“That’s strange,” says Richard.
“What is?”
“There is another car here.”
I see the sports car he is referring to but don’t say anything. Everything about this situation is strange.
We carry on along the path and I get a better look at the house. It looks like something from a horror film: an old wooden building, covered in ivy, with windows shaped like eyes. It’s pitch-black behind them, but then it is very late.
Richard opens the front door and we step inside. He switches on the lights and I’m relieved that they work. Then he unzips his bag and hands me his phone charger.
“Here you go. I’m just going to go and check on Cat; hopefully we haven’t woken her. Make yourself at home, if that’s possible in this dump, and I’ll be down in a bit. I’m sure there must be something edible in the freezer, and I know there is something to drink—my father-in-law shunned DIY, but he was good at maintaining his wine cellar—I won’t be long.”
He’s trying to make me feel welcome. It isn’t his fault the hotel canceled our booking; I’m being ungrateful and I feel the need to apologize.
“I’m sorry, I’m just so tired—”
“It’s fine. You’ve been a busy bee,” he interrupts.
Something about the way he says it makes me shiver.
“You know, bees aren’t as busy as people think. They can sleep inside flowers for up to eight hours a day, curled together in pairs, holding each other’s feet,” I say, trying to lighten the mood a little.
“Who told you that?” he asks.
“My mother.”
As soon as I think about her I feel sad.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten your mum keeps bees,” Richard replies, before disappearing up the old wooden staircase.
It’s odd because I don’t remember ever telling him that. But then I suppose there must have been a few drunken conversations over the years that I’ve forgotten.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, unsure what to do or where to go. I see a loose-looking socket in the wall, and decide to risk electrocution by plugging in my phone. It starts to charge and I begin to feel a little better.
I head toward the first door I see, and step into an old and dusty living room. It looks like it was last decorated, and possibly cleaned, in the 1970s. There is a gothic-looking fireplace, which I can see has been used more recently; a few smoldering logs still glowing in the grate. I get a little closer for warmth, and notice the silver-framed photos on the mantelpiece.
Sure enough, there is a family portrait of Richard and Cat, with her shiny red hair cut into a razor-sharp bob. I stare at her pretty, heavily made-up face, big eyes, and perfect white smile, as she poses next to her husband, holding on tight to their two little girls. Now that I see them again, I recognize the children who came to visit the newsroom just a few days ago. They are the same faces that were in all the pictures on Richard’s phone. I was a fool not to see it before.
There are lots of photos of their daughters, along with an elderly couple I don’t know, presumably Cat’s parents, who used to live in this house. Then I spot a framed picture of a teenage girl I do recognize. I observe the long, wild, curly white-blond hair, pale skin, sticky-out ears, patchy eyebrows, and ugly braces.
Fifteen-year-old Catherine Kelly stares back.
I look between this photo, and the glamorous one of Cat Jones, and feel physically sick when I realize they are the same person.
The two faces are very different—she’s clearly had some kind of work done, and not just to pin back those ears—but, without doubt, the teenage girl I used to know grew up to be the woman I know now. The eyes staring out at me from the two photos are a perfect match.
Catherine never came back to St. Hilary’s after that night in the woods. Only the four of us knew what had happened to her, but all sorts of stories made the rounds at school. There were rumors that she had killed herself, and none of us saw her again, including me.
At least, I thought I hadn’t.
She must have known who I was when she first met me in the newsroom.
I haven’t changed my name, or my appearance, very much since school, unlike her.
I try to stay calm, but this is more than just a coincidence—I don’t believe in those. An overwhelming sense of panic starts to take over, spreading through my body, making it difficult to move or breathe.
I need to get out of here.
I need to call Jack.
My shaking hands feel inside my bag for my mobile, but it isn’t there. I remember leaving it in the hall to charge, but when I run back to get it, the phone is gone. Someone has taken it. I spin around, expecting to see somebody waiting in the shadows, but I appear to be alone. For now.