“Go back. I don’t care what it takes. I want to know what happened in that house.”
I hang up the phone. Walk around to the driver’s side of the car and climb in. I start the car but before putting it in drive, I turn to her.
“I just want to know one thing. That’s all,” I say.
She sits watching me for a long while before she speaks. “What?”
“Did Callahan touch you?” As I say it, I feel rage build inside me. It fucking burns. She would have been Ginny’s age. If that old man laid a fucking finger on her—
But her answer breaks into that thought.
“No.”
One word. She doesn’t even blink.
And I don’t believe her.
“If he did, I’ll help you get your pound of flesh. I just want to hear it from you.”
“He didn’t rape me.” She doesn’t struggle to say the word I couldn’t.
It’s me who takes time to react now and eventually, I nod, although I don’t know why, and put the car in drive. We don’t talk for the entire ride back to Rockcliffe House and once we’re there, she turns to me.
“My headache is back. Do you mind if I go to bed?” She’s asking permission. It’s unlike her.
“That’s fine.”
I watch her climb the stairs, note how she looks a little more tired.
“Cilla,” I call out.
She stops when she’s almost reached the top, but she doesn’t turn to me.
“I’m going to find out.”
Without a word, she walks up the remaining stairs and disappears into her room.
19
Cilla
The sun is just breaking the horizon when I wake. I feel like I can’t breathe, like there’s a rope getting tighter and tighter around my neck. It seems like the past has swept right into the present, and like a tidal wave, it’s about to wash everything away.
Me with it.
Jones wasn’t good. Kill had asked him about Callahan and considering the state he was in, I feel like it set him back eight years. That’s how it’s always been with Jones. He’s too broken to ever be fixed. I know that. I’ve known it a long time.
Kill asking me that question in the car, he had no right. It’s not his to know. Why can’t he accept that I can’t tell him?
I should never have asked him for help. That was a mistake. Because I fully believe he will find out. And what will happen then?
Shame begins to spread its dark shadow through me. I force a deep breath in, then out. I look up to the canopy over my borrowed bed, remembering how he’d filmed me. How he could be watching me now. I push the covers off and stand on the bed, but the canopy is too high to reach. I climb down, go into the closet to look for something I can use to bring it down. To break the camera he uses to spy on me. I find nothing.
Back in the bedroom, I look around until my gaze falls on the lamp on the nightstand. I remove the shade and pick up the long, thin body. The base makes it heavier than I expect, but I unplug it and climb back up on the bed to start poking at the folded cloth. Dust makes me sneeze and squint my eyes but eventually, metal clangs on metal and I locate it. Drawing my arm back, I swing hard. It takes two times but soon, pieces of the camera are lying on the bed. I stumble off, still not satisfied until I smash it to bits, until I’m out of breath.
I stand back and drop the lamp, wipe off my hands, then walk into the bathroom, have a shower, get dressed and pull my hair into a ponytail, pinning the flyaway strands back. I don’t bother to conceal the evidence of what I’ve done. I don’t care.
It’s still early when I step into the hallway. I glance down the hall at his room, wonder if he’s there. At the bottom of the stairs, I look at his study door. There’s no one around so I go to it, wiggle the handle. He’s more than peeking into my life so why not? Why shouldn’t I peek into his? But it’s locked.
As I near the kitchen, I smell coffee and hear talking. I push the swinging door open to find Helen and one of the girls who’d served us dinner the first night preparing some food.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning. You’re up early.”
I give her a broad, unnatural smile, feeling almost manic. I then walk to the coffee machine, pick up a cup and push some buttons. Helen comes over and takes the cup from my hand to push the right button.
“Thank you,” I say. When the coffee’s ready, I take my mug. “Is that bacon?” I ask, smelling it as the girl lays slices into a pan.