My phone vibrates and a new message appears on the screen.
Nothing to say now?
Who are you? I text back. How do you have Grace’s YouTube password?
Pause.
Wouldn’t you like to know.
The smug reply raises my hackles. I asked the question. Answer me. Now.
No. The response is immediate this time. Check her feed again.
I load up the app and go to Grace’s channel. Another upload. When I click on play, the video begins with loud voices, laughing and the thump of dance music. The image is dark, blurry, with the twitching movement of drunk people dancing in the foreground. The camera moves through them, allowing me to see that they are in a house. I’ve been here before. I remember the beige and the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’. This is Ethan’s house.
The camera moves towards an armchair covered by two entwined bodies. Kissing, groping, writhing. My blood freezes when I see the back of a girl’s head with platinum hair. The darkness of the room might make it hard for anyone else to figure out her identity, but I know instantly. It’s Grace.
She gets up, clambering down from the lap of the boy in the chair. Ethan. Of course. Neither of them notices that they’re being filmed as they kiss standing up before then slinking out of the room. The camera follows them as they begin to make their way upstairs…
The music continues thumping.
So does my heart.
I text, When was this filmed?
Hmm, about two months ago, comes the reply.
I download the video and delete it from Grace’s channel.
Who are you? Even though I know they won’t answer, I can’t help myself.
Silence.
You have no idea who you are dealing with, I type.
They counter: What an original threat.
Pause.
Then, a reply, I’m terrified. Come find me, Katie.
The use of my birth name sends a shiver down my spine.
Nineteen
Charles comes home late, throwing his jacket over the back of the hallway armchair and abandoning his brogues outside the kitchen. I watch him enter while I stand in the morning room, dressed in a black sheath dress, red lipstick on my mouth. Then I make my way to the dining room to softly call his name.
When he enters the room, it startles him to see me sitting at the table, and his jaw drops slightly. His features crinkle in confusion as he takes in my outfit, the chignon at the nape of my neck, the dress that I wore the last time we had sex, the red mouth, the mascara. Yes, it feels alien to wear these things. Yes, I can see he thinks so too.
‘I wanted us to have a nice dinner. There’s a lamb tagine keeping warm in the oven. Shall I fetch it?’
‘What are you doing?’ His voice, low and steady, is more cautious than angry, which gives me hope that this plan might actually work. He tugs at his tie and throws it onto the back of one of the chairs.
The plan is somewhat half-formed – a hasty jumble of ideas that occurred after the video I saw of Grace. Right now, I’ve decided not to show Charles the video. Instead, I’m going to attempt to find out what he knows about anything and everything that may have happened to our daughter before she died. There are many words spinning around my head as I watch him slowly nod for me to get the food. Her dad is weird. Remember what she said about him? Yeh. Fucked up. My mother’s lips at my ear. There are rumours.
‘Sit down, darling. You’re making the place look untidy.’ The joke is as uneven as I feel. When I rise to go to the kitchen, I place a gentle hand on his shoulder to direct him to his chair.
I wouldn’t say that I’m nervous, but for once I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone. Charles has become unpredictable since Grace died, and I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to get the information from him that I want. That I need.
The tagine hasn’t dried out, which is indeed fortunate since I cooked it, and I’m hardly the world’s best chef. I’d considered asking our head housekeeper, Michelle, who often doubles as a chef when we’re busy, but I settled on the idea that a home-cooked meal would endear me to Charles. He’ll see the gesture as charming. When a drop of sauce hits the lip of the plate, I consider wiping it away, but then leave it. Let him think I’m messy. Let him believe I’m frazzled and clumsy.
When I make my way back into the dining room, Charles rotates his shoulders to watch me. His eyelids are down low, his features crumpled. The tiredness is transforming him into a deflated balloon.
‘Kat, I think I know what you’re doing,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to.’ He pulls at the buttons beneath his shirt collar.
‘What am I doing?’ I set the plate before him, sauce drip facing him.
‘You’re trying to go back to normal.’
‘“Normal” isn’t me cooking.’ I raise my eyebrows as I settle into my chair at the opposite end of the table.
Charles tips his head to the side. ‘You know what I mean. You’re trying to move on, but it’s too soon. We still need to grieve.’
I pick up my fork and spear an apricot. ‘I’m still grieving. I can put on make-up and still be in pain.’
My eyes remain fixed on the apricot as a pause expands between us. An ever-spreading silence that I cannot imagine will ever stop. Suddenly, this grandiose dining room, with its antique chandelier and table that seats twenty, seems too small for the two of us. But then Charles opens his mouth.
‘I know, Kat.’
And we begin to eat.
I soon drain my glass of Merlot, the wine more appealing than the food. With the distance between us, I regret not making our places at the table closer to each other, but we’re at the formal dining table and I felt formality would be best. The three of us, when Grace was alive, used to eat dinner at the cosy kitchen table, where we felt like a family. We don’t feel like a family anymore.
‘Shall I put the radio on?’ I suggest. Anything to fill the burgeoning silence.
‘That might be nice,’ Charles replies. ‘This tagine is very good, by the way.’
I shrug and stand up. ‘I just followed the recipe.’
‘Nigella?’
‘Jamie.’
He nods.
I switch on the radio and classical music blares out, strings sweeping like swallows into the room. Both of us freeze and I quickly find a jazz station instead.
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to hear violins again,’ Charles says. On my way back to my seat, I notice that his glass is half empty. I top it up before adding more to my own glass.
‘I know I won’t be able to. It’s as though she played every tune that ever existed. She’s everywhere.’
‘She was so talented.’ Charles places his fork down on his plate.
‘No appetite?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Not since…’
‘Me neither,’ I admit, sliding my plate across the table. ‘This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?’ When I take a swig of the Merlot, the heady taste makes me swoon slightly. Since the funeral, I’ve been trying to avoid alcohol. Now, the rich red wine plus the lack of food is taking a toll. I gently put the glass back on the table and straighten up in my chair.
‘No,’ he says, ‘it wasn’t. It was a nice idea and I’m glad you tried.’ He lets out a long sigh and fiddles with the stem of the glass, one fingernail bouncing against the surface. ‘One of us should be trying. I haven’t been there for you, have I? I’m sorry. Maybe it was too soon to go back to work.’
I shrug. ‘There’s no handbook for dealing with the death of a child. If it helps, you should do it.’
He offers me a thin smile that fails to reach his eyes. ‘Thanks. For everything, Kat. You’ve been great, since…’
Neither of us can say it. Perhaps it’s the situation or perhaps it’s the alcohol hitting my bloodstream, but my pulse is pounding.
‘That day, when she didn’t come home from school…’ I shake my head. ‘Being here at home waiting for her was… Well, I thought it was the worst day
of my life, but then the next day came and they found her.’ I rub my eyes, purposefully smudging my mascara. ‘When I couldn’t reach you, I was in such a panic.’
‘I’m sorry, Kat.’ He drinks more wine. ‘I wish I’d been there with you that day.’
Casually, I sniff and rub my nose, avoiding eye contact. ‘Where were you? I can’t remember. My head is all over the place.’
‘Nottingham,’ he replies, absent-mindedly. ‘A meeting, I think. Potential buyer for the Chelsea property.’
I nod, circling the rim of my wine glass with my finger. ‘That’s what I thought.’ But we’re both lying, because Charles had told me he was in a meeting at his offices in Derby.
* * *
When I wake up on the sofa in my black cocktail dress, I can’t help but panic. What happened after dinner? We ate ice cream from the tub. Charles and I finished the wine. I asked him if the school had ever contacted him about Grace’s behaviour but he said no and I tried to figure out if he was telling the truth but I was too drunk. Then we sat on the sofa in all-consuming silence. Did he open a bottle of whisky?
I creep upstairs and into one of the guest bathrooms, washing my face with cold water, hoping for the sharp shock to bring me back into the real world. Charles had told me that he’d been in the Derby office the day Grace died, but last night he’d changed his story and told me he was in Nottingham. Why had he lied?
Did my husband kill my daughter? Did he rape and murder her? If Charles was abusing our daughter, that could explain why she was lashing out at other students. But it doesn’t explain the fact that I never saw that troubled side to Grace.
There’s no time to reach the toilet on the other side of the bathroom; my pink puke hits the porcelain sink instead. I run the water and it disappears down the drain.
After a shower and change, it’s almost 10 a.m. Charles will probably be at work by now. My head pounds, my abdomen cramps. This time I need to eat, no matter how much my body complains. Dry toast, coffee, water, and then I sit at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.
‘Mrs Cavanaugh, are you all right?’
Michelle comes into view as I slowly raise my head, her features slightly blurred by my hangover. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Would you mind feeding the dogs and letting them out for a few hours?’
‘Of course,’ she replies.
I can tell, as she hesitates before leaving, that there’s more she wants to say. Slowly, while trying not to aggravate the spreading pain in my skull, I get to my feet and follow her.
‘How are you, Michelle?’
‘Oh,’ she says, as she opens the cupboard with the pet food inside. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t given you more time off after Grace—’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she says fiercely. ‘You need the help here. You’re the ones who…’
Who lost a child.
I nod. ‘I know. But still, you must miss her a lot.’
Her chin wobbles, but she’s made of tougher stuff than most. I appreciate the way she gets it under control within a few moments. ‘I do.’
‘Was Grace ever… rude to you?’
Michelle regards me with her eyes narrowed, a question on her lips. ‘No, never. She was always extremely courteous and sweet, even when she was in one of her moods.’
We both smile. Ah, the teenage door-slamming. The thunderous expressions and the music blasting from her room. The house is so quiet now.
I sigh. ‘I don’t know… There’s a lot I don’t know about Grace, about her life before she died. A lot I wish I’d known.’
Michelle fiddles with the dog bowls. ‘My daughter is in her twenties and we’re finally friends, but when she was a teenager we had no relationship at all. She barely spoke to me between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. You couldn’t have known.’ The kibble bounces against the metal bowls and I consider that I’ll never know what a thirty-year-old Grace would have been like.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’
‘Talked about your daughter? God, Michelle, don’t be ridiculous. Are people never going to mention their children to me again?’
‘Even still, I…’
I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Before Grace died, did you notice her spending time with any new people? It’s silly, really, but I watched one of her vlog things and she mentioned a new friend. I thought maybe I could track them down and chat to them. It’s hard to piece together her mental state before she died. Maybe this new friend could help me do that.’
Michelle pauses, and I can tell she’s thinking carefully. ‘There was a girl I saw her with in Ash Dale village. She had dark hair. But I didn’t see her again and I don’t know her name. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ I reply.
Before the dogs come bounding out of their baskets for food, I make my way back into the family room and pick up the house phone. Charles’s Filofax is back in his car, but I have the times and dates of the mysterious ‘G to T’ sessions written down for reference. All of them occurred during term time, at lunch. Surely, if Charles was picking up Grace from school, her form tutor would have been notified. The sixth formers are allowed to leave school at lunchtime, but visitors to the school need to sign in to access the car park. It’s a long shot, but I’m hopeful that Grace would’ve had to inform her tutor if Charles was picking her up every week.
The receptionist answers and I ask to speak to Preeya. When the receptionist tells me she’s teaching, I explain who I am and there’s a pause.
‘I’ll get her right away.’
Whether it’s the money connected to the name or the tragedy that has motivated her, I don’t know and I don’t care.
‘Hi, Preeya, just a quick one. Sorry to pull you out of class.’
‘Oh, that’s fine.’
‘I was going through some paperwork here and realised Grace had a standing appointment that took her out of school every Thursday lunchtime. Was this recorded at the school or not?’
‘Grace’s therapy sessions, you mean? Yes, she told us about them. Charles picked her up every week.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. I’d completely forgotten they were on that day. Thanks, Preeya.’
I swallow thickly to cover up my rising anger and disbelief. Yet another lie hidden by my own family. If it’s true, both my husband and my daughter were keeping secrets from me. But worse, it means there was something so wrong with Grace that she needed therapy to cope with the problem. She needed help and she didn’t come to me; she went to someone else and then hid it from me.
‘Can I ask you another question?’
‘Sure,’ she replies.
‘Were there any behavioural issues that I should have been aware of? There are some rumours flying around her group of friends – you know what teenage girls are like.’
Preeya makes a guttural sound. ‘Yes, I certainly do.’
‘Some are saying that Grace was a bully.’
‘A bully?’ Preeya sounds confused. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything like that.’ There’s a pause. ‘Well…’
‘What is it? Look, don’t feel awkward – I want to know. It’s important.’
‘Her group sometimes teased the more… unusual kids.’
‘What do you mean by unusual?’
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you know… The Goth kids. The socially awkward students who don’t get along with the rest. I wouldn’t say they were bullies. As far as I know, they didn’t pull down their pants or give them wedgies, but they probably weren’t particularly kind to them either.’
‘And you didn’t step in?’
There’s another pause. ‘It didn’t escalate to that level.’
‘As far as you knew,’ I reply.
She hesitates again. ‘Is there something I need to know, Kat?’
‘It’s too late now, isn’t it?’ I sigh. ‘You should’ve told me all of this while she was still alive.’
Twenty
There are too many threads to pull, so I
make a list.
Liars
Charles
Alicia
Ethan
Grace
Grace.
She was a liar and I have to accept it. She lied to me about who she was, pretending to be the perfect daughter when in fact she was a bully, she was in therapy, she had secret friends and she had a secret pregnancy. And then there is my husband, who lied about where he was when my daughter went missing and hid Grace’s therapy from me.
Alicia and Ethan went behind Grace’s back. Alicia sent her a threatening message. Did she send the unpleasant condolence card? Did she send me those texts? Did she put the videos of Grace on YouTube? But if it was her, how did she find out my real name – Katie? Perhaps her mother told her. We may have talked about my past once or twice. It’s not something I mention a lot around Charles’s friends, but Jenny likes to probe. Charles may even have mentioned it to Malc. I can imagine Charles complaining about his trashy council-estate mother-in-law.
Or could it be Charles? Has he been doing this to me in order to circumvent the truth? Can I see him buying sets of cheap pay-as-you-go phones and hiding them away? When I received the first text, where was he? Supposedly at work, but for all I know he might have been following me, making me think the school was the key to uncovering the truth. Throwing me off the scent.
And in the middle of all this there’s the pregnancy. I still don’t know who the father is. This new video of Grace and Ethan is a surprise. Surely, if the message sender is telling the truth about the date of the video, then Ethan as the killer is still a possibility. But I also need to keep in mind that a person sending threatening messages probably isn’t the most reliable source. They sent me the videos they wanted me to see, to make me form an opinion of my daughter curated by them. I need to keep that in mind.
I fold up the list and place it in the pocket of my jeans, noticing the extra space around the waistband. My toned, gently muscular frame is wasting away. No, no, no. If I’m going to catch a murderer, I need to start keeping up my strength. Sunlight blooms through the large window and I take a deep breath, making my decision. There is one person who stands out to me, who was closest to Grace, who has lied to me several times. One person who has the means to cover their tracks. I nod to myself.
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 13