Pretty Little Things: 2018’s most nail-biting serial killer thriller with an unbelievable twist. T.M.E. Walsh
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I’m not going to encourage anything here. Dale’s nice, but . . . well, then there’s Harry. Don’t mix business . . . Savannah’s been proof of that.
I distract myself with my phone again.
‘I’m, er, sorry,’ he says. I look up, brow creased. ‘About earlier, with Dad? It’s just a poster, though.’
I bite my tongue.
‘Doesn’t Iain advertise online? He’d reach more people.’
‘Jason helps out in that department but the poster does help.’
Dale visibly bristles at the mention of Jason. He considers Jason to be a rival – not that he has any kind of chance where my daughter’s affections are concerned, but that doesn’t stop him believing there is some connection between them.
There’s no chance of Jason dating Elle either. He’s twenty-six and Iain’s second. Jason knows better than to bark up that tree. Elle feels differently, though, obviously. Jason’s quite attractive and Dale’s . . . not Elle’s type at all.
‘Is Elle having a party this year?’
Watching Dale trying to steer the conversation back to Elle is laughable but I humour him anyway. We chat for another few minutes before we hear Harry clanking around at the front of the store.
‘Better get back,’ Dale says, almost jumping up.
I glance at my watch. I have another few minutes left of my break. I unlock my phone and browse Facebook.
I have one new message showing.
A sinking feeling hits me in my gut then because I know it’s from her before I’ve even clicked on the tab.
I tap at the screen anyway.
And I’m right.
I open the message and give it a quick glance. When I skim-read the first few lines and see numerous insults, I hit the delete button and try to put her words to the back of my mind.
I’ve lost count of how many messages she’s sent since all this began, when she tracked me down, found out where I lived.
I haven’t told Iain yet. Maybe I should, but he’s already treating me like a kid about certain things and always reminding me of things I haven’t done. Sometimes it’s like he’s always waiting for me to screw up.
That’s another reason I still drive on the Linkway. It’s my way of proving to Iain and Elle – Savannah too – that I am fine.
I look down at the screen of my phone. I instantly regret deleting the messages and make a mental note to keep anything further from her.
A nasty feeling rises inside me and I know in my gut this is just the tip of the iceberg.
CHARLOTTE
The rest of the day passes in a blur. We’ve been so busy and, with the stocktake, I never did get chance for another break. I feel like I’ve been in a daze for the most part.
When I go to collect my bag and coat from my locker and check my phone, I see it’s flashing.
I unlock the screen.
‘Oh, God.’
Dale’s hidden behind his own locker door. ‘All right?’
‘Shit and double-bloody-shit! I forgot to pick up Elle from swimming.’ I look at my watch. It’s nearly six. Elle finished practice at three. I have numerous hours’ worth of texts, calls and voicemails on my phone, from Iain as well as Elle.
I check the last text I’d received, which had come through at four-thirty. It was from Iain.
I’ve got Elle. Don’t bother calling. I’ll be on a job.
Short, not so sweet.
Dale’s looking around the locker door at me. When he catches my eye he says, ‘Everything OK?’
I shove my phone in my bag and rush to get my coat on. ‘I can’t believe I forgot. I was meant to tell your dad about me having to pick Elle up then come back for the stocktake.’
He pulls a face.
‘What?’
‘You did look a little out of it earlier,’ he says.
‘Out of it?’
‘It’s OK, you’ve got a lot of things going on and—’
‘And that’s no excuse for forgetting my daughter, Dale.’
‘Well, she’s home now, isn’t she?’
I nod.
‘No harm done then.’
I doubt that. I don’t dare mention I forgot to collect her from school two weeks ago. Savannah had come to the rescue that day.
I wait until I’ve left the shop and run back to the car before I ring home. I get no answer. I try Elle’s mobile and that goes to voicemail. In the end I call Iain’s mobile.
It rings and then goes to voicemail too. I hang up and try again. If he doesn’t pick up this time . . .
‘Yeah?’
Iain’s voice sounds impassive.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
Silence.
‘Iain, is Elle OK? Only I couldn’t get an answer when I called the hou—’
‘She had to walk the path behind the Linkway on her own,’ he interrupts. ‘She had been calling you, texting.’
‘I didn’t have chance to check my phone.’
‘She called Savannah in the end and she managed to get hold of me between jobs. She would’ve gone herself but she couldn’t get out of work.’
He pauses and I can hear his breath heavy on the line and the clunk of metal against metal. He’s obviously on a job. I tell myself this is why he’s not talking much.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
He sighs. ‘It’s not me you need to be apologising to. She was a little unnerved when I eventually did pick her up, when she was nearly home . . . You know how she feels about the Linkway.’
I feel crushed by his words. I do know. More than ever because she had nightmares after my accident. Trouble is, it’s almost impossible to avoid it.
I know I shouldn’t, but I try to ease the blame on myself.
‘Couldn’t she have got a lift or at least walked with someone from the team?’
I hear a thud of something very heavy over the phone. Iain has dropped something. ‘She didn’t get a lift or walk with anyone ’cos she was waiting for you. You would’ve told her to stay put, to wait for you.’
I wince at his words, his tone of voice.
‘As long as she’s all right,’ I say. ‘She didn’t answer her mobile or the house phone.’
‘She’s fine, just go home.’
‘OK. I’m in the car now.’ I wait for a response but none is forthcoming. ‘I am sorry,’ I say again.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he says and hangs up.
*
I take the Linkway to get home.
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter and feel sweaty as I try to regulate my breathing. This is my process every time I join the road off the mini roundabout.
I check my mirrors.
I take deep breaths.
I