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

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Finally, I think I know who did this.

  * * *

  What I’m about to do is not going to be easy. It’s not a truth I want to accept, but I can’t get it out of my head. To finally uncover the secrets hidden within my family, I start with my husband. I make up an email address very similar to one for a top investment company, and then I send an email to Charles’s secretary asking her to arrange a meeting at a hotel bar in Derby near Charles’s office. For most of my marriage, I’ve thought of Charles as a mummy’s boy, a man who likes to be dominated by women, who needs guidance and comfort. But what if that is his way of hiding his twisted nature? I can’t allow myself to forget that he’s also a powerful, rich man, used to getting what he wants. If my mother is right – if Charles really did hurt Grace – then I need to be sure he won’t respond with violence when I confront him. I want him on neutral ground. I won’t be doing what all the wronged wives on TV do, throwing kitchen utensils at him while screaming like a banshee. No, I want a public space, and I want to ensure my safety.

  In my email, my fake persona enquires about Charles’s Chelsea property, which I know he’s been eager to sell for months now. I set up a meeting for tomorrow, which means I have one more night to act like the good wife. One more night to fake it.

  Grace, you weren’t like me, were you? If I’m right, you were abused and traumatised. That’s why you acted out at school. You hid it from me, what he did to you, because you were controlled by him this entire time. He always says that in business he gets what he wants, so why wouldn’t he get what he wants at home, too? If I’m right, he’s the monster. He’s the one who hurt you. If I’m right…

  What if I’m wrong?

  As I allow my mind to wander, an uneasy tingling sensation spreads across my skin. I see Charles carrying Grace in his arms after she fell asleep in the car. I see him cradling her as a newborn baby. I see him pretending to be a pony on Christmas day, with Grace on his back, giggling and grinning.

  And yet… my mother whispered those words into my ear and I saw his every move in a different way. He lied to me. Why would he do that?

  If he hurt you, Grace, I will kill him.

  * * *

  My husband sleeps softly next to me, a snore and a snort here and there to break the silence. He rolls onto his back and his mouth gapes open almost comically. We haven’t closed the curtains – at my request, because I want to wake up with the sunrise. The earlier tomorrow begins, the sooner our sham marriage can stop.

  I lean back against the headboard, unable to quell the rising doubts which are swirling around my mind. The reason sleep alludes me is because I can’t stop thinking back to the night we met, at that private function. Charles was a generous tipper and kind to the staff – including me. On one occasion, he chastised a greying, rotund lord who called me a ‘cutie’ and slapped my backside. He didn’t take me around the back of the venue and fuck me standing up – which happened a lot between the waitresses and the clients – instead he’d asked me out on a date, which I found rather endearing. All of the other rich dicks had been much more forward about what they desired, and it was usually a discreet fumble their wives would never know about. Back then I’d been indecisive about what I wanted for myself. A mistress’s life could be pleasant enough. Perhaps I could demand hush money or a few pretty jewels. If the right man came along, I could end up with a nice city apartment somewhere.

  Charles made me realise I could have more. He was the first man who wanted to take me out where we would be seen. Our first date was to a plush restaurant. I ordered a steak; he ordered lamb. We kissed in his car when he dropped me off outside my old flat. He was never an attractive man – seventeen years older, carrying a bit of weight around the middle, hair balding in one spot at the back and a large red nose that reminded me of the prince he shares a name with – but he wasn’t playing a game, which surprised me a lot.

  We went on dates together while he took the loud woman in sequins to important events. She was apparently the niece of his mother’s friend, and therefore ‘approved’ by Emily, whose approval was hard to come by. Charles, bless his heart, never stopped aiming for it. He saw me on weeknights, but she had his arm when it mattered, and I didn’t like that.

  That was when I started playing the game for him.

  It helped that I figured out what he liked, and I utilised it. Men with domineering mothers like to be dominated.

  Lying there in bed with the cover over my skin, a flush of heat spreads all over me from neck to feet. The emotion rises, quick and all-consuming, too fast and fleeting to understand it. In one fluid motion I throw back the duvet, wrap my legs around Charles’s sleeping body and lift myself into a sitting position, resting my hands on his chest. He wakes, his wide eyes illuminated by the security light outside our home.

  ‘Kat, what are you doing?’

  My hands slide up his chest, caressing the silk paisley pyjamas he’s worn in rotation since we married. A soft Shhhhh escapes my lips as my fingertips move upwards, closer and closer…

  ‘Kat, I can’t.’ His hands grope to find my upper arms, but I push back.

  ‘Isn’t this what you want?’ I begin to wrap my fingers around his neck, thickened by age and weight.

  ‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘Not now.’

  Shhhhh.

  My hands clamp around his neck, tightening and tightening, squeezing dangerously. Am I strong enough to end his life right now? Do I have the physical strength to kill this man? I could watch the life fade from his eyes. I did it once before, back when I was Katie Flack. His hands grasp hold of both my arms, clamping them to my sides. He wriggles underneath me, almost tipping me off.

  ‘Isn’t this what you want?’ I say, louder now. ‘Isn’t this why you married me?’ Fat tears of frustration fall down my cheeks.

  Beneath my hands, his skin is reddening. He grasps my arms, and before I can do anything else, he throws me off, rolls on top of me and pins my arms behind my head.

  ‘Stop playing games, Kat. Stop it.’

  ‘You’re only firm with me when we’re in bed,’ I goad.

  He lets go, moving away in disgust. Then he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits staring out of the window into the garden.

  ‘I know you’re grieving,’ he says, ‘but that isn’t the answer.’

  ‘Just go back to sleep.’ My voice is thick with tears that I don’t want him to see.

  ‘We should talk tomorrow,’ he says, softer now. ‘You need to talk.’

  ‘We will,’ I reply.

  I lie down next to him, but I don’t sleep. My mind goes back to the decision I made and the guilt that I have assigned to him. It goes back to the evidence, and I decide that I’m right.

  Twenty-One

  I don’t wake with the sunrise; instead, I sleep right through, until Charles drives away in the Jaguar. Before I get in the shower, I crawl into Grace’s bed for a half-hour nap. When I wake again, I wash my hair, apply make-up, put on my form-fitting grey dress with stilettos and a cashmere cardigan and book a taxi to the train station.

  My stomach rumbles on the train, but given the options available from the concession stand, I sip water instead. The sleepless night and my sporadic eating have upset my digestive system, leaving me nauseated and hungry at the same time. Eventually, as the train makes its way to Derby, I decide on a few plain biscuits to settle things down.

  None of this is like me. I’m not someone who gets nervous or experiences strong emotions. Grace, if you could see me now, you’d laugh. You always used to say that I was perpetually unruffled. I’m a cold fish; that’s what everyone thinks.

  The memory of Grace makes me feel a little better as I depart the train and jump in another taxi. With careful planning, I’ve made sure that I’ll have plenty of time to settle in at the hotel bar where we’re meeting. Charles will have no idea what’s going on, and for once I’ll get him on the back foot. This is my safe, public space in which to find out exactly what
went on between him and Grace, and I have everything I need to take him down.

  What if I’m wrong?

  I push that thought away. There’s no point in doubting myself now. I remind myself of the WhatsApp messages between Grace’s friends: Her dad is weird. Remember what she said about him? Yeh. Fucked up. And he lied to me. He’s been taking Grace out of school every week for therapy. He wasn’t where he said he was when Grace first went missing. I remind myself that he’s rich, and rich men get what they want. I remind myself of what my mother said to me at the funeral: There are rumours…

  But then the name Katie Flack pops into my mind.

  My old name keeps intruding my thoughts. If it was Charles who sent those texts, why would he use that name? Perhaps he wanted to throw me off? That could be the reason for the anonymous messages – not to threaten, but to misdirect. But why would Charles post that video of Grace at school?

  Why are these thoughts coming to me now? It’s too late; I’ve made my decision. I force myself to quash all the niggles telling me that there are alternative explanations. Telling me that Charles couldn’t possibly be the one who hurt Grace. My throat turns dry because there’s no other choice.

  I reach the hotel bar and sit at my table. My bag – which contains everything I need to threaten him – rests by my leg. Charles enters and I let out a long exhale.

  This is it.

  From my perch next to the table, I cross my legs elegantly and watch as his eyes roam across the bar. His gaze reaches my legs before it does my eyes, and then the shock registers. As his face reddens, I can’t stop thinking about last night, when I wrapped my hands around his neck and he pushed me back, pinning me beneath him. The anger was visible on his face, and I’d seen a resolve in him that reminded me that yes, my mild-mannered husband is capable of violence.

  He strides over to me, chin angled down, the shape of his skull made evident by the shadows catching him at the right angles. Never has my husband appeared more dangerous. My throat becomes dry and I take a small sip of my wine.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Spit flies from between his teeth as he clenches his jaw. ‘I told you last night to stop playing games. I’m about to meet a potential buyer.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘And what does she look like?’

  Charles sighs. ‘Did you set this entire thing up? Why are you wasting my time, Kat?’

  ‘Why? How precious is your time?’

  He grabs hold of my wrist as though to yank me from my seat, but instead I pull him closer to me.

  ‘Try it and I’ll scream,’ I say. ‘Just sit the fuck down, Charles. I brought you here because I want to speak to you.’

  ‘Instead of the seven-bedroom mansion in which we live as husband and wife, you mean?’ he retorts.

  ‘I wanted to speak in a public place.’

  He pauses, half on the seat, then sinks down onto the leather, crossing one leg over the other. Charles may be balding and slightly red in the face, but he still possesses the presence of a very rich man, which can be quite sexy. My stress nausea returns and I try to ignore it, but Charles notices me wince.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ I run my fingers over the soft flesh beneath my eyes and try to pull myself together.

  ‘Shall I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘No.’ I can’t bear him being kind to me. Not now.

  ‘Kat, what’s all this about? Are you all right? You don’t seem yourself.’

  I let out a low laugh. ‘You have no idea who I am.’ Then I pause. ‘And I don’t think I know who you are – not anymore.’

  He sighs. ‘So, we don’t know each other. After eighteen years of marriage.’

  I take a sip of my wine and shrug. ‘Haven’t you always suspected it?’

  ‘No.’ He leans forward. ‘You’re my wife.’ There’s an infantile aspect to the way he pleads with me, and for an instant I’m almost swayed into believing him. But when he reaches for my hand, I snatch it away.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ I ask.

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Grace.’

  Two sharp glassy eyes find mine. ‘Are you serious?’

  I force myself to respond with the same ferocious stare. ‘You lied to me about where you were when Grace went missing. You told me two different things. I checked your diary and all it said was “H”. There were more entries, too. “G to T” every Thursday lunchtime. I called Grace’s form tutor and I know you were taking her to therapy. Why? Did you want a therapist to keep tabs on her? To see what she’d say in private? Grace talked about you to her friends and they all think you’re weird. Why is that?’

  ‘You are serious.’ He leans back in his chair.

  Ignoring him, I reach down to my bag and retrieve my laptop, silently placing it on the table between us. I lift the lid. ‘You lie about a lot of things, Charles. For instance, you lie about the safety standards employed throughout your business. I have a document here highlighting six serious violations in all of the pubs you own—’

  ‘Kat, stop. Stop this now.’ His voice is low, almost a growl, and much angrier than I’ve ever heard it. ‘Are you blackmailing me?’

  ‘I’m pointing out your moral character,’ I say calmly. ‘I was only twenty-one when you met me, and I looked young for my age—’

  ‘You looked and acted old for your age, Kat.’ His lips press into a thin line as though frustrated with me.

  ‘What about our sex life? I’ve always been willing to do things other women wouldn’t do, and yet you don’t touch me anymore. Is that because you’ve been hurting our daughter instead?’

  His eyes flash with fury. When he reaches forward to grasp the laptop, I move it away from him. ‘Don’t forget we’re in a public place. You can’t touch me here.’

  ‘That’s why you lured me here? So that I wouldn’t hurt you?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he scoffs.

  ‘I have copies of everything in case you’re planning to snatch the laptop and run away. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t make a good criminal on the run.’

  I’ve found the upper hand and it’s helping to calm my stomach. Moving slowly, and without averting my gaze, I sip my wine. ‘All I want to know is what happened to Grace. Was it an accident? Why, Charles? Why did you do it?’

  I find that my rage is tapping away at a closed door, desperate to break through, but I will remain strong and keep it at bay. There’s no way I can make it through this without a cool, collected exterior.

  ‘Tell me, Charles. Get it all out and you’ll feel better for it. You’ve been holding it in, haven’t you? The truth is a burden, pressing you down. I know you feel guilt. I know you feel remorse. Just tell me what happened that night.’

  He’s quiet, his chest rising and falling quickly. Calm and controlled, he adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket and rests his elbows on the arms of the leather chair, breathing heavily through his nose.

  ‘What’s your plan here, Kat? Are you recording me without my consent? What are you going to take to the police?’

  ‘Who said anything about police? I have my own ways of getting justice for what happened to my daughter.’

  He laughs softly. ‘And what are those?’

  No, I think. You won’t know about those ways until I deliver them to you.

  After a few moments of silence, I say evenly, ‘It was clever, making Grace write the suicide note. You have the police fooled. I can’t go to them without evidence.’

  ‘Do you have evidence?’ he asks.

  ‘That depends,’ I say. ‘Are you the father of her baby?’

  Charles’s face contorts into several ugly expressions. He clenches both fists, turning burgundy from the nose downwards. Then he lets out a small laugh, removes his suit jacket and pulls at his tie.

  ‘Am I the father of Grace’s baby?’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Is that funny?’

  He shakes his head agai
n, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t think it is.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Well, are you going to deny it?’

  ‘I think perhaps we should get a divorce,’ he says instead.

  ‘That’s something of an understatement, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re clearly not the person I thought you were. I should’ve seen it a long time ago, but at least I know your true character now. Your behaviour since Grace died has been nothing short of unnatural. Where are the tears? You’ve shown so little emotion, I’ve often questioned whether you even care that she died.’

  I let out a snort. ‘And this from the man who’s been acting the entire time.’

  The right side of his mouth lifts up in a smirk. ‘Don’t you think that if I was abusing our daughter, putting her in therapy would be the stupidest thing I could do?’

  ‘Unless you controlled it all. I’m not you; I don’t know what’s in your mind. Maybe therapy was a complete lie. Maybe you told Preeya that so she wouldn’t question why you kept picking Grace up from school. Maybe “T” isn’t therapy at all.’

  ‘No, it is. That’s the one thing you’ve got right. Grace was in therapy for about a year and it has nothing to do with me. It’s because of you.’

  Perhaps it’s the wine, or perhaps it’s the anger still knocking at that closed door, but my face flushes red-hot. ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘You can request the therapist’s notes, if you like. Grace was worried that she wasn’t developing a connection with other people because she’d never truly felt connected to you.’

  ‘Stop lying and tell me the truth, Charles—’

  ‘You’re right. I do need to stop lying to you. It’s time for you to face up to what a bad mother you’ve been all these years.’