by Sarah Bailey
When they first started seeing each other again, Dean never mentioned Isabelle. After a few weeks of bliss, of Oli pinching herself, she got up the courage to ask him about his dead wife.
I need to move on from Isabelle. I want to build a future with you, Oli.
And she lapped it up. She didn’t want to press it, didn’t want to ruin the magic. But he has lied to her—not once, but over and over. And she was so desperate to believe him. How pathetic.
She tries to remember the conversation they had when he asked her to move in. The scene flickers in her mind’s eye, and it’s hard to grab on to the exact words, but she remembers one sentence clearly: If you decide you do want a baby, I’m in. I’d do that for you. Discomfort squeezes her insides as she remembers the rush of pleasure that bloomed in her chest.
Oli knows how this ends. She’s judged women in this very situation, women so blinded by love that they refuse to see what’s right in front of them. Worse, she has pitied them. Even now, she’s looking for excuses, ways that she might be wrong about Dean. Trying to reason around his lies, justify his actions. Stop it, she admonishes herself. Stop trying to fix this for him. Just get your things and get to Lily’s. You can work the rest out later.
She extinguishes her cigarette against the concrete pillar, leaving a black smudge on the white paint. The scent of fresh rain mixes with the dirty smoke, and she takes a few deep breaths. Pulls out her keys.
Rusty calls, and she doesn’t answer. She sends him a text saying she’s resting and will call later. The thought of talking to him right now makes her claustrophobic.
She slides the key into the door. A flash of light behind her is followed by thunder, cracking like a whip through the darkness. She spins around, hand at her throat. The sky opens. Sheets of water fall, turning the front yard a hazy white. Her hand slips down to feel the mad fluttering of her heart. It’s just a storm, she tells herself. They’ve been predicting it all week. But she has always hated storms. Hated what they help to conceal.
She enters the house, pulling the heavy door shut behind her, sealing out the chaos.
A text from Rusty: Can you talk? Just found out that Bouris’s missus bought a new house a few months after he was put away. It’s a big place. I’m trying to trace the cash but it gives some credit to your theory.
Another wave of tiredness hits. She was right: Bouris was paid to make the hit on Isabelle. Please find out what you can, she types back.
Nerves dance across her skin as she ignores the chiming grandfather clock, ignores her reflection in the huge round mirror on the wall. She heads straight upstairs to the bedroom, her thighs aching as she skips every second step. After flicking on the bedroom light, she sets about reversing her steps from months earlier, pulling clothes from hangers and bundling them into her suitcase, shoving in shoes and underwear. In the ensuite, she grabs her make-up bag and toiletries from the cupboard shelf. Lightning slices the sky. The rain keeps tumbling down. Returning to the bedroom, she piles the armful of things into the suitcase, remembers the pair of runners under the bed and jams them down each side, zips it shut. She yanks it upright and surveys the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s glossy and plush, luxurious textures blending perfectly with modern technology. Nothing in the house creates friction; every room flows into the next. Not like Lily’s ramshackle bungalow with its rabbit-warren layout, or their childhood home, Oli’s bedroom an afterthought tacked onto the end of a long corridor separated from the rest of the house.
She props the bulging case against the door and sits on it. Watches tree branches lift and jerk in the wind. She squints, and Isabelle appears. Lying on the dark bed, faint at first then clearer, silencing her alarm and staring at the ceiling for a minute before she slips out of bed. She stands next to her sleeping husband, her bare feet on the creamy carpet as she reaches her hands into the darkness, arching her back, her long wavy hair spilling down. She moves like a cat, careful not to wake Dean or the girls. Applies deodorant in the bathroom, sits on the side of the bath and pulls on socks. Isabelle glances at Dean, still asleep in the bed, then skips right past Oli, heading down the stairs. She will be dead in less than two hours.
What was she thinking? Had she told Dean it was over, or was she still working through her plan? What did she think he was capable of? Did she have any inkling she was in danger?
Oli stands, weary. She follows Isabelle down the stairs, the suitcase slamming painfully into her thigh. Rusty sends her another text. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Are you alone? She hauls the suitcase from the bottom step onto the smooth white entrance tiles. The dying tulips Dean gave her shudder slightly in the crystal vase on the side table. Puffing from the effort, she quickly types a reply. Please don’t worry. I’m just having an early night. Speak tomorrow.
Oli takes a final look around. So little in this house is hers. Isabelle has always been here, a silent housemate, the rightful owner. Once Oli walks out the door it will be like she was never here. She flicks off the light and pulls open the door. Freezing air swirls inside. The buzz of the rain. She’s forgotten to set the security alarm again. Behind her the grandfather clock starts to chime. Fuck the alarm, she thinks, stepping onto the porch. She just wants to get out of here. Away from the house.
A hand clamps across her mouth, snapping her head back. An arm slams across her stomach, winding her. She writhes against her assailant, trying to scream, eyes bulging as she is dragged back into the house.
Oli comes to before she opens her eyes. Everything is red and black. She’s woozy, like when she used to drink spirits. Legs heavy, she tries to get up but she’s too tired. The clock chimes signal a new hour, but the sound is coming from behind her. Is she in the lounge? How many times did the clock chime? One? Four? Twelve? The sound reverberates in her head, and she can’t tell the notes apart. It might as well have been a hundred. Why can’t she open her eyes? And what is wrong with her hands? She realises they’re tied together at the same moment she realises she’s been drugged. Her wrists barely strain against the soft ribbon. Is it the belt from her dressing-gown?
Someone is here. She can feel footsteps. She must be lying on the rug next to the sofa.
Her eyes flutter open. Through the dark she sees the entrance hall lit by soft moonlight, the tulips in the vase. The muted green glow of the panic button next to the light switch.
A boot steps into her vision. Her core seizes as she kicks her legs out, tries to get up, but she is so tired. Everything fades again.
Oli blinks awake again. She’s still on the floor, but she’s less woozy. Everything hurts. She rolls onto her back, sharp pains shooting down her arms and legs. Her eyes move in an arc: the front door, the tulips, the ceiling. Rain streaks down the side window. No one will hear her scream if it’s raining. No one ever did. All those nights as a kid, trapped in her room. The nights he didn’t come were almost as bad as the ones he did; her eyes would burn as she lay waiting in the dark, her stomach twisting in knots as she made deals with god. If he doesn’t come tonight she will never fight with Lily again. If he doesn’t come to her room for the rest of the week she will stop biting her fingernails until her skin bleeds.
Winter was always the worst. The piercing silence of balmy summer nights kept her safe. Especially after the night she called out for Lily. Oli can still remember the sting across her cheek, her neck snapping to the side. She never screamed again, not out loud anyway.
Rain swirls away from the window, lifted by the wind, before it spatters back against the glass like blood. Oli whimpers. A searing pain surges near her temple. She closes her eyes briefly but senses light and opens them again. Headlights. A car turning into the driveway?
Pushing her bound hands against the rug, she lifts her head and torso, curls upwards. She looks around for her satchel but can’t see it. There’s no way she can get to the panic button—it’s all the way across the room, and she can barely get up. Instead she wriggles sideways, trying to reach the gap between the couch
and the side table. Part of her knows it’s pointless: the moment the lights are turned on she will be seen, hunched over on the floor in her white coat, her blonde hair like a neon sign, but the desire to hide is overwhelming. With great effort she propels herself forward. Her body is flush against the wooden frame, and she pauses to catch her breath. Through the steady hum of rain is the distinctive crunch of gravel: footsteps. She flattens herself against the ground. Tears needle her eyes. God, she wishes Lily were here. She feels the scratch of her old blankets, smells her old bedroom. Footsteps are coming down the hall. Her heart catches in her throat. The doorknob twists, the door opens. Moonlight cuts across the tiles, and a hazy plume of rain billows in. A shadowy figure steps inside.
Time freezes. Fear is the only thing that moves, snaking along her body. The horrible familiarity of someone she loves acting like a stranger.
Dean slowly closes the door behind him. He’s wearing sweats, an oversized black hoodie and sneakers. Oli’s thoughts fly every which way. Where has he been? Did he attack her then go somewhere to change, to get rid of evidence, before … before what?
He goes to the base of the stairs. Cranes his neck and looks up. He stage whispers her name. ‘Oli?’ He turns to walk across the tiles and into the dining room. More alert now, she wriggles her way to the armchair. She peers around the side, watching as Dean turns on the kitchen lights. ‘Oli?’
Every nerve is registering panic. She starts doing desperate, pleading deals with the universe.
Dean returns to the lounge, flicks on the light. She recoils, the glare causing her to moan softly. Her head throbs.
‘Oli!’ He rushes over. He takes her face in his hands, stares into her eyes. ‘Are you alright? What’s happened?’ He looks at her hands, pulls the knot undone. ‘Oli, what the hell?’
Her body freezes. She swallows, her throat aching, and ducks out of his grip, inching away.
‘Are you hurt?’
She meets his gaze. ‘Someone attacked me.’
‘What?’ He looks around, muscles tensing. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Her deep voice is especially flat.
‘Where?’
‘Here. On the doorstep.’
He looks confused. Tilts his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
A strange sense of calm washes over her. Dean is lying, just like he always does.
‘Oli, hey, tell me what happened.’ A soft dent appears on his tan forehead. ‘Who did this?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she mutters. She just needs to get away from him. Where the hell is her phone?
He rocks backwards onto his feet, towering over her. ‘Jesus, Oli, let me help you. I know I fucked up, okay? I’m so sorry, but I’m also worried about you. You’re not yourself.’
‘I know about the IVF.’
‘What?’
‘I know that the twins weren’t conceived naturally.’
He crosses his arms, face reddening. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you should go,’ she says.
‘What?’ He seems incredulous. ‘There’s no way I’m leaving you here if someone attacked you.’
Oli stares at him. Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Could he be having episodes? Blackouts?
‘Why are you even here?’ she spits back. ‘Why aren’t you with the girls?’
Now he just looks perplexed. ‘Because of your message.’
‘What message?’
‘The one you sent me.’
Her gut clenching, she staggers to her feet. ‘I haven’t been in touch with you since yesterday.’
‘Oli, come on, this is crazy.’ He reaches out his hand.
She yanks it away. ‘Don’t call me crazy!’
‘Fine.’ He pulls his phone from his pocket and thrusts it toward her. ‘Look.’
She does, still slightly dizzy, and reads a text from her phone sent at 4.17 pm: We need to talk. Please come home asap.
She shakes her head vigorously, ignoring the pain. ‘I didn’t send that.’
His nostrils flare. ‘Oli, come on.’
‘I didn’t!’ Her voice catches as she backs away from him. ‘You sent it to yourself, you must have.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? I only just drove here. Stop doing this.’ Dean lurches toward her, and she screams. He grabs her arm, pulling her elbow so hard that it almost slips from the socket.
‘You’re hurting me!’
When he lets her go she reels back, falling hard against the floor. He scrambles after her. She kicks at his face, and he twists his head to avoid the heel of her boot. ‘Oli, stop it.’
‘No!’ Still kicking at him, she half crawls toward the tiles, then turns and backs into the wall, holding her hands out in front of her. ‘No. No. Stay right there. Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.’
‘Oli, this is insane.’
She bares her teeth, eyes wild. ‘You need to leave.’
‘Oli.’
‘Jesus, what have you done?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Isabelle. You knew she was going to leave you, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ His mouth twists into an ugly shape.
‘You knew. And there was other stuff as well—things she suspected you of doing. I know, Dean, I know about O’Brien.’
‘What?’
Oli slides her eyes to the panic button. Could he have disabled it? Surely if the light is on, that means it’s still working. ‘Just leave. Please.’
Dean runs his hand through his hair. ‘No way, no way, Oli. You don’t get to say stuff like that. You don’t know anything.’ He steps closer, his whole body shaking. ‘We had our problems, but she was my wife. The mother of my children.’
Chills zap up her spine. Dean’s eyes blaze. Behind him the rain rages against the panel of glass next to the front door.
‘Sure, but maybe when you thought she didn’t want to be your wife anymore, you, you—’
‘Fucking say it!’ he roars. ‘Come on, say it!’
Oli gasps around her sobs. She can’t get the air to her lungs.
‘Say it!’
She lurches sideways as he comes at her, throwing her weight hard against the side table before losing her balance altogether. The table slides a good metre over the floor before the oriental vase teeters and crashes spectacularly across the tiles, white and blue fragments scattering everywhere. Oli lies face down on the floor, the noise ringing in her ears.
‘You think I wanted her dead. Say it! Jesus Christ, Oli!’ Dean lets out a howl. Throws both hands around the back of his neck, his veins like ropes, and pulls his head forward. A gesture of defeat? Of guilt? Or is he dreading what he is about to do to her? What he thinks he needs to do to protect himself.
The night turns white before plummeting back into darkness.
A figure stands in the doorway near the stairs to the garage.
Thunder shudders through the sky. Oli blinks. Looks back. No one’s there.
Dean’s expression is unreadable in the dim light. His footsteps crunch against the rubble of the vase as he makes his way toward her. ‘Oli.’ His face is grotesque; he might be begging, he might be apologising.
‘I trusted you,’ she chokes. ‘But you—’
She feels it before she hears it. A muffled gunshot.
Oli doesn’t move. There’s nowhere to go. She waits for the pain.
There is total silence. A screeching, deafening silence. She locks eyes with Dean, trying to understand. His mouth lolls open. He jerks upwards as if pulled to the ceiling by an invisible thread before he falls forward.
Outside the rain comes down even harder.
All Oli sees is the blood.
SEPTEMBER 2005
Alex looks at her housemates. ‘I think we all need to calm down.’
Evelyn is still crying. Nicole is sitting at the kitchen table, the fingers of her left hand splayed across the wood. ‘Alex is right.’ Nicole stares at her
hand. ‘We need to calm down. This has nothing to do with us.’
Evelyn looks desperately back and forth between the two of them. ‘How can you say that? This is all our fault. My fault.’ She glances at the TV again. The same images play over and over. ‘It has to be.’
‘Evelyn, stop it.’ Nicole steps toward her and enfolds her into a hug. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Evelyn ducks away. Her hand pulls at her hair. She wipes her eyes. ‘I think we should go to the cops.’
Alex is suddenly floating above her body, looking down at herself and her friends. ‘We can’t,’ she whispers. ‘We can’t do that.’
‘Alex, please.’ Evelyn is crying now, her pretty face mottled, the skin pulled tight over her skull. ‘This isn’t okay, none of it. You know it isn’t.’
Alex is tempted to put her fingers in her ears. Yell like a child. ‘Nicole’s right.’ She gestures at the TV. ‘I know this is awful, but it has nothing to do with us.’
‘You’re both crazy,’ whispers Evelyn. She goes to the sink. Pours a glass of water, drinks it, then cries as she swallows, water dribbling down her chin.
‘Hey, hey.’ Nicole walks over to her. Takes the water glass and holds her.
Alex watches her friends. They are like strangers.
Evelyn pulls away. ‘I just keep thinking about it, you know? Taking the photos. And I’m pretty sure one of them had the house number in it. We were in the front yard with the sprinkler, even though it was freezing.’ Her pupils are so large that her eyes look black. ‘I think someone must have recognised the house. That’s how they knew where to find her.’
‘You don’t know that,’ soothes Nicole. ‘It’s just a horrible coincidence.’
‘It can’t be.’
Nicole tucks a strand of Evelyn’s hair behind her ear. ‘Horrible things happen all the time.’
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ whispers Evelyn. ‘Before I could separate it from everything else, you know? It felt harmless. But now I can’t. I’m out.’
Nicole pulls Evelyn to her again as she crumples, rubs her back and stares at Alex over her shoulder. ‘Let’s just see how we all feel in the morning.’