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

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘Why don’t you stop worrying about me and work harder to keep him then? We all know about his affairs. You’re just paranoid because he’s strayed in the past. You know I’d never do anything with your husband—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off. You came from scum and you’re still scum. No amount of Chanel can class you up.’ The attempt at a whisper is abandoned as she drops her knife to the table. Almost the entire table of guests redirect their attention to us, slightly bored and craving the drama. Jenny’s pitiful expression is gone and now she’s all cat, her lips retracted and her cheeks flushed. Good on you, Jenny. Get angry for a change.

  The guests turn politely away after noticing how drunk Jenny is, but I can tell they’re listening. Heads tilted slightly towards us, they pretend to continue their conversations.

  ‘No, probably not,’ I reply with a shrug. ‘But at least I know who I am. At least I know where I came from and what I want out of life.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Jenny is vibrating with anger now, her breath coming out slow and laboured.

  I raise an eyebrow to show I’m not afraid of her, but I lower my voice so that the eavesdroppers don’t hear what I’m about to say. ‘One day, Jenny, you’ll grow up and realise exactly how much of an imbecile you really are.’

  She brought it upon herself, lashing out at me like that, coaxing my anger to the surface. Did she really think I would sit here and take it? Still, it’s unpleasant to see the bravado drain out of her, to see her head drop and her eyes lose their shine. The pheasant’s pink centre is unappetising and too rare all of a sudden. I smile politely at the other guests, pick up my glass of Merlot and make my way outside.

  As I leave the room, the music stops and the quietness of the house returns. I can hear chattering voices and the occasional burst of laughter, but I miss the music and I want them to carry on. However, it’s time for the orchestra’s scheduled break, and asking them to keep going would create another scene. With the cool wind on my back and the rustle of the neatly trimmed yew bushes, the weight of silence is almost unbearable. This evening has been pointless. All I’ve learned is that Malc is a horny bugger and his wife is a paranoid old cow. I take out my phone and call Grace’s number, needing to hear the reassuring sound of her voice again.

  Hey, this is Grace. Leave a message!

  I hang up and call again.

  Hey, this is Grace. Leave a message!

  This time I speak. ‘Who did you love, Grace?’ Then I hang up and stare out into the dark.

  ‘Kat? Aren’t you cold out here?’

  The sound of Malc’s voice makes my stomach drop with disappointment. This is truly the last encounter I need right now, but before I can protest, he’s removing his jacket and placing it on my shoulders. He takes a lock of my hair and twists it around his finger. I sigh and remove the jacket, handing it back to him.

  ‘Your wife thinks that I’m Elizabeth Taylor and you’re Eddie Fisher,’ I say. ‘Can you sort that out, please? I don’t have time for her hysterics.’

  ‘I mean… Sure,’ he says, his eyes flashing with lust. I hate that this weak, flawed man is who Jenny has chosen to spend her life with. The eager, greedy expression in his eyes is unbearable. Before he can say anything else, I walk away, shivering, contemplating my failures. Attempting to keep Malc on my side has backfired dramatically. What else is going to go wrong tonight?

  * * *

  Who did you love, Grace? I love you. I do. I’m not supposed to, as Angela tells me, but I do and no one can tell me otherwise. Your dad claims you were worried that you didn’t love anyone, but I know you better and I know you loved too much. No one can fake that kind of warmth. Can they?

  I wish you were here right now, so I could see your face and find the answers in your eyes.

  As I make my way around the side of the house, I begin to regret giving Malc his jacket back. The wind brings a chill that makes my eyes water.

  There are abandoned napkins and plates dotted around the low walls of the garden, and I absent-mindedly pick them up, as though I’m still a waitress. Jenny was drunk, and, quite frankly, off her rocker tonight, but she wasn’t wrong about me. No matter what I wear or how much I cover up my accent, I’ll never fit in with these people. I can read to better myself and make jokes about psychology, but I’ll still be the kid from the council estate.

  Before tonight, Malc’s wandering eye never struck me as anything to worry about, even when it happened to move in my direction. To me he comes across as a philanderer bored by his current wife, always open to other opportunities, rather than someone who has a fixation on me. But that move with the jacket and the lustful expression… What if Malc is more dangerous than I thought? What if his wandering eye has found more than one target? The thought makes the pheasant and red wine churn. How old have Malc’s previous lovers been? I try to think back to the social-media pictures that Jenny has shared about his affairs. Were the women younger than Jenny? As young as Grace…? But when I think about Malc’s interactions with Grace, I don’t remember any signs that might indicate an attraction to younger girls.

  Paranoia is seeping into my every thought, directing me to the darkness in everyone I meet. But is it justified?

  One of the catering staff scuttles past, glances at me, sees the plates and appears mortified.

  ‘Oh, I’ll take them,’ she offers.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I reply. ‘You’re already carrying a load.’ I nod towards the pitcher of water in her hand. ‘I’ll leave them outside the door.’

  ‘I’ll come back for them,’ she promises.

  She’s pretty, with her glossy hair tied back, a similar shade to Grace’s natural colouring. She must be the same age as Grace, which is a punch to the gut. If I saw her walking from behind, it would be easy to mistake her for Grace, and now I know that I’ll never go another day without seeing shadows of my daughter in other people.

  As I leave the plates by the front door, I hear the bustle of the caterers inside and a sudden wave of jealousy hits me. I used to be part of a group like that, with a sense of camaraderie on nights like this. Though no doubt I’m romanticising the memories, especially as most of the other waiting staff hated me. I was known for charming the men, in more ways than one. The other girls thought I was a slut, and the lads were annoyed that I offered the rich men certain pleasures that I denied to them.

  A movement near the stables catches my eye as I’m about to make my way back to the dining room. The orchestra’s break should be over in a few minutes and hopefully Jenny will have excused herself by now to cry in the bathroom. More likely she’ll simply pretend that nothing happened and start going on about her psychic again.

  A young woman giggles and makes a shushing sound. Even in the dim light of the yard, I can tell that two excited young people are heading into the stables. Quietly, I decide to follow them and find out what they’re doing down there. I can’t have catering staff fraternising on the grounds. If one of the journalists found out, it might hurt our family’s reputation. Charles certainly wouldn’t want that for his business, and I don’t particularly want any more gossip following us around like a bad smell.

  ‘Hurry up,’ says the girl as they open one of the stable doors. ‘It’s fucking dark in here. I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘I’ll use the light from my phone.’ The other voice is male.

  ‘Put the platter down on the water trough; we can do it there,’ the girl whispers. ‘God, I need a hit. I can’t believe that bitch hired the school orchestra for tonight. After everything with Grace.’

  ‘She’s a nutter,’ the boy agrees. ‘Who would even go ahead with something like this after their fucking daughter died?’

  ‘Someone with a screw loose.’

  They share a laugh about me.

  ‘I know it was her who took my phone. I never lose my shit. And then she sent those messages to everyone. Sasha won’t even look at me now. One of these days I’m going to fucking kill her.’

  ‘Why would she w
ant your phone though? And why would she send those messages?’ The boy sounds dubious, which makes me smile.

  ‘I dunno. She’s probably a psychopath like her daughter.’

  There’s silence except for the rustling of paper – or perhaps plastic, I can’t tell. Then there’s a tapping sound. I activate the camera app on my phone, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ the girl says. ‘Thinking about her, are you? Thinking about your hands all over sweet Grace?’

  ‘Shut up,’ the boy replies. ‘You know I didn’t do anything with Grace. It was all for show. She had some other guy.’

  ‘That’s a lie, though, isn’t it Ethan?’ I ask, as I swing open the stable door and begin taking photos. ‘Hi, Alicia. Hi, Ethan. I wanted to thank you both for doing such a great job tonight.’ Flash. Flash. ‘You’ve dropped some white powder on that tray, Ethan, and on your trousers.’ Flash. Flash.

  ‘Shit.’ Ethan tries to wipe the cocaine from his thighs.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Alicia says, running her hands through her hair.

  I ignore her and look at Ethan. ‘Someone sent me a video of you and Grace kissing at a party two months ago. Did you have sex?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Ethan says, staring forlornly at the tray of cocaine resting on the old water trough.

  ‘He’s not here, Ethan. No one is absolving your sins tonight,’ I quip.

  ‘Look, it was nothing,’ he says, staring at Alicia, whose jaw has dropped. ‘We messed around a bit but we never…’ He turns to me. ‘We didn’t have sex, okay?’

  ‘Was it really two months ago?’ Alicia asks, her eyes like two hard marbles in her pretty face.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘But it was nothing. I promise—’

  ‘That’s enough fake apologising, Ethan. Tell me the name of the other boy Grace was seeing.’

  ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. But…’

  I open and close my mouth like a fish. ‘But? But?’

  ‘You should talk to the music teacher,’ he says. ‘There was some talk…’

  Alicia stares at me with cold, damp eyes. ‘There. Now leave us alone, would you? You just keep wrecking everything. I hate you.’

  I briefly let my mask slip. ‘Fine, I’ll go,’ I say icily. ‘It’s been a pleasure – as always, Alicia.’

  Twenty-Six

  I searched for him, the music teacher, after the dinner ended and the orchestra stopped playing, but he left before the party began. Then the rest of the evening went by in a flash and soon I had guests to say goodbye to and a clear-up to organise. Charles stumbled up the stairs to bed after midnight, drunk and sad.

  As the weekend progressed, all I could think about was the brief conversation I’d had with Daniel Hawthorne, and the way Grace used to talk about him. Had she talked about him more than she’d talked about her boyfriend? Had the signs been there all along?

  It’s Monday morning and I still haven’t told Charles about what I managed to get out of Ethan at the party. This new version of my husband is too unpredictable, and if he finds out there’s a chance that Grace was having sex with a teacher, he could lose his temper and ruin my plans. The truth is my priority now, and Charles’s volatility is a problem I must account for.

  He’s already at work, whereas I’m still trying to drag myself out of bed. It’s almost ten, and I should be motivated to act on this new information, but instead it’s dragged down my mood. Perhaps thinking of Grace with an older man reminds me too much of myself. I never wanted Grace to be like me. I wanted more for her.

  There are things I want to do today, but first I check out Daniel Hawthorne on social media. All his accounts are set to private, but I do discover from his ‘about’ section on Facebook that he’s married to a woman called Sophie, whose page is not as private. When I click onto her profile, I see a pretty, baby-faced young woman who likes to use Snapchat filters of animal ears. Her smooth, soft skin does nothing to comfort me. For one thing, she’s blonde, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and big blue eyes, like Grace. She’s very attractive and has an open, friendly look. According to Facebook, she’s in her mid-twenties – around the same age as Daniel Hawthorne himself, and there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s the kind of young woman that many men would find desirable, but I find her striking resemblance to Grace particularly disturbing.

  I could continue digging into the Hawthornes, but instead I need to get ready for another appointment with my therapist, for which I’m running late. Luckily, the daytime traffic is light, but I still find myself creeping over the speed limit and having to force myself to slow down, to follow the rules. I park the car under a magnolia tree in full spring bloom and make my way to the building, somehow two minutes early.

  In Angela’s office, she smiles as calmly as always and it immediately helps to ground me. In times of turmoil, the mundane repetitions in our lives can be comforting. As a thrill-seeking sociopath, that’s a strange thought to admit.

  ‘How did your party go?’ she asks.

  ‘Well. I discovered that there’s a rumour at Lady Margaret’s that my daughter was having an affair with her music teacher.’

  For once, Angela appears taken aback. She gapes at me before saying, ‘Goodness! That must have been quite a shock.’

  ‘It was,’ I admit.

  ‘How does this rumour make you feel?’

  It strikes me as a strange question with an all too obvious answer. But I know that I should voice all my emotions in therapy, otherwise what’s the point in paying for it?

  ‘Angry. Sickened. If it’s true, then he took advantage of her.’

  The thought of that man being the father of her child… There is the flicker of anger, building up again. As I haven’t told Charles about my findings yet, it means I could be the only one who suspects Daniel Hawthorne of impregnating Grace, and possibly killing her, too. But rumours are one thing. Truth is another.

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Teachers are always in a position of power, even if the student is over the legal age of consent.’

  ‘Are you trying to teach me about morality?’ I snap. ‘I know that.’

  Angela merely smiles sweetly in response. ‘I was only demonstrating to you that I understand how you feel. Your anger is valid.’

  ‘But?’ I prompt, knowing her well enough to recognise that she has more to say about the matter.

  ‘Be careful you don’t allow your anger to propagate. It’s toxic and it spreads far too easily. You may experience an urge to get revenge for what happened to Grace, but the best thing you can do is work on yourself instead.’ She taps the top of the pen against her notebook and shuffles in her seat, as though uncomfortable talking to me about this subject. Does she think I might lose my temper now? Here?

  ‘Anger can be a difficult emotion for people with antisocial personality disorder, because they don’t feel remorse for anything they do while angry.’

  ‘Isn’t that the fun part?’ I suggest.

  ‘You’re doing so well with your therapy,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t want to jeopardise all of that hard work for a few moments of pleasure, would you?’

  * * *

  After my therapy, I drive straight to the school, make my way to the administration office and ask for Preeya and Rita to meet me during lunch break. I’m still the grieving mother, and people are still willing to bend over backwards to help me when I need it. It’s not long before I’m sitting in Rita’s office with Preeya in the chair on my right, both obviously eager to know why I’m there.

  ‘I held a charity event at Farleigh this weekend, and both Alicia and Ethan were there,’ I say, not bothering with pleasantries. ‘While they were on my property, I found them both taking drugs in the stables. Here; I have photographic proof.’ I show them the pictures on my phone. ‘Not only have Alicia and Ethan been taking drugs, they’re in a relationship that I think went on while Grace was still alive. Alicia also sent Grace some very unpleasant messages before s
he died. I thought it best to come straight to you both about this. Something needs to be done about their behaviour. Honestly, I think they’re both out of control.’

  ‘That’s… shocking.’ Rita leans back in her chair after examining the photographs. ‘This is a real disappointment. They’ve never been in any serious trouble before.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And I think they both deserve to be removed from the sixth form.’

  Preeya lets out a long exhale while Rita remains impassive.

  ‘That’s… quite a reaction,’ Rita says eventually. ‘Quite a severe reaction.’

  ‘They were taking drugs,’ I protest, ‘and bullying a student.’

  ‘Kat,’ Preeya jumps in, ‘I know this is hard, but the girls fell out all the time at school. I’m sure Grace sent messages to Alicia that she wasn’t proud of. I’m not sure bullying is the correct term here.’

  ‘How about drug addicts, then?’

  ‘Mrs Cavanaugh.’ Rita’s formal tone has me sitting up straight in my chair. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot and I understand that you’re angry, but you can’t come in here and tell us to remove two students for drug use outside school. They’re both adults, or thereabouts. If we were to expel every sixth former for taking drugs, we’d be left with about half a dozen sitting their final exams. If they’d been arrested then that would be different, but they haven’t. However, I will be talking to them both and contacting their parents for a serious meeting about this.’

  ‘Is this anything to do with the amount of funding that Malc throws to the school? You know that Charles and I match it.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with that, and, frankly, that’s offensive.’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t care if you’re offended. What I care about is those two getting away with whatever they want because their parents are loaded.’

  Preeya lets out a derisive snort.

  I direct a cold glare in Preeya’s direction. ‘What was that noise for?’

  She angles her body away from me. ‘Nothing.’