Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

by Sarah A. Denzil

  All of that – the insecurity, the sudden focus on her appearance – I’d put down to hormones and the usual peer pressure among girls of that age. I’d never experienced it myself, because the world I’d grown up in was vastly different. Gossip and mean girls weren’t much of a concern, whereas fighting on the sports field and casual shoplifting were. I haven’t tended to worry about the opinions of other people, but I’d needed to learn how the world worked for my daughter’s sake. I thought Grace’s experience of school was normal. What if it wasn’t? What if Grace was being bullied and I hadn’t seen it?

  Georgie and Porgie almost knock me over when I go down to the kitchen. I quickly pour their kibble into their bowls and open the back door to let them run around the garden. As I return to the kitchen through the utility room, Charles walks in, showered, shaved and wearing a suit.

  ‘You’re going to work.’

  He takes an apple from the fruit bowl, eyes me swiftly, bites into it. ‘You don’t approve.’

  ‘It’s a bit soon, isn’t it? It’s barely been more than a week.’

  ‘If I stay in this house, I’ll drink it dry. I need to get out, Kat. Besides, you’ve been gallivanting around God knows where. Why can’t I get out, too?’

  ‘I’ve been visiting our dead daughter and her friends, not to mention arranging her funeral.’

  ‘Stop it. Don’t say it like that.’ He throws half the apple back into the bowl and sighs heavily. ‘This house is suffocating me.’

  I take a few steps forward, closing the gap between us, ready to fold him into me like a good wife does and absorb his pain. But I sense from his rigid posture that he doesn’t want comfort right now, which gives me an excuse to hang back. ‘All right, you should go then. Will you be in Derby?’

  He nods. ‘I swear I won’t go too far afield. And I’ll stay in touch. Are you going to be okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ It’s what he wants to hear, and I provide that for him, but I don’t open up and let him in because this is how our relationship works. This is as much as I can give him. I don’t blame him for getting out of this house. There’s no comfort here; only memories, and me.

  * * *

  There are phone calls to make, condolence calls to receive, services to hire. My mind is never allowed to rest because there’s always another chore to complete. And yet… there’s one task I can’t bear, that I keep putting off: choosing clothes for Grace to be buried in. From underwear to shoes, Grace needs to be clothed. Despite not having an open casket for her – the thought makes me sick – she needs an outfit.

  Trying to choose this outfit forces me to admit the truth to myself: I didn’t know her. We spent time together, we talked, we preened each other, but when it comes down to it, I didn’t know my own daughter was pregnant, that she was sad, that she was alone.

  There are clothes all around me, torn from hangers, piled high on a blanket box, dumped on the carpet. When did she buy this set of lacy underwear? Have I seen these before? What about this red crop top? When did she sneak out of the house wearing that?

  Here is the teal ballgown, nipped in at the waist, that she’d worn to her school prom last year. Perhaps she would want that night to be immortalised. Charles had welled up at the sight of his beautiful daughter before she, Alicia and Sasha had piled into a limo, the driver sweating at the thought of navigating the tight country roads. If there was ever a moment in time to immortalise, that would be a good one. Sixteen, beautiful, celebrating the end of GCSEs with a stunning gown and dancing the night away.

  She’d stayed at Alicia’s that night – at least that was what she’d told us – and the next morning, when I asked how prom had gone, she’d answered ‘Fine’. To me, that had been a perfectly acceptable answer. I never pried or prodded for extra information. Now, when I think back, I question whether the night had ended as full of good spirits as it had begun. Was that the night she lost her virginity? That’s what happens in all the Hollywood films – the girls finally put out for their boys on the night of the prom. But in Britain it’s different. The kids are usually younger. The prom isn’t as much of a milestone here. Maybe I’m overthinking this.

  Still, the ballgown is a bad idea. Perhaps the tea dress that Grace wore to a vintage charity night at the school would be better. I think of how beautiful she was, with her red lipstick and hair like Veronica Lake. But that was Grace playing dress-up. What about the halter dress she wore to a sweet sixteenth? Nothing is quite right. Before I know it, I’m throwing the whole lot back into her wardrobe.

  * * *

  Being alone in the house is doing me no good, and yet I can’t bring myself to leave. With the mood I’m in right now, I’ll end up back at the funeral home, replaying that voicemail. I’m wired, stalking the rooms, avoiding both food and drink, living on fumes and old messages from Grace. I found another one: Tell Dad he left his watch at home. There are hundreds of WhatsApp messages to choose from, too. We often communicated that way. Is that because I’m too cold and distant for a phone call?

  Part of me wishes Charles hadn’t gone to work. I’ve grown accustomed to the formless shape of him on the sofa, inhaling whisky and weeping into the cushions, grieving harder than I ever could. But I have to face the fact that since Grace died, we have been living separately in the same space, not connecting, merely existing. If he needed to get out, then that is what he should have done.

  I find a casserole on the doorstep. According to the attached card, Jenny and Malc left it for us. But eating it means accepting the status quo. It means getting on with my life as though nothing has happened. I tip the contents into the bin. I can’t think straight. Last night I had a nightmare about hitting Ethan in the skull with a rock.

  Back in the hospital, sitting across from PC Mullen and DS Slater, I’d told myself that I would find out what happened to my daughter, that I’d uncover the truth. And yet her funeral is almost here and I still have no answers. Neither Ethan nor Alicia gave me much information, and it would come across as odd, maybe even suspicious, if I visited them again. I don’t want everyone to raise their guard around me. There’s no point isolating people when I need them on my side.

  In a whirlwind of activity, I pull all the condolence cards from the shelves and spread them around me on the family-room carpet. Perhaps there is some sort of clue within these messages that I’ve overlooked.

  I’m so sorry for your loss. Grace will be missed– someone at Charles’s company.

  We love you Grace. Sleep tight – signed by several members of Grace’s form at school.

  There are no words. Love you all. Love Grace. Her light can never be dimmed – signed Jenny, Malc and Alicia.

  Our hearts go out to you both, Kat and Charles. We’ll miss Grace deeply – Rachel, Chris, Sasha and Oliver.

  Goodbye, Grace. Thank you for everything – Lily.

  I don’t remember a Lily. Perhaps it’s someone from school? There is something unusual about the message, so I set the card aside.

  Thank you for the music – Daniel and everyone from the orchestra.

  There are several signatures on this one, but I don’t remember a Daniel. Was he one of the musicians?

  Sending our deepest condolences. Grace was a beautiful girl. Heaven gained another angel – Louise, Gareth, Ethan and Billy.

  I’ve seen the same sentiments pasted across Facebook too. It all feels impersonal and clichéd. The one message that seems real is from this Lily person. There’s nothing directly from Alicia, Sasha or Ethan, only their parents. Should I mark this as suspicious? I’m sure it’s normal for the parents to take control in times like these; Charles or I would have done the same if one of Grace’s friends had died.

  Reading the cards coaxes my anger back to the surface, but that’s exactly what I want. I want to be fuelled by fury, walking a path of justice no matter how hot it gets underfoot. These cards are empty and useless. These words mean nothing.

  There’s one left. I open the card, prepared to read another poi
ntless message.

  She deserved it.

  I blink in shock. Who would send such a message?

  Where is the envelope for this card? Perhaps there’s a clue in the postmark? But then I remember that I gave all the paper to one of the maids for recycling. I’d also thought that Charles had already read these cards, but he would have mentioned this one. He probably set all the cards up in a drunken haze and failed to read through every single one.

  Staring at the message, I decide that I need to know more about Grace’s friends, and the best way to do that is try her social-media accounts again. Chances are someone from Lady Margaret’s sent this card. I shove everything away except for the nasty card, grab my phone and try the Georgiep0rgie password for Instagram. I put her email address into the bar, then try a few more variations of her password, switching from the names of the dogs to our cat, Whiskers, who was put to sleep last year. Finally, Wh1skers works and I’m in. A sudden headiness washes over me at the surprise of finally being granted access. I hadn’t actually expected this to work.

  Her username is GracefulGirl and her profile picture is of both the Labradors jumping up to her waist while she grins. There are fifteen new messages. When I tap the icon, the inbox pops up and I see yet more outpourings of grief:

  We miss you.

  * * *

  I can’t stop crying.

  * * *

  Maggie’s will never be the same. (Referring to the school by its more popular nickname)

  * * *

  Why did you do it?

  * * *

  Why didn’t you ask for help?

  * * *

  You’re selfish for killing yourself like that. Pathetic.

  Another horrible message. The username doesn’t strike me as familiar, and the profile doesn’t contain any pictures of the person behind the account, only motivational posts about exercise. Perhaps it’s the same person who sent the card, or perhaps it’s nothing more than an internet troll. Suicide is an inflammatory subject, and I can’t rule out the possibility that the person who sent the card has suffered their own personal tragedy related to suicide.

  I scroll down the inbox until I reach the messages that came in before Grace’s death. It’s there that I find the final conversations between her and her best friends. My eyes are searching for boys’ names, but there’s one direct message that stands out among the others. It’s in all caps for a start, demanding attention.

  HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME? I’LL GET YOU BACK YOU FUCKING BITCH.

  The username of the sender is not anonymous this time, nor is the profile picture: a slim face with bright pink lipstick surrounded by shiny silver hair. Alicia sent the message to Grace the day she died.

  Eleven

  The dress is Roland Mouret, a figure-hugging number with the right amount of modesty. Last night I pulled a hat with a veil out of the back of my dressing room and placed it next to the dress in our bedroom. Then I tossed the hat aside.

  The dress hangs on a hook by my dressing table where I always organise my outfits for the day ahead. Underneath the dress are my Marc Jacobs kitten heels. Everything is black, but I think I’ll wear a string of white pearls with matching earrings.

  The room is dark, on account of the fact that the sun hasn’t risen yet, and next to me in the bed, Charles is snoring. A sliver of green light from the thermostat’s digital face hits his cheekbone, and I hope he’ll shave today. It’s three thirty in the morning; soon I will need to get up, put on that dress and leave this house.

  There will be all eyes on me today – examining what I wear, how I act, counting the tears that fall down my cheeks. I will be judged as a mother, as a woman and as a person, and I will be found wanting.

  The ones who don’t judge me will pity me instead. They will cry for me from the back pews, imagining what it would be like if it happened to them. Right now, my daughter is all they can think about. A teenage girl is dead and that’s a tragedy to obsess over. After the funeral they will forget her name. But I will be forced to get up and make breakfast as though the world is the same as it ever was.

  For me, the world will never be the same.

  There is one reason why I have arranged my outfit with care and attention, and why I’m sitting up in bed at 3.30 a.m. thinking about what people will do and say at the funeral, and that is Grace. The funeral is more than a burial, it’s a way to find answers about what happened to her. It’s an opportunity to see the expressions on people’s faces, and to watch their reactions as the day goes on. Who has a guilty conscience? And yes, I want them to see me and see everything I have and everything I am. The dress on the hanger across the room is armour. Behold my power and influence. This is who I am, and I am watching you.

  I should be asleep, but every night I dream of Grace sitting next to me watching reality TV with coconut oil slathered over her hair. Legs over my legs, woollen socks bundled at her ankles, condensation running down the cardboard carton of ice cream. For anyone else, that dream would be beautiful – a moment of bliss, frozen in time. But for me it’s a nightmare, because it reminds me of who I am, and of what I’d felt that day with Grace. I’d been bored, but I’d forced myself to stay focused on her, to grit my teeth and ignore the tedium in order to play the perfect mother.

  Boredom explains the high rate of suicide amongst people with antisocial personality disorder. We crave conflict and excitement. We can jump out of planes with barely an adrenaline spike. We often want to hurt people in order to exert our power over others, like every serial killer that has ever existed. But when we play nice and try to fit in with the rest of society, we are forced to deal with the boredom that comes with it. There’s no room for power play when you’re acting like a good citizen. The mind-numbing boredom never ends, and it tortures the mind – an itch that can’t be scratched.

  Now, as I stare across the room at the dress on the hook, I long for the days when boredom was all I had to worry about. If I could trade a thousand years of that boredom for Grace’s return to the world then I would do it willingly, and that surprises me. Perhaps my therapy with Angela is finally kicking in.

  * * *

  There’s a handwritten note on the sideboard detailing the time that Grace will arrive in the hearse. I’d scribbled it down as a reminder, and now I find the sight of it ridiculous. How could I forget?

  People are in the house, spread out through the ground floor. Jenny, Malc and Alicia stand awkwardly in the kitchen, nursing mugs of tea. Charles is slumped over the kitchen table, with Malc occasionally rubbing his shoulder. Grace’s former nanny is sitting in the grey armchair in the morning room, dabbing her eyes with a damp tissue. It was Grace’s favourite armchair in this room, but I don’t have the energy to ask her to move. And worst of all, my mother is here, sitting next to me on the antique sofa, outdoing Grace’s nanny by wailing into a handkerchief. This is the most contact I’ve had with her since the day I told her about Grace’s death. She hasn’t called me or asked me how I am, and yet I’m sitting here with my hand on her knee in an attempt to provide comfort. At the same time, I can’t stop myself from staring out of the window, waiting for the hearse to arrive. My hand doesn’t move, it doesn’t grip; it’s simply there, limp and lifeless. Inside and out I’m a statue carved from marble, so cold my extremities are like ice. I’m waiting to be shattered into a million pieces by one fatal blow.

  We’re in the morning room because it has the best view out the front of the property, and I see the hearse as it slowly comes up the driveway. My stomach heaves. This is it. I’ll never touch her face again, because it’s going into the ground today. Charles and I had one last visit to the funeral home yesterday. We held hands and stared at her, memorising as much as we could, but I’m not sure the memory of her cold skin and missing fingernail is a good one.

  ‘Oh no. No no no no,’ wails Mum. What did you say to her?

  Charles hurries into the room. ‘It… She’s here.’ There’s stubble around his chin. He didn’t shave af
ter all.

  The hearse pulls us all to the window one by one, Mum last. Her legs are shaking and she has to lean against me, forcing me to inhale the mothball scent of her old black dress. That smell is a familiar marker of death. Whenever anyone dies within a few miles of the council estate, Mum attends the funeral in that thing, crying, gripping the loved ones of the deceased and generally acting the martyr. But mostly I remember this dress from my uncle’s funeral, and I remember the way Mum’s tears dried up as soon as we arrived back at the house and she opened the gin.

  Her nails dig deep into the flesh on my forearm, but I don’t care. There’s that pain I’m forever longing for.

  ‘Oh, Grace.’ Jenny begins to cry, clutching Alicia with one arm hooked around the girl’s shoulders.

  I know I should be watching Alicia after finding that unpleasant message, but I can’t tear my eyes from the convoy of black cars navigating the driveway in front of our house. Early-morning sun catches the glass of the back window of the hearse. Inside, a wooden box lies still, covered in yellow tulips. All the air leaves my lungs. A buzzing noise cuts me off from the rest of the room and for a split second it’s simply me and the hearse. The yellow of the flowers… My mind fills with the memory of honey-hued hair. I place one hand on the window pane, close my eyes and imagine the scent of her lavender shampoo.

  * * *

  We arrive at St Vincent’s, the tiny Catholic Church next to Ash Dale community centre, a small squat building with a few faded stained-glass windows of red and green. The same location and priest were used for Emily’s funeral three years ago. Throughout the short, silent car ride, I watched the coffin travelling in front of our vehicle, never taking my eyes from it, hoping her cold body was comfortable against the silk lining we chose for her, and then feeling like an idiot for having those thoughts.