“I want to go and look for Emma and Darren,” I said, standing abruptly.
He started shaking his head before I’d even finished. “My ankle—”
“I know.” I cut him off. “You stay here. I’ll go. That way we definitely won’t miss them.” And I could get away for a little while and cool my ire. It was just a brooch, after all; there was no reason for the whispering in my head telling me that discarding the thing so flagrantly was a very, very bad move.
“You want to go on your own?” Dougie said dubiously. “Heather, you don’t even know where the cove is.”
“Well—” That was a point. Needlessly, I dusted my sand-free hands against my jeans while I thought of a counterargument. “It’s another beach, right?” It wasn’t really a question, but Dougie nodded anyway. “Surely I can just follow the coast around?”
“Probably.” He looked at me, unconvinced. “But what if you get lost?”
“I’ll be fine. I just… I just don’t want to sit here any longer.” I didn’t give him another chance to argue. Twisting away, I headed to my tent to change into better walking shoes and drag on another layer of clothes. It had clouded over and was getting chilly on the beach; it’d be even colder up on the headland—the tide was in too far to follow the rocks round the shoreline.
Dougie watched me leave, his expression unhappy. I guessed he was worried about what would happen if I, too, failed to return and he was stuck there on the beach, unable to hike his way out. I wasn’t going far, though. Anyway, his parents knew exactly where we were. They’d come looking for us eventually. That thought cheered me. We were due back in three days, and we easily had enough food to last that long. If we couldn’t get Darren’s car going, and if Dougie wasn’t fit to walk back to civilization, his dad would come and get us.
The only problem was Martin. I couldn’t bear three more days of worrying about what had happened to him. I hoped to hell he was back home, vilifying us to his parents and the rest of our friends. I hoped I’d get the chance to kill him for just taking off. It was a short trudge up the steep hillside to the low cliff that curved around the edge of the land. The path was compacted dirt coated with loose gravel that skittered out from under the treads of my shoes, and in places I had to use the long grass to steady myself.
Up top, the view was glorious. The sea stretched in front of me, undulating to the horizon, and far out I could see a boat. To my back were the heather-covered hills, but I didn’t turn to look at them. I knew the cairn would be there, a beacon in the middle of the landscape. I imagined it silently condemning me.
I started off again, following a thin path that was little more than downtrodden grass. The cove couldn’t be far, according to Dougie. No more than ten minutes he thought, according to his dad’s descriptions. I hoped not, anyway, because the sky was darkening. I knew night wouldn’t fall for at least another couple of hours, but the murky half-light was unnerving. It made the world a little blurry, a little less defined. I didn’t like it. Strange shapes kept leaping out of the corner of my eye, making me start until I recognized them for the whipping branch of a tree or a bird launching itself into the sky.
“Emma, I am going to kill you,” I muttered as I stalked along. It made me feel a little less isolated and alone to hear someone speak, even if it was only me.
I wondered how long our little friendship group was going to survive after this trip was over. Martin was not going to want to be anywhere near Darren after this, which was no real loss, but where Darren went, Emma went. To be honest, I was rapidly losing the desire to be in Emma’s company myself. Darren seemed to bring out a host of new, unattractive qualities: vanity, selfishness, feigned weakness so that boys would fawn over her. I could hear her coquettish giggle in my head, setting my teeth on edge. Feeling vicious, I parodied it, then giggled again as I listened to the simpering peals vibrating back at me. Then I heard another sound. A colder sound.
I heard Emma scream.
Fifteen
Now
“Emma was screaming, you said. These are your words. Do you remember telling the police that, Heather? That you heard her, from the path?”
I ignore him. My eyes are on the clock, watching the minute hand tick around. Three minutes. I smile to myself smugly. Another hour gone, and once again Dr. Petersen has gotten little more from me than a word or two. I see him glance at the wall too, registering the time. He’ll be annoyed, and that makes me even happier. All the qualifications and certificates in the world can’t mask the fact that he’s failing to make any progress whatsoever.
No matter what he says, what he thinks, I am winning.
I shift in my seat, preparing to rise. To begin the long walk back through the plush hallways until we get to the polished linoleum and bare white walls that family members and visiting dignitaries never get to see, deep within the bowels of the institution—Petersen’s personal little empire. My escort coughs lightly behind me, and I know he’s warning me: he’s there. If I make any sudden movements—explode forward, launch myself at Dr. Petersen as I have done in the past, and quite successfully, I might add—he will stop me. At least, he thinks he will. I am not so sure. He’s big, though. And young. It doesn’t matter; I have no plans to attack Dr. Petersen today.
I’m just getting ready to leave. To go back to my nonlife and stare at the walls. The television. The other “patients” who actually are total whack-jobs. I stare a lot. I’m doing it to Dr. Petersen right now, waiting for him to give up the ghost and dismiss me.
He turns away from the clock, back to me. I see a twitch as he registers the change in the way I’m looking at him—expectant relief rather than complete disdain and loathing—but he smothers the expression before I can read the emotion underneath.
“Is something wrong, Heather?” he asks me calmly.
Too calmly. My brain registers the odd tone—too nice, too smug—but I’m so desperate to get out of the room that I’m not paying proper attention. Instead I speak. Might as well; there’s nothing he can do now, with his perfect schedule and all that. “Our hour’s up,” I say. A monotone. Another thing I do a lot.
“Oh, I see.” He’s still calm. Still self-satisfied. What am I missing? “Well, Heather, I cleared you a double slot today. I thought you and I needed to reconnect, and what with this being the anniversary of the event…”
His words melt away. There’s ringing in my ears, and shock rebounds around my head. Two hours, not one. This sends me reeling.
Because it’s hard. I sit here and pretend that I don’t care, but it’s hard. Of course I care. Not about Dr. Petersen, but Martin…Emma…Dougie. Even Darren. Not talking about it, swallowing it back and forcing it down—deep, deep down—isn’t helping. On the outside I’m a hard shell: detached, emotionless, cold. But on the inside I’m burning, suffering my own personal purgatory. And he knows. That bastard Petersen knows, and he will not rest until he pulls it out of me piece by piece.
Hate courses through me and I grab onto it, use to it brace myself until I can feel the floor under my feet again. Until I can feel some semblance of control come back to me. It’s fragile, though. Rage comes in waves, unlike contempt, and when it ebbs back out again, that’s when I’m vulnerable.
I take a deep breath. Make myself look at Dr. Petersen. God, how I hate you. But you will not break me. “Fine,” I spit through tight lips.
He smiles at me; that’s another point chalked up to him. The rage burns hotter. I am not performing well today. Probably because it is the anniversary, and yes, I was aware of that fact before he so kindly reminded me.
“You didn’t like Darren, did you, Heather?”
There wasn’t much to like. I don’t nod or speak, just stare at him, waiting for whatever’s coming next. He sees that and drags the moment out, taking a sip from an expensive bottle of fizzy water. The hiss as he twists the cap is oddly appropriate: it’s snakelike, just l
ike him.
“You were jealous of him. Of the way he was stealing your friend from you. Weren’t you?”
I raise one eyebrow in superb disparagement. Dr. Petersen sits back a little, and I’m even able to crack the barest hint of a smile.
No, I was not jealous of Darren. I might be a little bit now, though. At least he doesn’t have to sit here and listen to this. “Do you want to know what I think, Heather?” No, but Petersen isn’t really asking. “I think you needed to get Darren out of the way. I think he was suspicious, a thorn in your side. Was it easier with him than with Martin?” I look away. Not at the floor; that would send entirely the wrong message. I go back to the wall, those fancy glass-framed certificates. Foolish Dr. Petersen, they’re potential weapons too. I try to use the wry humor of my thoughts to damp down my anger, but I can’t drown out his voice. “After all, with Darren gone, Emma might have come back to you afterward. Was that it, Heather?”
I swallow back a wave of sadness, because Emma is not coming back. Not ever.
But I don’t want to think about that. I will not think about that. I grit my teeth, engineer synthetic anger, and use it as armor. It can’t protect inside my head though, and that’s the part Dr. Petersen is most interested in. I feel a wave of panic that nearly propels me out of my chair. I am not controlled, I am not composed, and I want the hell out of here before I do something stupid like let him in.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.
It’s a child’s tactic, but I’m clutching at straws. I look at him pleadingly, hating myself more than him at this moment. Please, please, after all you’ve put me through, give me this.
He shakes his head.
“We are not finished here, Heather.”
“I have to go,” I insist. “I have my period.”
That’s a lie. He looks down at my file as he considers it, and I wonder if the truth is written in there. They keep such meticulous records: the drugs I take, the drugs I don’t take; my weight, my height, the length of my fingernails; my mood; what I’m eating and how much of it. I would not be surprised to know they have my menstrual cycle charted too.
They must have taught strategic mercy at whatever nutjob university Dr. Petersen obtained his PhD from, because he acquiesces with a subtle nod. I rise, thinking I’m leaving, but my escort guides me over to a discreet door to the left. He opens it, and I see a tiny room, less than a yard square and fitted with a minuscule circular sink. Beyond that is a second door, half ajar, revealing a gleam of white porcelain. Not an escape then, but a reprieve at least. Dr. Petersen acknowledges my lie by neglecting to offer me a tampon or any other such accoutrement.
I glance uneasily at the escort as he keeps close to my heels—surely he doesn’t think he’s coming in with me?—but he pauses in the sink room and lets me proceed, alone, to the cubicle.
There’s a mirror here, in the toilet rather than by the sink outside. I don’t know why. Does Dr. Petersen send his patients in here for self-reflection? I catch my face staring back at me, and for a millisecond, just the smallest fraction of time, I see something else. Something black and evil and terrifying, hovering over me like a malignant aura. I start and can’t stop myself from crying out, but I muffle the sound before it can reach beyond this claustrophobic square of space. Another blink, and the thing is gone. But my racing heartbeat remains.
I sink down onto the closed toilet lid and drop my head into my hands. I concentrate on breathing normally. I know Dr. Petersen’s patience will not let me draw out the rest of our “session” in here; I have only five minutes at best before I’ll have to face him again. It’s important to be calm, collected, when that happens.
In. Out. In. Out. I count the breaths. Slow them gradually. Taming my pulse is harder. It speeds through my veins, screaming. A gentle tap on the door. A summons. I stand, sniff, then swallow. Just to keep up the pretense, I flush the toilet. Then I smooth my clothes and open the door. It’s almost too small for me to squeeze in beside my escort to use the sink, but I make a show of washing my hands, using the fancy soap dispenser, which daintily releases a squirt of pearly liquid that smells like oranges. Pretending I’m not unnerved by the mountain of man standing just inches behind me, I take my time coating and then rinsing the fingers on my good hand. All too soon, the door is open and Petersen is smiling pleasantly at me from behind his desk.
The leather is still faintly warm as I sink back down into my chair. That should be comforting, but it isn’t.
“Where were we?” Petersen asks.
Trying to look as if I’m just idly glancing around the room, I let my eyes flicker to the clock. Forty minutes. I can last forty minutes.
“Emma.” He says her name triumphantly as if his question were real, as if he hasn’t sat and planned this line of attack while I hid in the bathroom. “You disapproved of her relationship with Darren, didn’t you? In fact”—he ruffles several note-covered sheets in front of him—“you were quite disparaging about it. You said since they’d met, she’d become silly. Shallow. Pathetic, you called her more than once. Do you remember calling her those things, Heather?” Pause. “Did you think that you were better than her?”
Yes.
No. Maybe. No.
I hadn’t believed her, though.
As angry as I was at my parents, the police, Dr. Petersen—all the people who refused to listen to me—I hadn’t believed her.
Sixteen
Then
The sound rent the air. It froze the breath in my lungs, freezing me. Like a statue I stood there, listening to it bounce off the water, the hills, before finally falling silent. There was an instant of sweet relief, then Emma screamed again.
This time I rocketed toward the noise, stumbling over tufts of grass and large pebbles, my feet fighting to find purchase on the uneven ground. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to follow the sounds ringing in my ears.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started again, it stopped. I ground to a halt, staring about me, wide-eyed. I was still on the narrow cliff-top path, the sea pounding the rocks down to my right. It was darker than it had been just five minutes before, though I knew it wasn’t time for nightfall yet. I looked up at the clouds, and they were tumultuous, black and bulging. A cold mist descended in a featherlight curtain, dropping like fog. Water droplets caught in my eyelashes, and the world around me receded to no more than a few yards in every direction. Cautiously, I started moving forward again.
“Emma?” I shouted.
My voice bounced back at me, but nothing from Emma. I tried once more.
“Emma? Where are you?”
Still nothing. I continued on and just a minute or so later came to a fork in the trail. One path carried on before me, skirting the curve of the coast. The other branched off to the right, and I could just see it begin to dip down toward the water before the misting rain obscured the view. I guessed it must lead to the cove.
Clenching my hands into fists to stop them from shaking, I started down the second path. The way was bumpy, already slippery. My shoes couldn’t find any grip, and I slipped and slid my way down. The sound of the sea scratching at the shore grew steadily louder until abruptly the hard-packed trail gave way to mounds of small stones that clattered noisily under my weight. I’d reached the cove.
I looked around me. The rain seemed to be worse down here, as if it were lifting from the sea as well as dropping from the sky. The cliff walls were dark, streaked with white where lime had leached through. The beach itself wasn’t sandy but pebbly and strewn with seaweed and driftwood. Dougie’s dad had been right: this was a good place to find firewood. The one thing I didn’t see was either of my friends.
“Emma?” I called again, then slightly more quietly, “Darren?” They didn’t reply, but a bird squawked angrily from somewhere above me. I shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. Even with my sweater on, I was co
ld, and there was an eerie feel about the place, as if dozens of pairs of eyes were watching me from the tiny, dark crevices in the rock walls. I took a half step back, my feet responding to my body’s urge to get the hell out of there, but I managed to stop before I could give in to the urge to turn and run.
Where were Darren and Emma?
I forced myself forward. Stones scattered in front of me, the noise making me catch my breath. I made a second, more thorough assessment of my surroundings. Though it was a small cove, hemmed in by the high cliff walls, there were plenty of places two people could conceal themselves.
“Emma, this isn’t funny!” I said loudly. If they were playing a joke on me…
I knew they weren’t though. The new, unimproved Emma screamed a lot: when she didn’t get her own way, when she wanted boys—or anyone—to notice her, when there was a spider. But I’d never heard her scream like that before. It had been real, terror-filled.
I was halfway toward the water when I heard something. I paused, cocked my head, trying to pinpoint the direction, trying to figure out what it was. It wasn’t continuous, but started and stopped in an uneven pattern, and it was oddly muffled. After several seconds, I realized what I was listening to.
“Emma?” I hurried toward the sound, my eyes on a large rock erupting out of the pebbles near the far cliff.
The closer I got, the louder the sobbing was until I was positive I would find her there. Still, when I rounded the boulder, I skidded to a stop, shocked.
Emma was huddled on the ground, her back wedged into a corner of the rock. Her arms were folded up to protect her chest, hands covering her mouth, and her feet were in constant motion, scrabbling, trying to propel her farther backward, although there was nowhere to go.
“Emma!” She didn’t react. Her eyes were sightless, gazing in my direction, yet looking straight through me. “Emma!” I closed the distance between us, crashing to my knees beside her. I grabbed her shoulder, but she still took no notice of me. I shook her, hard, and finally got her attention.
The Last Witness Page 12