Melissa back into sleep, Dylan had sat Carrie at the kitchen table and watched over her as she picked at leftovers. Now, they nursed glasses of red wine under the dimmed lights of the living room. Exhaustion weighted Carrie’s limbs. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to sleep.
She shook her head. “Physically, he’s doing better. There’s no brain damage. His heart is fine. He’s hydrated. They’re getting nutrients into him. He’ll need some dental work but his body is okay. The psychiatric evaluation suggests post-traumatic stress, just like Doctor Singh said. Perhaps some learning delays.” She paused, suddenly overwhelmed by horror. Who had done this to her son?
Beside her, Dylan nodded. He looked tired, Carrie thought. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one not getting any sleep around here.
“How about you? How are you doing?” she asked him.
He was quiet for a long while, staring into his wineglass. Finally, he looked up.
“I’ll be honest,” he said. “I’m having a hard time taking it all in. What happened to him? Where has he been all this time?”
The muscles at the base of Carrie’s neck contracted. She took a sip of wine. “Detective Turner says it’s early days. We might not know until Cal’s able to tell us.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.” She glared at him, then dropped her gaze to her lap. “Sorry. I’m tired.”
Dylan swallowed the contents of his glass. He reached for the wine bottle and offered it to Carrie, who shook her head. Shrugging, he filled his glass to the top.
“What will happen now? I mean, for us. As a family?”
Carrie stared at him. It was a strange thing to say; as if Cal was some separate entity who was about to come and tear this family apart. She may not have seen her son in seven years. She may have believed him to be dead all this time, but he was her blood. He was as much her family as Dylan or Melissa.
“The hospital’s main concern is Cal’s physical health,” she said. “Because Cal is doing better, Doctor Singh says he’ll likely be discharged in a few days.”
Dylan’s glass hovered below his lips. “But he’s not well. Mentally, I mean. Shouldn’t they be worried about that?”
“They are worried. But it’s a general hospital not a psychiatric ward.” She hesitated, taking a moment to steady her breath and drink some wine. “We have two choices. Cal is sent elsewhere for inpatient care where he can receive more therapeutic treatment to deal with the trauma he’s experiencing. Or we can bring him home.”
Dylan stared at her. “What does Doctor Singh think?”
“Doctor Singh says whatever decision we make should be in Cal’s best interests.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s not Doctor Singh’s decision to make. If we bring him home he won’t just be dumped in our laps. He’ll be assigned a community mental health team. We’ll have lots of support. Therapists. A social worker.”
“But we don’t know what he’s been through. How do we know that bringing him here so soon will help? And what about Melissa?”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to have an older brother looking out for her.”
“But we don’t know if. . .”
Carrie turned to face him. “We don’t know if what?”
“He’s been gone a long time,” Dylan said quietly. “God knows what’s been done to him. What if it’s not safe? What if he’s dangerous?”
Anger ignited Carrie’s blood. “Dangerous? Did you forget Cal is the victim in all this? Besides, the way he looked at me today. . . He’s my son, Dylan. His place is here with me.”
“And Melissa is our daughter,” Dylan said, leaning forward. “She’s four years old. It’s our job to keep her safe. Bringing Cal home when we don’t know where he’s been or what’s happened to him doesn’t sound safe to me. There’s a journalist outside our home, for Christ’s sake!”
The living room closed in on Carrie. She could feel her anger boiling and churning. Any second now, it would erupt from her mouth and she would regret every word it spat out. She turned away and focused on her breathing.
“What about inpatient care?” Dylan said, looking away. “Would it really be so bad for a few weeks? Cal would get the care he needs. We’d have time to get to know him. I mean, we’re talking about him moving in and I haven’t even met him.”
“They don’t have those kinds of facilities in Cornwall. They’ll send him away. Out of the county.” A tear slipped down Carrie’s cheek. “He’s only just come back to me, Dylan. I can’t have him taken away again.”
Silence, heavy and stifling, fell between them.
“We were talking about having another child,” Dylan said, at last. He looke
d up with sad eyes.
Carrie nodded. “You always said you wanted a son.”
She searched his face. There was no happiness there. No joy. Only worry and doubt. And she understood why. Everything was going to change. It already had.
“We’ll still be a family,” she whispered. “Just a bigger family.”
Slowly, Dylan stood. “I’ll run you a bath.”
Without making eye contact, he padded to the door. He stopped still. Carrie looked up. She longed to go to him. To fold into his arms.
“I need to meet him,” Dylan said. “I need to see for myself that he’s safe for Melissa to be around. I want to talk to the doctors.”
Carrie nodded. It was a start. “We’ll go tomorrow. As a family.”
She watched as Dylan left the kitchen and listened to his footsteps ascending the stairs.
She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were trembling.
Cal’s face flashed in her mind.
“Don’t let me down,” she whispered.
10
BRIAR WOOD WAS A SMALL but dense space, populated by swathes of indigenous trees; mostly oak and birch with the occasional pine. In summer, it was green and lush. Now, with autumn looming, the leaves were turning to rust. Yesterday’s rain had not returned. The afternoon sun slipped through the canopy and shimmered in small clearings. Birds sang out from branches. As winter approached, most would migrate and Briar Wood would fall empty and silent. Just like the town below.
Nat and Jago had spent the last fifteen minutes walking in a wide berth, eyes on the ground or up in the branches. Jago had devised several different routes in which to search, each one heading in a different direction then looping back to the same spot behind the fence of his backyard.
When Noah had vanished, the police had discovered one of the slats in the fence was loose. After forensics found nothing out of the ordinary, it was concluded that Noah had discovered the loose slat and gone exploring in the wood. Desperation Point was just a couple of hundred metres to the west.
The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1) Page 6