Or were they all part of that scene of destruction at our home?
I’m desperate to cry out, to alert the detective—to ask about my children. But the blade is pressing against my windpipe and I no longer believe Dom would hesitate to use it. I know that if I cry out, he will slice my throat before the sound of my voice even leaves my mouth.
My breath comes in short, rattling gasps as I try to keep it steady, anxious to know what’s going to happen next, waiting to see how the detective will try to appeal to Dom. I can’t think of a single bargain he can offer. What kind of deal is there to be done with a man who has nothing left to lose?
But there is only silence now from outside the door. I grit my teeth to stop myself crying, and I can feel my knees locking painfully with the effort of standing rigidly still. My initial rush of relief at the detective’s arrival has vanished, and as the silence continues, terror swirls around me in the dark. I’m desperate for him to say more—to explain what’s happened at my home, to reassure me that my children are alive. Why doesn’t he say something? Do something? But as at our last meeting, he is obviously taking his time, following his training, working through the appropriate steps. He’s doing his job; I should be thankful for that. I just wish he’d do it faster.
“I trust you’ve been taking good care of your wife,” he says at last. “She should really still be in hospital. Or resting at home, being looked after by her family and her GP. Professor Hernandez here was under the impression that was exactly what was going to happen.”
Dom tenses, his chest thrusting out behind me, and I jump. He tightens his arm around my waist in response, squeezing me harder against him.
“Thankfully, the doctor is an extremely conscientious and uncannily astute man. He’d picked up on something in your mood at the hospital, and it bothered him that he hadn’t seen your wife before she left. So alarm bells rang when he heard Madeleine hadn’t shown up for her scheduled appointment with the GP the following morning. Why would she miss such an important appointment, Dominic? Can you help me with that?”
I can hear Dom’s breathing becoming more agitated, deep and labored. The detective is getting through to him; I can feel his big body trembling behind me.
“Police work. It’s all in the details, you see. Missed appointments, a thank-you email the doctor was expecting that didn’t materialize. . . An experienced criminal would have thought of these little things. But you’re not a master criminal, are you, Dominic? You’ve just allowed a bad situation to get out of hand. Don’t worry, though. We can help you work things out. If you open the door, we can talk.”
I hold my breath, waiting to see if Dom will take the bait. He won’t like the implication that there’s something he’s overlooked. He’s established his consultancy on a reputation for thoroughness. I remember the hours he spent coming up with his company tagline: Castle Consultancy: a fortress of financial security. But that was business; this is personal.
The detective is right: Dom didn’t intend for any of this to happen. He’s been acting on knee-jerk impulses all along, a gut instinct of furious reaction to what he believes to be my lies and his brother’s disloyalty. Does he also genuinely believe Max was grooming Annabel? If he does, and it’s not just another smokescreen for his own sins, then it would surely have inflamed his anger when he loaded that gun and sat quietly waiting for Max to arrive: one more person his brother stole from him. His mum, dad, wife . . . daughter.
He’s lied to me constantly since he came to the hospital, manipulating my emotions, playing on my guilt to humiliate me further. But I have no sense that he’s lying now. There is nothing left between us to salvage; our marriage is over. Dom has admitted his crimes and he has nothing to gain by further deception. Max was the monster in Annabel’s diary; I’m finally convinced of it, and I only wish I could share my horror and grief with Dom—the man who, before bitterness and paranoia tipped him over the edge, raised our beautiful children with me. Our twins—or mine alone? I can’t be sure, and it shouldn’t matter. Getting home to them is all that matters now.
Dom offered me a way to make that happen—a choice—and I want to believe, after all the lies, that it’s genuine. I want to believe that, deep down, a tiny part of the man I once loved still loves and cares about me. I can sense the tension in him; he stands frozen to the spot. Clearly there is no grand plan. There is no clever trick up his sleeve for the end game. There is no exit strategy.
“In other instances, the doctor might not have been quite so concerned,” the detective goes on. “But I did agree with Professor Hernandez when he called me on Saturday to express concern that it was a little odd for you to abandon your wife for so many weeks and then rush her—I believe those were his colleague’s words—out of the hospital.”
I’m feeling lightheaded and open my mouth to draw in air, but Dom misinterprets my intake of breath as the prelude to a scream and presses the knife more firmly into my skin, close to the pulse point above my collarbone. I feel a trickle of blood and my knees give way. If he didn’t have such a tight grip around my waist, I would collapse. I sag against him and I’m surprised when all of a sudden he seems to have difficulty holding my weight, stooping to mold himself around me until I am enclosed, imprisoned by his big body.
“You can talk to me, Dominic. I do know you’re in there. We looked everywhere else, of course, but DI Baxter here had a hunch about this place. We’ve been here before, you see. Checked it over as part of the investigation into your brother’s alleged shooting. I say alleged because naturally we found absolutely no evidence to speak of, and I’ve always been a little reluctant to close the case. Something just never quite gelled for me. My interview with your wife only consolidated that feeling.”
No police cordon—no further action required . . .
I remember wondering if the police had been here. I was right to, but it doesn’t surprise me that they found nothing of any significance; Dom has wiped out all trace of his brother’s existence. I wonder when he hid Annabel’s diary under Max’s mattress, and a shudder of disgust rolls through me at how Max pretended to be the perfect uncle yet all the time was watching, coveting, pestering Annabel behind my back.
Addicted to his sugar . . .
The phrase flashes in my mind and in the same instant I remember Max’s phone message. Hi, sugar, it’s me. I’m waiting for you . . . Adrenaline rushes through me, flooding my brain, sharpening my senses and crystalizing my thoughts into a stark realization: Max was trying to confess his feelings for Annabel, not me, that evening in the pub.
My thoughts tumble ahead so fast I almost can’t keep up with them. Max told me he was meeting someone for a drink the evening before the twins’ party, and I remember thinking how jittery he seemed, how on edge. He’d wanted to talk to Dom about something, and I don’t believe it was me. Max did have a guilty conscience, but it had nothing to do with adultery and everything to do with his niece. Maybe his feelings for Annabel had been preying on his mind; maybe he’d become overwhelmed by them and wanted to come clean before her milestone tenth birthday party . . .
It seems crazy, though, that he would take the risk of confessing those feelings to his brother: he was clever; he would have known how Dom would react. I shake my head, battling to keep it clear. Perhaps I’m wrong and his mind was on me after all, only not in a romantic sense. Maybe he went to the pub intending to give Dom a piece of his mind about how he treated me. Max always seemed so loyal to me—protective, even, taking my side against his brother. No doubt Dom interpreted that as more evidence of an affair, but Max could have gone to the pub that evening simply intending to ask Dom to back off—to rein in his bullishness, at least for the twins’ birthday. After all, Max had no idea that I was about to leave Dom; he couldn’t have known he was about to light a fuse that would propel his brother home to discover my plan and blow it sky high . . .
I try to imagine the two brothers, head to head in the pub, old rivalries and resentments simmering between
them, and I can picture Dom’s brusque and condescending response all too easily. Max would have knocked back more and more whiskey, and perhaps then his mouth simply ran away with him. He couldn’t get Annabel out of his mind; he’d tried to stay away, but he was hooked on her and couldn’t stop his feelings spilling out of him. He simply had to talk about her: those blue eyes, that pretty hair . . . Intoxicated by his infatuation with Annabel as much as by alcohol, he flirted with danger, unable to resist speaking of his secret, forbidden obsession. His obsession with my daughter...
The walls seem to close in on me. I fight the sensation of being swallowed by darkness and force myself not to panic but to think rationally about the Max I’ve known for ten years. He always adored Annabel; he could never take his eyes off her. I’ve felt so guilty for not realizing that his adoration went deeper than that of a proud uncle; my skin has crawled every time I’ve thought of him trying to touch her. But have I been blinded by my own maternal guilt? Have I condemned Max outright as a monster when it was simply all in his head? He got too close—I know that much from Annabel’s diary—and that is shameful, harmful enough. But deep down I can’t shake the sense that Max would never really have acted on his deviant impulses. He idolized Annabel; he wanted to possess her in some way—perhaps not even physically. As Dom once threw at me: she’s the angel on top of the Christmas tree, and she outshines everyone. Max just needed to be around Annabel. She sensed this, and she was deeply uncomfortable—understandably so. And maybe Max had begun to realize that his fantasies had to stop.
I feel a surge of protectiveness towards Annabel and with it comes the certainty I’ve doubted so despairingly—that I do know my daughter, and I know she would have told me if Max had ever actually crossed the line. He invaded her space; he hovered around her like a moth courting the flame that dazzled but would ultimately destroy him. And then he realized he was playing with fire, spending so much time hanging around his niece, and on the day before her tenth birthday—the day he’d wanted to help make so special—his feelings overwhelmed him. Confused, desperate and in turmoil—and then drunk—he turned to the only other man who might appreciate Annabel’s bewitching charm, hoping to find some kind of relief, solace or understanding. Perhaps even forgiveness or absolution.
Incredible as it seems to me that Max could have expected any of those things from Dom, a voice in my head reminds me how easy it can be to rationalize guilt and normalize the most unpardonable act: it was only when I believed my children might be in danger that I finally found the strength to leave Dom. Until then, I’d convinced myself that if my children didn’t know about his aggression, it couldn’t hurt them. How long had Max been telling himself it was OK to look as long as he didn’t touch? I can almost hear his deep, quick voice talking and talking, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t doing anything wrong, that no one was getting hurt . . . He died without knowing exactly how many people have been hurt.
Was Max a true pedophile or just a sad, lonely man entranced by the beauty of my daughter’s innocence? I’m not sure I’ll ever know for certain, but I do know that Dom didn’t even give him the chance to complete his drunken, misguided confession. Always hot-headed, he jumped instantly to the wrong conclusion—that Max and I were having an affair—and he charged home to punish me. And then, the following morning, his brother . . .
Dom was right about one thing: Max has paid the price. I just can’t bear the thought that Annabel has too—for her uncle’s twisted passions, her father’s blinkered possessiveness, and my naiveté.
It can’t end this way; I won’t let it.
My heart is pounding so loudly I can hear it echoing in my ears. I turn my head to tell Dom what I’ve realized—to ask him to give himself up and give us a chance to talk, really talk—but my throat dries as I see the look on his face.
“If I die, you die,” he whispers softly in my ear, his shoulders hunching as he dips his head to the side of mine. The stubble on his chin grazes my cheek.
It’s all far too late, I realize. What’s gone before no longer matters; the final curtain is about to fall. I tighten my grip on the hardback book, wishing the detective would hurry up and do something. From what he’s saying I can gather that DI Baxter is out there with him, along with Professor Hernandez. That’s three men against one, and surely they will have come armed and prepared. My eyes swivel around the room and I wonder wildly if I should just make a break for it, hide under the bed while the detectives barge in and—
“Perhaps you might be able to help us further with that line of inquiry, Dominic,” the detective continues at last. “The evidence against your brother was entirely circumstantial. Forensics were satisfied, but I never did quite buy it. No real motive, you see. Turned this place upside down and couldn’t find time to help us, either. It all looks a bit different now, though, I must say. Someone has done a thorough job emptying the place. I hardly recognize it. Your handiwork as well, I suppose? Tampering with evidence,” he says, baiting Dom a little more obviously now as he still refuses to be drawn out. “We might need to have a little chat with you about that. And about the children.”
My knees give way entirely now and I can’t help the moan that curdles deep in my throat. I turn my head to look pleadingly up at Dom, wanting to beg with my eyes for him to give himself up. But his own eyes are fixed and bloodshot, and his head is shaking, very slightly, from side to side. He catches my shocked glance and frowns down at me, pulling me closer against him, preventing me from dropping to the floor by digging his fingers into my ribs until I almost faint with the effort of not crying out.
My children. What about them?
“Come on, Dominic. You can’t hide from us. You must know that. We live in a paranoid digital age. Whatever movements are trackable, we track. We have you on CCTV footage right now carrying Madeleine into this very house. Bit of a lucky break for us that your brother lived so close to the pub. Their security cameras picked you out nicely. But we can help you find a way out, Dominic. No need for you to feel cornered.”
Never corner a wild animal.
From out of nowhere, the words pop up in my mind, perhaps from the twins’ favorite wildlife program or one of their school textbooks. Dom has nothing left to lose. No matter how I might wish things were different, the truth is he doesn’t care about me, the woman he’s convinced betrayed him, or the twins, the children he believes aren’t even his; and from his crazed eyes, I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t much care about anything any longer. The detective’s words will be like a red rag to a reckless, angry bull with an almighty grudge and no fear.
“I don’t need your help.” Dom’s voice is a low growl. “I don’t need anyone. I can finish this all by myself. My family, my rules.”
His statement cuts sharper than the knife grazing my skin. Stars dance in front of my eyes, turning the darkness into a hazy, swirling curtain around me. I remember lying rigidly in bed waiting for Dom to come home each night; I remember the loneliness, the humiliation of always trying to pacify him for fear of him turning his aggression on the twins. I think of him thundering home after seeing Max in the pub, never giving me a chance to explain, always believing the worst of me. I feel scorching heat surge through my body, moving steadily upwards through my legs, my midriff, my arms, all the way to my fingertips: an electrical charge of fury shocking me into action.
“We are not your family!” The words are torn from my throat; I howl them into the cold air. I am the cornered, wild animal; but I refuse to be caged any longer.
I picture the twins’ faces and keep hold of that image as I dive forward into the dark room, a scream of anguish and desperation rupturing from my throat as I lurch in the direction of the bed. All I need to do is get far enough away from the door to let the detectives force their way in; all I need to do is put a temporary barrier between Dom and me. That’s all I need. A place of safety, just for a few seconds.
“You are mine. You’ve always been mine,” Dom snarls.
He grabs me from behind before I’ve taken my second step. His big arms circle me and he easily captures both of my hands in one of his, the diary skittering to the floor as he spins me around, yanking my arms upwards towards his chest, flattening my palms against his thumping heartbeat. He dips his head and for a second I think he’s about to kiss me. I draw in a ragged breath of horror, straining to pull away from him, my legs collapsing weakly as I realize I’m right.
I hear hammering, loud rhythmic bangs against the bedroom door; I hear the sound of splintering wood. But it’s as though I’m in a stupor, cocooned in a bubble with Dom, floating upwards, the floor disappearing far below us. Sounds are muffled and I can’t take my eyes off Dom’s face as he gently lifts me to my feet, holding me firmly in front of him before lowering his head towards mine. Terror shudders through me; I can’t move or breathe. I’m transfixed by his glazed eyes, the quirk of his mouth, so I don’t notice when he reaches into his trouser pocket, only glancing down when I feel something cold and hard pressing against my left hand.
My wedding ring.
Suddenly I remember my dream: my wedding dress dropping to the floor, Dom twisting and turning my wedding ring. He was really touching me, I realize; he’d come to visit me in the hospital and tried to smother me, removing my ring at the same time. In his eyes, I’d forfeited the right to wear it, and he wanted to dispose of it, as he wanted to dispose of me.
Almost as soon as I realize that Dom has twisted the platinum band on to my ring finger, he presses the knife into my other hand, and in the same moment the bedroom door bursts open, the violent crash of the door flying off its hinges finally shattering my trance. Torchlight dances across the walls, spotlighting Dom as he draws me closer towards him, hugging me almost tenderly to his chest, pulling me closer and closer against his big body, swaying from side to side as if to music. He hums beneath his breath. I recognize the tune: it’s the song we chose together for our first dance.
The Perfect Family Page 26