The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  My hand flies up, and I slap Oliver’s cheek, the gesture stunning even me. When it’s done, my hand flies to my mouth, knowing I’ve gone too far to go back now.

  Oliver stands, stoic and cold, and I back up, afraid of retaliation. He doesn’t touch me, though. He stares for a moment, seemingly gaining his senses. And then, he kicks at the chair I’m leaning on. It’s a swift kick with power behind it and decades’ worth of rage. The chair slides out from under me, and I’m thudding to the ground, my head burning with pain as I land.

  ‘Stay the fuck away from me,’ Oliver commands, looming over me for a long, vicious moment. He kicks me in the ribs, a hearty kick that makes me cough and sputter. Then, he turns on his heel and stomps out of the room. I cry in pain, my hip hurting and my ribs throbbing. Everything hurts. I think that he’s going to come back, to help me, but he doesn’t. I’m alone, staring at the empty room, wondering how long I’ll be there on my side. Maybe this is where it all ends. Maybe this is where he gets me.

  After a long while, I realise no one is coming for me. I must help myself. I’ve always had to look out for myself. I slowly, agonisingly get myself up, first pulling myself to the chair and then to my feet. My head throbs and my heart races, but I plug on, dragging myself down the corridor to my room, one hand cradling my ribs. I walk on, past 312’s closed door, past Babbling Barbara who is sitting on the floor in the hallway with a doll. Its head is turned backwards, and if I didn’t have my own problems, I would be taken aback by it. Instead, I walk on, ignoring her comments about the Black Plague. I pass Oliver’s room, where he sits in a chair at the window. I glance at him, but he doesn’t look back. I trudge forward to my room, to my lonely cell, and think about all that’s been lost.

  ‘Philip was here. He was here,’ my roommate announces once I’m inside. I glance around, but nothing has been moved. Nothing new is tacked to the board. There is nothing alarming.

  ‘I saw him. I saw Philip, I did. I promise I did,’ she yammers on, adding to my already intense migraine. I limp over to my bed, and that’s when I see it.

  A single daisy, flat on my pillow. I pluck it from my bed and set it on the bedside table beside the photograph Claire brought me, sobbing until my head feels like it might explode. I wipe at my tears, the Philip Lady still chanting on her side of the room. I pull out my Bible, and flip to the front cover. There, I write a note that I hope Claire will see once I’m gone. I hope she’ll get the answers that no one else can find. My script is shaky, but it’s legible. It will do the trick. It might not save me, but it will at least save someone else.

  I close the Bible, the note waiting for the right time to emerge. And then, I sit myself into the chair and I wait – for the end, for the finale, for all to be revealed. After all, at Smith Creek Manor, there’s nothing else we can do but wait for our time to die.

  Potential Arson Case and Missing Girl Perplexes West Green Residents and Police Alike

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  28 August 1959

  A new development in the West Green community has residents and police alike confused as they try to ascertain connections in several cases. On the evening of 25 August, a fire at the Walker residence on 18 Deerswood Road, West Green destroyed the entire home. This development came shortly after the youngest resident of the home, Adeline Walker, 19, was reported as missing.

  Police were called to 18 Deerswood Road earlier in the month after Mr and Mrs Andrew Walker called investigators to report their daughter as missing. Adeline Walker left a note of her plans to leave West Green. However, a troubling note was also left, signed by Oliver Parsons. Parsons had been questioned about the missing girl but claimed not to know any details about her disappearance.

  Despite the notes, the Walkers were concerned that Adeline’s disappearance was related to foul play; detectives were investigating whether or not the West Green Killer could have been involved in her disappearance.

  However, Charles Evans of Langley Green, Crawley, West Sussex, also disappeared on the same night. The two were said to be courting, and detectives believe at this time that Adeline Walker left by choice, her disappearance unrelated to the West Green Killer.

  Nonetheless, this case took a peculiar turn the night of 25 August when a fire broke out at the residence of the Walkers. Despite emergency personnel’s swift reaction, Mr and Mrs Walker were pronounced dead at the scene, the home a total loss. Investigators believe the Walkers were asleep in the upper rooms of the house when the fire broke out. Their cause of death was ruled as smoke inhalation.

  The discovery of several empty gas cans at a nearby property has led investigators to believe the fire could be the result of arson. It is too early in the investigation to determine whether or not the West Green Killer could be involved.

  Oliver Parsons is currently a suspect in the case. After Adeline’s disappearance, he was seen having several heated conversations with the Walkers, one of which turned physical with Andrew Walker, according to witnesses. Parsons is currently under thorough investigation. Authorities are searching for Adeline Walker to question her about her parents’ deaths and the notes left behind. In the meantime, West Green is mourning the loss of two more of the community’s residents in what is being deemed a summer of death.

  ‘We can’t take much more, truly,’ a neighbour noted about the deaths. ‘There is too much suffering in this community. We need answers, and we need them now. How many more will have to die before we solve this?’

  Anyone with information is asked to contact the West Green Constabulary.

  Chapter 37

  Hemel Hempstead, UK

  8 September 1959

  ‘Addy, thank God. I’ve been so worried. Are you okay?’ Phyllis’ voice is edgy and distraught when I ring her. My heart beats wildly at the sound of her voice.

  ‘I’m fine, Phyllis. I wanted to check in on you and make sure everything was okay. I tried to ring my parents and tell them I’m settled and fine, but I couldn’t seem to connect. I’m fine, Charles and I—’

  ‘Addy, listen. You need to come back.’ Phyllis’ words cut me off. I startle, playing with the phone cord.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s been … oh, Addy, I don’t know how to tell you. There’s been an incident, and … well … you need to come back.’

  ‘Phyllis, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?’

  The news she tells me causes me to crumple to the ground as vomit rises in my throat.

  Even as I struggle to process the news, my mind wraps around one thought: it’s all my fault.

  I’ve done this. My misguided, selfish choices have done this. And there’s no going back now.

  I hear Phyllis’ tearful words as she walks me through the events of the past few weeks. I hear her begging me to come home, to take care of things. She tells me how the detectives want to talk to me, how Oliver has been questioned. I hear it all, yet I don’t.

  Because all I can hear is my pounding heart and the realisation that my choices have led to this. It’s all my fault. Absolutely all my fault.

  I sob on the floor, squeezing my eyes shut.

  I’m so sorry, Mum and Dad. I’m sorry.

  ***

  20 November 1959

  The rain splatters against the window, heavy drops plummeting from the sky and assaulting all below. The children in the street don’t mind, the drops stabbing into them as they continue their game of catch. A weak grin spreads to my face as I stare through the wet glass, watching and wondering what they’re thinking about. Wishing I could be in the midst of simple, childhood naivety.

  But we can’t go back in time. We can’t change our choices or relive the past. We can only deal with the present. At least that’s what I’ve been reminding myself over and over.

  ‘You okay, dear?’ Charles has been worried about me ever since I got home. The doctors told him to keep a close eye on me.

  I look up and paint on the faux smile. Everything about me is fake these days. ‘
Yes, dear. Just watching the neighbourhood children in the street.’

  He hands me a cup of tea carefully, gently, as if at any second, it will slosh over the cup and onto the ground, sending me over the edge. The edge has been painfully close, as we all know.

  It’s been a complicated couple of months. I think back to that day in September sometimes, the day I called Phyllis to tell her all was well only to find out it was far from it.

  How do you process that? How do you handle the fact that your choices led to the death of those you loved? How do you even begin?

  I didn’t. I crumpled under the weight of it, to the point that there was no choice but for Charles to seek help. I spent time in hospital, under careful watch.

  But they didn’t know. How could they know? Because even now, with all that’s happened, I haven’t been honest. The secret start of all of this – the abortion – remains a dark secret in my heart, looming just below the surface. Killing my baby led me down this path, and no matter what anyone tells me, I know the reality of it – it’s my fault. I made the choice. I left West Green. If I hadn’t left, my parents wouldn’t have died. They would’ve been moved out of the house. Or I could’ve woken them up if I had been there. It’s my fault. They spent their last days, their last moments, searching, worrying about the selfish girl they once called a daughter. They spent their last moments wondering, questioning, seeking answers. I did that to them. How could I do that?

  I take a deep breath, Charles’ hand on my shoulder as I try to let the dark thoughts fade away like my doctors have told me. But it’s no use. There’s no getting over this. And there’s still so much guilt swirling – like how I missed the funeral service.

  I was in hospital when I should’ve gone home.

  The police did track us down thanks to Phyllis. She sent them our way. Charles handled most of the questioning, as I wasn’t in a good state to deal with it. Questions were answered, and we were cleared of any wrongdoing. From what I’ve heard, Oliver, too was eventually cleared – but not without damages to his reputation, to his life, and to any hope of a normal future. Rumours are endless about his role in the murders of the summer, in the death of my parents. What will become of him now? My head throbs. Despite all he’s done, I can’t help but feel like he, too, is a victim of circumstance and of my choices.

  Or is he truly the victim? Around and around, the questions whir.

  It was an accident, the police have told us. A freak accident in the midst of a terrible summer. I don’t know if I believe that. I don’t know what to believe anymore.

  There were more questions, too, last week. The killings in West Green have stopped since we’ve left. Which is a blessing – but also strange. And it led to suspicion around Charles. It seems, in many ways, that West Green won’t stop haunting us. We can’t escape its grasp. Sometimes I wonder if we ever will.

  But still, we haven’t been back. I feel like a bad daughter, like I should pay my respects and see things through. I owe them that much. But I just can’t bring myself to go back. A part of me thinks it’s because of everything bad that happened there. The honest part of me, though, knows it’s something else.

  Oliver.

  Our secret.

  The fact I don’t want Charles to know the truth about what I’ve done.

  It is a secret, I realise, I must take to the grave. It pains me to lie to him. But I can’t risk pushing him away now. What would he think of me? I don’t know. I can’t take the risk.

  ‘Addy, we need to talk.’ The words I don’t want to hear from Charles. The words that mean something heavy is coming. Nothing surprises me anymore, though.

  I make a noncommittal noise, urging him to continue, as I raise the cup to my lips and continue to stare out into the grey day.

  ‘Things have been hard, Addy. Really hard. I know that what happened in West Green, well, it’s something that’s never going away. I know you’ll carry that pain with you forever. But I think we need to move forward. We need to start our new life here, start looking to the future. The doctors said it would do you good to plan, to start over. I want to do that. So if you need to talk about what happened and West Green and the whole lot, I’ll listen. But otherwise, I think we should diligently focus on us, on the future. Let’s put it all behind us, as much as we can. Let’s attempt to find a life together, a happy life, and see if we can’t find some new sense of joy. I know it’s going to take time. I do. And I’ll be here for you the whole way. But Addy, I don’t want to lose you. I want you to find joy again. I want that more than anything.’ He squeezes my shoulder, and I look up at him.

  I look into Charles’ soft, reassuring eyes. Such a good man. Nothing like Oliver. Nothing like me. A genuine, good person. Do I deserve him?

  I don’t. But right now, looking up at him, I know I need him. I so selfishly need him. And I need exactly what he’s just said – a new start. I look back out the window, putting a hand on his that’s still on my shoulder. I take a breath and nod.

  ‘Let’s put the past behind us,’ I say shakily, trying to mean it.

  He’s right. I need to try to move on. What happened in West Green may always be a part of me – but maybe there’s hope. With Charles, maybe I can move on. Maybe someday I can heal, forgive. We look out into the rainy day, and for the first time in months, I see something I didn’t think possible.

  A tiny ray of hope.

  Chapter 38

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  I stare at the ceiling, my brain trained on the past. Perhaps it’s the conversation with Oliver, or maybe it’s just that it feels like my whole life is a circling, whirling cacophony of chaos and disaster. I pick at the edge of my pillowcase, thinking about flashes and memories and moments. I think about those hellish months after the horrific news, tears welling as I silently whisper the millionth apology to the parents who have been dead for years.

  Even after the day I told myself I’d found hope, that Charles and I could be happy, things weren’t easy. The guilt racked me for months, threatening to derail my progress.

  If I’d just told the truth about it all. If I’d have just been honest, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so desperate to flee West Green. Maybe if I hadn’t left when I did, they’d still be alive. The baby, my parents – I’d had a hand in the loss of so many.

  In some ways, I wonder if this is all some form of twisted karma for the choice I’d made. I’d spent so many Sundays in our church hearing about how abortion was a sin – but I hadn’t believed it. Had this been the universe’s way of getting retribution? I don’t know anymore. Life is complicated, and it’s more complex than my nineteen-year-old self could ever have processed. Life went a very different way than I thought it would that summer. I had no idea that I would have to live with three deaths on my conscience forever. But even now, life is still a mess. Guilt still racks me. There’s truly no expiration date on guilt, on revenge, and on how the past can hurt us.

  Why had I come back here? I’d known it was a mistake all along. Charles, why did you make us come back? Why?

  I shake my head. It’s all felt like a twisted game, and I’m just a pawn. When will I regain control of my own life? Have I ever had it? My head spins with questions, with guilt, with memories.

  I turn in my bed, trying to settle my wayward mind. I listen to the muted moans from Floor Three. The footsteps in the corridor I’ve come to expect echo down the corridor. But mixed with Philip Lady’s snoring, I hear something distinct that I haven’t heard before. What’s clicking? Is something clicking?

  Click. Click. Click, click, click.

  Two soft clicks, then three fast and hard.

  I blink open my eyes, my brain groggy and my eyes blurry. I glance around without moving my head, trying to pinpoint the noise. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. There are raindrops tinkling against the glass of the window, but it’s not the click I hear. I reach up and rub my forehead, my fingers smoot
hing over the hard, dry lines.

  Click, click, click.

  It’s coming from behind me I realise as a sinking feeling usurps my ability to reason. My palms begin to sweat as I carefully roll over in bed, praying there will be nothing behind me. For once, I’m crossing my fingers that it’s just my own mind playing tricks. But when I roll over, holding my breath, my eyes land on the cold, hard truth.

  It’s him, standing over me, stooped and deranged. Even in the blackness of the room, I can see the familiar glow in his eyes as he towers over me. I sit up, trying to scurry away from him in bed, my feet tangling in the sheets. He doesn’t move, though, just standing over me, his eyes studying me intently.

  Click, click, click.

  He clicks his teeth slowly, steadfastly, his lips held at an angle that allows me to see them. It stirs my innermost fear and chills me. I feel about for the call button, but it isn’t where it usually is. He creeps forward.

  ‘Don’t take another step,’ I command in a hushed voice. ‘One more step and I scream.’

  He chitters faster, his teeth still clicking, but he doesn’t move.

  ‘I’m serious. Don’t,’ I demand a bit louder. Philip Lady stirs. Maybe I should scream. Maybe I should let them all see what I’ve seen.

  He chatters faster and faster, coming at me now like a rabid animal. What’s wrong with him? For a moment, I’m stunned by the oddness of his behaviour, by his blazing eyes. He keeps lurking, keeps coming closer, his movement unpredictable and jarring. I tremble, and he stops centimetres from my face.

  ‘If you scream, I’ll kill you,’ he murmurs, his eyes lasering into my face. My stomach drops at his words, an affirmation of the evil in his intent. But just as I’m contemplating searching for the call button once more, he’s gone, turning on his heel and leaving.

  The room is quiet, the man from 300 gone. I shake my head. What is this madness? What is this game? In some ways, I wish he’d just carry out whatever he’s planning already. I wish I could just be done with this all. I must work it out. This uncertainty is driving my mind to a place I’d rather not go. Every waking moment is torture as my mind dances around the questions, the facts, and the fear of what’s coming next. He’s trapped me in a living hell.