Olive had only seen her once – way back before Sandman took her. She was beautiful in that sort of storybook way: midnight hair, snowy skin, so thin and frail a sharp wind could knock her over. Artistic, Olive had thought back then. Now she definitely thought the woman might be stupid.
When had Olive become so callous? So mean? Probably it was always that way. She couldn’t be brave so she got angry. Olive was used to the anger, now. She nursed it like a cold stone in the middle of her belly. After all, teenagers were prone to anger. She still remembered Cassie’s fits of rage. Cassie – for ever thirteen in Olive’s mind – was almost an adult now. Olive had seen an article Cassie had written for the Chronicle last summer, had been impressed with how grown up her sister had sounded.
She wondered if she’d sound as grown up. Probably not, since her entire world was formed only by the books she read and the bad news she couldn’t help but devour. Sandman said it gave her a sort of graveness that made her seem older. Olive figured that was just an excuse for him to act the way he did.
As she pressed experimentally against one of the bruises, she relished the pain that blossomed in her leg. It kept her anchored. More and more lately she’d been avoiding reading anything at all, just sitting on her bed like she had done those first days. Staring at walls. She was tired of drawing, tired of writing. She wished he’d never broken the TV.
She still had a newspaper from three days ago, which she brushed with one hand idly as she poked at the bruises with her other. She was putting it off, but it was inevitable. Eventually she’d become so bored that she had to read it.
She might as well start now. The bulk of the stuff in there would probably be the same old small-town rubbish. Garden shows, prize winners, empty buildings set alight (that had happened two weeks ago and Olive had been embarrassed to realise it was the most interested she’d been in the news in weeks). The list went on.
She made herself a tepid cup of tea in the microwave, wondering idly for the hundredth time whether she could keep enough water boiling that she could throw it at Sandman when he came to see her next. It really was an idle thought. She’d never do it. She knew that the room – wherever she was – was inside some sort of secure facility. He’d told her as much, though what he wouldn’t say. It would do no good to just hurt him. If he survived something like that, Olive knew she’d have no chance. And if he didn’t survive she might never get out anyway.
So she took the tea back to the bed and opened the paper. These days she started with the obituaries. Morbid, perhaps, but that way she got to the better stuff last. Then the births, then the people selling cats and dogs.
Then the news.
And then she wished she’d not waited three days. She wished she’d not made her tea first, or gone through the obituaries before the news.
It couldn’t be true.
Olive felt the familiar tightening of her chest, the dizziness that she associated with panic attacks ever since she’d read a book where a character had one. She tried to count to ten in her head. One, two, three… But the words stared up at her and she couldn’t do it.
Mother of missing girl found dead in suspected suicide.
The words rattled inside her skull as though she’d spoken them aloud. Maybe she had. She felt sick, her whole body suddenly heavy. Her heart fluttered and she realised she was gripping the paper.
Suicide.
Her mum was dead.
She didn’t know if she could bear to read the whole article – but she also knew she couldn’t bear not to. The photograph at the top of the page showed a house. Not their childhood home but a smaller one. A bungalow. Olive couldn’t tell how big it was, or where it was, but she knew without knowing why that this was her mum’s house. There was just something about it.
The article focused on Olive more than her mum. Olive saw her own picture staring up at her, and realised with horror that this was the first time she’d seen herself in the newspaper. Sandman had shielded her all the other times. But when he’d brought this paper, he’d said something that didn’t make sense – not until now.
“I hope this makes you appreciate your life here,” he’d said. Straight-faced, too. And then he’d turned off the lights and climbed into bed with her, and that was that.
Now his words rang loudly. He knew she’d see this. He knew her mum was dead. He knew… And he’d let her see it anyway.
Olive was surprised to feel anger. Towards her mother, some, towards Dad and his new bit on the side. Even towards Cassie, although she knew that was stupid. But mostly she was angry at Sandman. For letting her see this. Wasn’t he supposed to protect her? That was what he always said.
She remembered him saying it on the day that it all started. That day when he’d given her the mood ring as a gift while Cassie waited for her. That was back when she had thought he was kind. When she trusted him.
“Circles protect you,” he’d said conspiratorially. “Did you know that? Symbolically, circles are pretty neat. A circle of salt is said to ward off evil; a circle of silver – this ring – will help you. Spiritually proven.”
Funny to think that, even then, she could have avoided what happened. If it hadn’t been for Mum hurting her arm that time. If he hadn’t noticed. If she hadn’t stopped to listen to another theory about circles, about solar eclipses, over a free slice of clementine… If she hadn’t made herself known to him, he might never have come back for her.
After all he’d said about her innocence, how could he do this to her now?
There was a line in the article – right there. Right near the picture of Olive’s face. It mentioned a “local man who has now helped to arrange vigils for both mother and daughter”. She shivered. Was it him? Sandman? But it wasn’t him. It would be his other self, the one in town who nobody was afraid of. Despair threatened to swallow her.
Olive felt the tears on her cheeks, and she pressed the newspaper to her face. Felt the slightly tacky surface against her skin. Inhaled the familiar smells of newsprint and the faint trace of her own soap.
She searched for the anger again. Anger made her feel better. She thought about Dad and his new family.
Mum was the last thing. The final part of her life that was still there, still unchanged. When Olive felt brave enough to think about her family, she knew her mum would be the same – the same stubborn, beautiful woman that she had always been.
And now she was gone.
Mechanically, Olive let the newspaper drop to the bed and rescued her tea from spilling. She took a sip. Now there was nobody else. Just Cassie. But Cassie, to her, was still a kid. Just a kid.
Two kids didn’t make a family.
46
HOT PANIC COURSED THROUGH me as I careened back into town. Gran was at home alone, no nurse or watcher this late, and I was suddenly seized by her vulnerability. I had thought she’d be okay for an hour, settled with a jigsaw and the radio. A man like Doctor White… I remembered the look on Gran’s face when he’d visited the house. She would trust him.
I felt stupid but I was afraid. Properly scared. I tried Marion’s phone on Bluetooth but got three rounds of answerphone. I didn’t have anybody else – so I called my father.
He heard the panic in my voice and for once he didn’t shy away.
“I’ll be at yours in half an hour,” he said.
The house was quiet when I arrived. I pushed down the worry, the nausea, and let myself in. But Gran was there. She was fine. Of course, he wouldn’t waste his time on me when he could be with Bella. I bolted to the upstairs toilet and spent five minutes over the bowl trying not to hurl.
When Dad turned up it was clear that I’d caught him working late. It was almost eight and he was still dressed in smart trousers and one of his many dark-brown jackets. It was the first time he’d been to the house since the funeral, and I could see he was awkward as he stepped into the lounge, but he tried to hide it.
“Want a cuppa?” he asked.
I couldn’t hold it in. “
Dad. No. I don’t know. God. Doctor White. Do you know him? Do you – is he…”
“Whoa, Cass. What’s got into you?” He guided me into the kitchen. He sat me at the table while he made tea and then got me to explain. I couldn’t get my words out fast enough.
“The warehouse,” I said again. Dad’s face was slack with confusion. “Darren Walker’s dad sold it to Doctor White. Doctor White – people trust him. And now Walker’s dead. I didn’t… Marion won’t answer her phone. I’m freaking out.”
“Cassie, take a deep breath. I don’t understand. We’ve known the doctor for – for years. Since you were a kid. He’s a nice guy.”
“What does he need a warehouse for, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down, aware of Gran in the next room.
Dad ran a hand through his hair. “His wife was an artist or something – I think she used the space for that? I vaguely remember your mother going to some exhibit that she put on there. I remember your grandad telling me about it. He knew her from one of his art classes. Got it off a patient – Walker’s dad, I guess – super cheap because he wanted a quick sale.”
I hadn’t realised that Dad was holding my hand on the table. I came to myself slowly, like blood returning to my limbs, and withdrew my arm. Now I was calmer I could see with an icy sort of detachment how terrified I was.
“Quick sale?” I asked.
“Yeah. Something about pressure from somebody who was close to the family. Like a loan.” Dad’s eyes were steely. “Cassie, take a breath. You look like you’re about to keel over. Listen, I’m gonna go and get you some of those Bach remedy drops – the calming ones. I have some in my car. You stay there.”
I hardly noticed him leaving. The panic had made my senses dull. I barely even registered when my phone started to buzz; I only answered it in the hope that it would be Marion telling me I was wrong. I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t even know where to start.
But it wasn’t Marion. It was Henry.
He didn’t wait for me to say anything, just launched straight in with, “Cassie, I think I figured out where some of the money went. From the warehouse sale.”
I didn’t think I could take any more. “Where?”
“The family friend’s name is Adrian—”
Adrian. I felt my blood run cold. Ady?
“Jacobs? I didn’t realise they were friends.” I wondered if he knew about Darren’s death.
“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of information about him. Just that his wife’s a recluse—”
“Was,” I corrected. “His wife died when their daughter was a baby.”
“Right. Well there’s a lot out there about him but a whole lot less about her. Quite the charity man, isn’t he?”
I thought of the vigils. Of the searches. My brain was going in circles. The same searches attended by Doctor White. Jake Howden.
“So, the money – what happened to it?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. I needed my dad to come back. I needed—
“He used it to buy a small storage unit for his shop. Number eleven. Eleven…” Henry mused. “I’m seeing that number everywhere. Bella, Olive…”
In the Bible, I knew from my childhood reading, the number eleven meant disorder, chaos and judgement. Judgement of whom? The eclipse, the ages of the children… It was like history was repeating itself. And I was just as stupid and powerless now as I was then.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to believe any more.
Dad came back into the room with a little spray bottle in his hand. “Henry, I’ll call you back,” I said. I put the phone down, numb with new fear. “Dad, what do you know about Ady?”
“Corner-shop Ady?” he asked. “We were friendly enough back in the day. He was always a nice man. Did a lot for charity. Your mum went to the same school as him – Arboretum Secondary. I think he was a few years ahead. Actually, Kathy was friends with the lady that he married – Annabelle somebody.”
“What was she like?” I asked. “Annabelle, I mean.”
“Eh…” Dad shrugged. “Quiet. Very awkward. Skinny as a rake. She reminded me of a bird, all nerves and twitches. She and your mum were close until Annabelle started dating Ady. She got a bit distant after that. But Ady… He really brought her out of her shell – at least for a little while. Although he was very protective.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. She just… She was always sort of a hermit, but then I think she got sick. Looked like some sort of digestive thing. She was always skinny but she got really bad. She looked gaunt. She started wearing these really weird clothes, really childish, and covering her mouth when she spoke. And then she stopped coming out completely. We all thought it was some sort of eating disorder. I heard she overdosed in the end, though I don’t know how true that is. Rumours, you know.”
I let this information sink in, an image of an emaciated waif, Edgar Allan Poe-style, coming to mind. But what did Ady and Darren have to do with Olive? With Bella?
“You need to be careful, Cass. You can’t let your life be defined by this – by the tragedy of losing Olive. If you do, you’ll lose yourself – that beautiful, brave part of you that cares for people.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” I said softly. “I need to find her. I need—”
“Did you hear he had a baby?” Gran’s voice floated from the dining room. I followed the sound. She was on her feet, holding my Olive Diary between both hands – but she didn’t seem to know what it was. She hadn’t opened it yet.
I felt my heart stutter.
“Oh, Gran,” I said, moving so I could take the book from her but she held it close to her chest. She looked between me and Dad, a brief moment of lucidity making her eyes clear.
“She had a baby but we didn’t even know she was pregnant,” Gran said firmly, holding tightly onto the diary as I tried to pry it from her hands. “She got thinner and thinner. Like she was trying to disappear. And then she died.”
Silence fell. Gran let go of the diary as I pulled again and it tumbled to the floor. I dropped to my knees, eager to gather the bits up before Dad could see them. But it was too late. He knelt down too, and picked up a photo of Olive that had fallen from the cover.
“This is a nice one,” he said. His jaw worked as though he was trying to figure out what to say next. Whether to reprimand me, or what. In the end, he settled for a sad smile and a memory. “You always hated when she stole your things. I remember the god-awful fights.”
He handed the photo to me and got to his feet.
“Listen, I’m gonna pop off. It was nice to see you – both. But I need to get home. Carol and Hailey…” He trailed off. “If you’re okay now…?”
I nodded, distracted.
Because I’d just noticed the hair clip. The one in the shape of an owl, sort of brass-coloured. A cold sweat broke out right down my spine.
I’d seen it recently.
* * *
I drove to Marion’s house at top speed. I gripped the spare key she had given me like a lifeline, but once inside I didn’t turn on the lamps in her hallway or the lounge, feeling that this was almost too intimate. Instead I turned on the harsh ceiling lights that cast long shadows. I made the stairs two at a time, stumbling straight into Marion’s makeshift incident room to find it as chaotic as it had been last night.
I knelt on the floor among the papers, interviews and photos, maps of police searches. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I tried Marion’s phone again, got nothing.
I found my own statement among the sheaves of paper. And Marion’s. Written up in Ben Adams’ looping, jerky cursive, I saw my own words. I just looked away for a minute… I wasn’t paying attention… Gran told me to keep an eye on her.
And then, I saw it. Ady. Ady who had been part of each step of the recent investigation, who had helped look for Grace and Bella and probably Olive, too. I’d seen him on the news, outside the school, his curly hair familiar and nearly invisible. I remembere
d what he’d told me, how he hadn’t remembered seeing Olive or had anything useful to tell the police. If the police never spoke to him then why was his name written here?
I readjusted my glasses as they slipped and bent lower over the paper, squinting my eyes to read Detective Adams’ writing better. Next to the typed script of a run-down of patrons in Chestnut Circle, I noticed a pencil note in the margins.
Witness remembered seeing Olive Warren that morning. Couldn’t pinpoint precise time. She bought a can of Coke and left. Nothing suspicious about her behaviour, or about behaviour of any other patrons present at the time.
There was the pattern. Not a doctor but a shopkeeper. The centre of the Circle. A friendly face Olive and Bella wouldn’t be afraid of. Ady with his mysterious dead wife who dressed younger than she was and disappeared off the face of the earth; the storage unit he’d bought with Darren Walker’s money. The can of Coke he didn’t remember selling. The eclipse. A circle, a do-over, a symbolic fresh start he’d been talking about to his daughter ever since…
Ady.
47
I LEFT MARION ANOTHER voicemail as I screamed into Chestnut Circle, my car bumper scraping over the pavement as I pulled up. I thought about calling Fox, too, but what if I was just going round in circles again? A few hours ago I’d been convinced our doctor was guilty.
I didn’t bother with my jacket, or even locking the car as I climbed out. As I reached the doors I realised that something wasn’t right. The light was too weak. Only the security lights were on.
Closed.
I went up to the shop, tried the door. Jiggled the handle. I glanced at my watch. It was just after nine. I was too late to talk to him. I could never remember whether the shop shut at nine or ten. Last night must have been a fluke. I was kicking myself, panic making my movements jerky.
After the Eclipse Page 28