On her haunches, she sits, back to the wall. Blood flows from her wounds, soaking into the hard ground beneath her feet. When she runs, she will leave a trail. Her only salvation will be to get to town before he comes after her; if she goes now, she stands a chance, perhaps.
It is dark now, moonless. Save the rhythmic croak of a frog, the night is still. She can, however, still hear them inside. The noises he makes, the noises she makes in return.
She closes her eyes, admits the truth to herself. There is another chance of salvation: She could go back into the house, through the front door and into the kitchen, she could find a knife. Surprise him. Cut his throat.
She imagines, for a moment, her friend’s relief. How they would cling to each other. She imagines telling the police what happened, imagines a heroine’s welcome at school, how grateful her friend’s family would be!
How grateful would they be?
She pictures her friend’s beautiful face, her long limbs, her nice parents, her expensive clothes. She is overwhelmed by the thought of her life, her happiness.
The girl imagines herself entering the room, the knife raised, imagines him turning, catching her, punching her in the throat. She imagines him crouching over her, his knees pressing against her chest, imagines his weight on top of her, imagines the blade pressed against her collarbone, against her cheek, against her lips.
She doesn’t even know if there is a knife in the kitchen.
She could try to help; she could fight. Or she could take advantage of his preference for her beautiful friend. She could run.
This is not her fault. She didn’t even want to get into the car.
She is sorry. She really is. She is sorry, but she runs.
TEN
Detective Barker, his bald pate shining like a new penny in the bright morning sunlight, watched as the uniformed policewoman pushed a plastic stick into Carla’s mouth, scraping it along the inside of her cheek, withdrawing it, dropping it into a clear plastic bag. When she was done, he nodded, satisfied. He asked the policewoman to wait for him in the car outside. The boat on which Daniel Sutherland had been staying, Barker had already explained to Carla, was a rental, and it was filthy. There were traces of at least a dozen people on it, probably more, so they were collecting DNA and fingerprints from anyone and everyone, he said, in order to rule out as many people as possible.
Carla, sitting at her dining room table, wiped her mouth with a tissue. “Well,” she said, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension at the top of her spine, “there is every chance you’ll find mine.” Detective Barker raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I lied,” Carla went on, “about not knowing that Daniel was living on the boat. I lied about not seeing him.” Barker said nothing. He crossed the room and sat down opposite Carla at the table, lacing his fingers together. “Only you already know that, don’t you? Someone’s said something to you, haven’t they? That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Did someone see me?” Still, Barker said nothing. That old trick again, to make you talk, to press you into filling the silence.
It was irritating in its obviousness, but Carla was too tired to resist—she’d not slept more than an hour or two at a time since the detectives had been here last, five days ago. She kept seeing things, starting at shadows, black spots moving in the corners of her vision. That morning, she passed a mirror and was startled to see her sister’s face looking back at her, cheeks hollow, expression fearful.
“Daniel told me he’d rented a boat when he came to pick up his things. He told me to drop by. Told me not to expect much. I went there. Twice. Don’t ask me when exactly, because I honestly wouldn’t be able to tell you.” She paused. “I lied to you because I didn’t want to admit in front of Theo that I’d been there.”
Barker leaned back a little in his chair. “And why,” he said, flexing his fingers so that the knuckles cracked in a disgusting way, “was that?”
Carla closed her eyes for a moment. Listened to the sound of her own breath. “Do you know what happened to my son?” she asked the detective.
He nodded, expression grave. “I do,” he said. “I read about it at the time. A terrible thing.”
Carla gave a stiff little nod. “Yes. My sister was looking after him when it happened, I’m not sure if they reported that? She was supposed to be looking after him, in any case. Theo never forgave her. He’s had nothing to do with her since, not from the day our son died until the day she did. He wouldn’t have her in our lives. He wouldn’t have her in his, in any case, which at the time was also mine. Do you see what I’m saying? I saw my sister and Daniel in secret. Of course, Theo suspected that I saw her occasionally, and there were some arguments about it, but we divorced and I moved here, and it didn’t seem to matter so much any longer. I never mentioned them to him. There it is, I suppose. I’ve been lying to Theo so long about that side of my life that sometimes I forget when it’s necessary and when it isn’t. I didn’t want him to know that I’d visited Daniel on the boat.”