by Emmy Ellis
It resembled Father to me now.
Why the hell didn’t he want to talk to me? He must know what I was going through. That I’d be scared.
The cream-tiled floor was a far cry from Juniper Hall, though. Axminister was the order of the day there, somewhat gaudy carpet designs that hadn’t been updated for years. Everywhere was painted white, preferable to the fussy wallpaper at home, and the stairs were light, bare wood, the handrails gleaming from a good polishing.
“Where is the person who looks after this place?” I asked as Sutton closed the wide front door.
“They’re on holiday.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
“So, how shall I amuse myself while you return to the boat?” I paused and licked my lips, rubbed my hand down then up my thigh. “I have a feeling I’ll be locked in.”
“Amuse yourself however you want.”
“Mmm.” I nodded to the corner of the hallway, indicating the small beady-eyed camera turned our way. “Could be quite the show.”
He huffed. “Except for the fact I need to quickly disable the cameras and wipe the data from today.”
“Do you know, Sutton, you’re becoming more sinister by the minute. I’m beginning to think I should have trusted the Albino.” I wanted to goad him into saying something he shouldn’t. I wanted a clue, anything that would explain this current situation.
He stalked off towards a door to our left then disappeared through it. That was that, then. End of conversation. It didn’t take a genius to know why that data needed removing. We were never here, and there could be no record of it. Or of what he was about to do when he went back to the boat.
I stood there, completely alone in more ways than one, and contemplated his next moves. Florida had reptiles, but whether they swam in the waters down by the jetty I had no idea. If they did, were Marion and Linus to be their meal of the day? Or was he going to chop them up and take them farther inland to the alligators there? I shuddered and waited for Sutton to return.
There he was, breezing back through the door as though he hadn’t committed murder. As though we were here on holiday, enjoying the posh house. And here I was, his partner in crime. Even though I hadn’t done anything. But I hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t stepped in to do the right thing. But when had I ever done the right thing?
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “At the boat?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“I do.” My selfish streak reared its ugly head again. “Because Linus. My DNA. It could be on him…” It was a revolting thing to do, asking him in so many words to make sure Linus was cleaned before he was disposed of. I knew, if Linus were to be tossed overboard, water would take away evidence, but if he wasn’t?
Sutton sighed. “Trust me. I won’t be long.”
I was curious at how calm he was. Gone were the blushes and fidgeting. He’d done this kind of thing before, that much was evident. He was comfortable with it. How did he compartmentalise it all? How did he not have nightmares, fueled by guilt?
The same way I don’t.
I shook that thought away. Learning to live with guilt was a skill I’d had to acquire for the sake of my sanity. I’d had no choice but to give her away. Apparently, a child couldn’t have a child.
“Sit tight,” he said, heading for the door. He carried a six-pack of bottled water held together with cellophane, and in his other hand was what appeared to be a local map and a pair of pliers.
“What are you doing with those things?” I wasn’t sure why I wanted to know.
“Stop asking questions.”
“How long will you be then?”
He sighed, an over-exaggerated gust of air designed, I suspected, to let me know how annoyed he was. How tiresome I was.
“Hopefully not long,” he said, keeping his back to me. “The Carpe Diem has a minor problem with the electronics. I need to fix it before it can disappear out to sea. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“There are flaws.” I stared at the back of his head, waiting for him to turn and face me so I could ask who would be taking it out to sea. He didn’t. “But that isn’t my concern. I was never here. I was never on that boat.”
“Exactly. So keep your nose out of the mechanics in future.”
I was about to return his words with a few choice ones of my own, about how the mechanics had everything to do with me, seeing as I was the one being followed by the Albino. That whatever the hell was going on with my father had infected my life to the point that I was to spend a week holed up in his swanky Floridian home against my will.
Yet I came here willingly…
“I’ll put my nose wherever I want to put it.” I floated away up the stairs.
The sound of him shutting the door then the click of a lock came as no surprise, so I investigated the rooms as though our behaviour was completely normal. There were six bedrooms, all with en suites, and all with flat-screen TVs sitting upon what appeared to be walnut cabinets. Everything was the same in those rooms, the furniture, even the bedding, and I wondered why. Did Father like order so much that here, in this house, it had to be to the extreme?
Not wanting to psychoanalyse the man, I dumped my things on one of the beds and ventured downstairs to find a well-stocked, stainless steel kitchen with every gadget imaginable. This was very different from home, but the fact that there was a set of Waterford whiskey tumblers sitting on the worktop just like those at Juniper Hall, churned my stomach. They were Father’s favourites, and it told me he possibly came here often. Was this where he went when he said he had business to attend to overseas? Was this some kind of hideout?
It was beginning to look more and more like that was the case.
I wandered into the living room, a surprisingly cosy area that housed a couple of fabric-covered sofas, a coffee table, and some wall cabinets. The room faced towards the water, so I opened one of the windows then unlocked and flung the shutters wide. Light flooded in, and I squinted against the glare. After blinking a few times, I was able to see the jetty and the Carpe Diem. And the other boat. If things got…unsettling here, I could find the keys and use the smaller one to escape.
How has it come to this again? Me, needing to escape?
I shook my head and stared at the Carpe Diem. Poor Linus. And Marion, his mother? That didn’t sit well. We’d—no, Sutton—had killed a family.
A flicker of movement behind the broccoli bushes caught my attention. I strained to see better—the white-hot sun was strong out there, bouncing off the grass—and spotted the back of a head. A dark-haired head. My stomach went south. My pulse went wild. I wanted to shout through the window to Sutton, to warn him someone was there, watching him, but if I did, whoever was behind the bushes might turn their focus on me.
Then again, if they do something to Sutton, they might come here for me anyway…
So I shouted. Screamed his name.
Sutton came scrambling up on deck, pliers in hand, at the same time as the person behind the bush turned my way. I held my breath, moving from the window, to the side so I could still look out. The man walked from behind the bushes and strolled towards the house. I panicked, slamming the window down then locking it. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my stupid heart thumped far too hard. I swallowed, my throat and mouth dry. He came closer. Sutton scrambled off the boat then ran, his arms pumping and his legs like pistons, moving quicker than I’d thought he could. I envisaged Sutton rugby tackling the man, but he couldn’t catch up to him quickly enough.
I hurried into the foyer, ready to open the door, then remembered it was locked and I was trapped inside. I rested my ear to the tiny gap near the frame to give me some indication of what was going to happen once Sutton and the man came face to face.
The loud pounding on the door had me squealing—damn it—and jumping back. With my hand on my chest, as though that would steady my nerves, I put my ear to the gap again.
“Hey,” Sutton called.
/> “Ah, hello?” the stranger said.
Their voices were muffled, but they must be close because I could hear them well enough.
“Nothing here for you for another week,” Sutton said.
“I have to pick up—”
“Uh, no. You don’t. Not for another week.”
“But I was told—”
“And now you’re being told again. Check with the boss. Nothing for a week, got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
I waited for a few heartbeats, and when they said no more, I raced back into the living room and took to my perch at the window. The man walked off, and Sutton watched him go. Then he strode over to the window. We stared at one another through the glass, him with his head cocked, me with what I hoped was a defiant gaze. He tapped the window with the pliers, and I contemplated ignoring his request, not opening it. But I was desperate to know what that man had been there for. ‘The boss’ was clearly my father. What was being picked up here—and was it on a regular basis? Was that what this house was used for? Dropping off and picking up…stuff?
I threw the window up. Leant on the sill. Stuck my head out. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with. Misunderstanding. He thought the place was for rent.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Sutton, I was listening. I heard everything.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, shit. When you’ve finished doing your boat repairs, we need to have a serious conversation. I’m supposed to be safe here, and yet I’m not. A miscommunication could have turned into something awful. Are there other people who might drop by thinking this house is for rent?”
“I’ll make sure there isn’t. I’ll ring your father.”
“Yes, you do that. Because clearly your super-smart phone is untraceable.”
I slammed the window down, not caring if I took his fingers off. It was a near miss. I then stalked the house to get rid of some anger—and confusion. I thought I knew who I was, where I’d come from. I thought my father, even if not a great parent, was an upstanding man, someone to be relied upon. He wasn’t—but then again, he could obviously be relied upon for providing whatever it was that man had come to collect.
Shady, that was what Father was, and his life, his dealings, had endangered me.
I would never forgive him.
Chapter Eleven
Stalking the house barely put a dent in my nervous energy, and adrenaline lingered in my veins and muscles the way treacle sticks to a spoon. Eventually, I found myself standing in the large en suite belonging to what I presumed was the master bedroom.
Quickly, I cranked on the shower. God only knew what was happening to that poor sweet Linus now. His only crime had been to sail on that boat. Now he was probably being chopped and hacked by the person who claimed to be my saviour.
I stripped, peeling off my clothes and hoping my emotions would slip away with the unraveling of material. Each item I threw farther until the bathroom floor was littered with my outfit and underwear.
Steam swam in front of me as I stepped into the shower cubicle that could likely house a football team. Each pinprick of burning water drove against my skin, needles that competed with the pain swirling within me.
I shut my eyes and held my face upwards, the droplets landing on the thin skin of my eyelids resembling tiny pebbles hitting me there. I had to stay cool and rational. Emotions would get me nowhere; I’d tried that before and had lost everything. Following my heart led me down a path of devastation.
I thought of Sutton, of his single-mindedness and willingness to kill. Could I do that? If I’d been born a man, would I have become a mercenary? A killer? Did I have those qualities in my soul?
To take life?
Turning, I allowed the water to pound my shoulders, drumming out the knots that had formed there. I opened my eyes, surprised for a moment at the unfamiliar bathroom tiles, then I reached for a bottle of shower gel. It was the colour of amber and thick and gloopy with a peppery smell.
It was the same one my father always used.
I didn’t doubt now that Sutton had been sent by my father. That we had been stowed away here, by my father. There were too many things adding up. This was all his doing. He’d taken control the way he always did. Managing my life as if I didn’t know what was best for myself.
After scouring my skin with the soap, I stepped out. Wrapped a towel around my torso then reached for another and turbaned it on my head. I scrubbed a hole in the mirror mist and stared at my flushed cheeks. Like this, I could still be seventeen. The six years added since then didn’t show in hair and makeup.
I turned away from my reflection.
My head was a little light, so I headed back into the cooler bedroom.
Running my finger along a dresser, I glanced at the shadowy walls. With the shutters open it would be a lovely bright room, facing west and enjoying sunset views over the water.
I opened a shutter and, after letting in a stream of light, moved to the bed. Would I sleep here tonight? On the bed my father no doubt used when visiting this secret den of his?
Or should I choose a different room, be a good girl and not invade his space?
Sod it. I’d sleep here.
I sat. My attention landed on a small photograph in an ornate silver frame, which perched on the bedside table.
It was me, as a toddler.
Cherubic face, blonde curls, and a dimple on my chin.
I reached for it, suddenly touched that he had an image of me set so close to where he slept. Perhaps his heart wasn’t solid ice; maybe a trickle of gentle water slipped through the crevices of the glacier.
I hadn’t seen this particular picture before and studied it closer. Who’d taken it? Mother? I didn’t recognise the hills in the background or the frilly collared T-shirt I’d been dressed in.
Was it me?
That doubt was an itch on the surface of my brain.
I peered closer, scrutinising my eye colour, the way the hairline dipped to a point in the centre of the brow.
Tension grew in my belly. A lump of lead that weighed more than an anvil.
I dragged open the bedside drawer and frowned at the meagre contents.
What am I doing? Snooping?
I pulled out a brown envelope from beneath a copy of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code.
Guilia.
That was all that was written on the front. The handwriting black, thick and swirling, the tail of the final ‘a’ sliding over the paper. It wasn’t my father’s usual block-lettered script.
I spoke the word, finding it oddly pleasing despite its foreignness. “Guilia.”
But what did it mean? And why did my father have this envelope in his drawer?
Who was the girl?
Again I looked at the photograph that was oddly familiar but not. The lump of lead in my stomach hadn’t lessened in weight, it had increased.
Something had put my senses on high alert. Whatever it was had turned my ricocheting thoughts fantastical.
Not caring if I was discovered prying, I ripped at the envelope and tipped the contents onto the bed.
A photocopied birth certificate fell out, another legal-looking document written in German, and several photographs of the same small child.
It definitely wasn’t me.
I picked up the picture that had landed touching my right knee. She was younger in this one, her hair in a little topknot that fanned like pineapple leaves, her dress pale green with yellow flowers. I got the impression she’d been asked to smile for the camera—it was a forced smile, showing off tiny baby teeth and the hint of pink gums.
I know who this is.
Those words weren’t really formed in my mind, it was more like a phantom idea, a wisp of a dream.
The girl’s head shook, trembled. It was my hand shaking as I held the image.
It’s her.
“Guilia.” I placed the pictu
re down. Unblinking, I stared at the first image of my daughter I’d seen since the day she’d been born.
She was beyond beautiful. I was sure no child in the history of time had ever been created so perfectly. Everything about her pulled at an invisible thread inside me that gathered around my heart.
My eyes dried, and I blinked. My throat was tight, my breaths coming fast and shifting the towel knotted at my breasts.
Hurriedly, I turned the other three photographs over. I had no idea how or why my father had these pictures, but he did, and that was all that mattered now.
In the largest picture of the bunch, Guilia had on a short red skirt with thick red tights and a fluffy white jumper. She stood before a Christmas tree which was decked in little wooden ornaments, and behind her a large fire—with a child guard—shone beneath a mantel stacked with greeting cards. She held a doll with pouty lips and a pink dress, and glittery wrapping paper lay at Guilia’s feet. It was clear the doll was a new toy, perhaps brought by Santa, maybe from her new parents.
A familiar longing stretched within me. Most days I could stop it, that feeling, distract myself with sex, but not this time. Now it grew and grew. Usually I told myself that my child should hate me, that I had no right to want to be in her life, but now that I could actually see her in the photos… God, I allowed myself to wish I was there, in that picture, buying her dolls, decorating a tree, taking her photograph.
But that wasn’t to be.
Father had made sure of that.
The longing sensation stopped; it contracted into a knotted ball of fury.
He’d been the one to send me away, to take her away. My daughter.
His granddaughter.
Yet he still had a piece of her. He kept in contact with Guilia’s adoptive parents. He was supplied with updates and pictures, probably on an annual basis. Would he ever have shown me these?
Of course not.
He’d scrubbed this perfect girl from my life.