My eyes squeeze tight. I wait for the crowbar to crash down on me. Crack and crunch into my skull again and again, until I’m an unrecognisable bloody pulp on the laminate floor that Cherry was so proud of. I’m still waiting when a cool breeze sings over my body. My eyes punch open to hear the bastard hightailing it out of the front door.
Shocked relief pins me to the floor. My limbs refuse to move. My chest rises and falls with the residue of fear. Wide-eyed, all I can do is gape at the ceiling. A horrible question assaults me – what if she-he comes back to finish me off? With renewed panic, I scramble to my feet. I rub a sweaty palm over my throat, the sensation of the deadly pressure still lingering. When it becomes clear my assailant is not coming back I collapse against the wall, my back somehow managing to keep me upright and steady.
I stumble into Sugar’s room. It’s a wreck. I step inside and begin to tidy up. Cleaning up? Are you crazy? my inner voice sternly warns. You should be sitting down. Or on the phone to Sugar. Or the police. I barely hear it. All that penetrates the fog I move in is that Sugar’s home has been violated. All I want to do is renew it. Get rid of every disgusting, foul reminder that a thief had the audacity to steal into his private room.
And so, I begin. I have no idea whether I’m setting Sugar’s things down in their correct place or not. Dazed, I grab a stack of papers to lay on top of a filing cabinet; something slips and falls. I dump the papers on the cabinet, reach down and pick up the loose sheet. The room starts to spin. I’m so very tired, my bones have lost their rigidity, lying jelly-limp within my skin. I close my eyes and suck in musty air, one steady stream at a time. Slowly I stand upright again and look at what’s in my hand. How did that get there? It’s a newsletter of some sort. What do I do with it? Numbly, I shove it into my bag.
The whiteboard near Sugar’s desk has been tipped on the floor. I pick it up and settle its legs until the balance is right. And let go. Up close Sugar’s writing looks even more crazy, out of control. But it’s the photo of the women, in particular the four black women in the front row with their faces ringed in heavy marker that holds my attention. Well, the fourth one I can’t see because of her palm across her face.
Hope.
Amina.
Sheryl.
Veronica.
I search the desk they stand behind. Step in closer to see. My eyes widen with the confirmation of what I thought I saw in this photo the last time. It is the Good Knight on the desk. And if that’s the Good Knight . . . I desperately glance at each of the women in turn . . . If that’s the Good Knight, does it belong to one of the women? My mother left the Good Knight with me when I was a baby. My turbulent mind thinks the unthinkable.
Is one of these four women my mother?
I go hot, then cold. Back to hot again. Why are these women here, in Sugar’s room? Does he know who my mother is? No! I discard that idea. How would Sugar know who my mother was? Unless she’s part of this investigation he’s undertaken. Still, Sugar only came into my life when I was eight years old.
I can barely think; my mind moving way too fast and I can’t make it stop. Desperately, I draw in air, the lingering odour of decay in this room tasting foul at the back of my mouth. All at once, this room feels too crowded, the walls closing in on me. The almost madness of Sugar’s multicoloured writing on the whiteboard does nasty tricks to my eyes. Then a sentence jumps out. I stagger back not believing what I’m reading aloud:
‘Was baby Eva meant to die?’
CHAPTER 11
‘Are you mad?’ Sugar questions my sanity in full-blown Daddy-bear mode, his anger twisted with fear. ‘You could’ve ended up badly beaten. Dead. A screwdriver through the heart. The only thing that Cherry asked before she took her last breath was that I look after you. Take care of our beautiful Eva. Don’t let . . .’
Anguish ravages his face, racked with the memories of watching his wife die. Racked by the burden of promises the dead leave the living to carry. He bites back his lecture with a scowl. Moving towards me now, he inspects my face for damage and then he kisses my forehead, folding me into his arms. We stay like that for a time, ensuring our connection is as strong as ever. What Sugar won’t feel is the awful trembling I feel inside as I remember the words on the board.
Was baby Eva meant to die?
Sugar eases back, his hands running down my arms. ‘The thought of you here alone with an intruder and what might have happened—’
‘But I’m OK.’ It’s time for answers. ‘Sugar, what is all that stuff in your room?’