Lorna
Hollis eyed them up in turn, like he was running through a checklist in his mind of what they each should look like in order to confirm they were who he thought they were. Unlike the rest of them, he wore his age well, his stocky body a better fit for a man in his forties than a boy of nineteen. Lorna was trying to reconcile the grown man in front of her with the young man she once knew when Hollis turned his analytical gaze on her, and there he was. The Hollis she remembered. The look of a troubled boy out of his depth, trying his best, wanting only to do what was right.
“Lorna.” He spoke her name as if brushing the dust off a long-forgotten book. “What the fuck is going on?”
She couldn’t tell if the question was meant for her. Her clarity had vanished the moment Ellie entered the dining room, and it hadn’t come back upon the appearance of Oliver and Maeve. No less than five minutes ago, she knew Hollis’s arrival was imminent, but that had done nothing to lessen the shock of actually seeing him. Of having all four of them in the room with her. If his question was for her, she couldn’t answer it. She would do what Lorna had always done. Stand back quietly and let the others hash it out.
Hollis slammed a whisky bottle down on the nearest table. The bang echoed through the room.
“I said, what is going on? What are you all doing here?”
“We . . . we don’t know,” Maeve offered. Yes, of course Maeve would go first. Try to smooth things over. “We were trying to figure that out when you . . .”
And of course Maeve would utterly fail.
“Trying to figure it out? You mean this is all a surprise to you? None of you knew the others would be here? Well, that’s complete and utter shit. Go on then. Which of you was it? Who put this together?”
Oliver leaned forward, going for one of his chummy “man to man” speeches. “Hollis, mate—”
Speeches that Hollis had never fallen for. “I am not your mate!”
Like Lorna, Ellie knew talk was useless, but unlike Lorna, the tension showed in her body. She rocked back and forth in her chair like a branch caught in the wind. Lorna couldn’t help but remember how quickly that dry branch could catch fire.
“That’s it. I’m going.” Hollis spoke so softly that only Lorna, who was standing closest, could hear.
She did nothing to stop him as he picked up the whisky bottle.
Maeve—always interfering Maeve—asked, “What did you say?”
“I said I’m leaving!”
His intention was what shook Lorna. The house felt more dangerous with him here, with them gathered altogether, yet also safer. Hollis’s presence, his clarity over the danger they were in, returned to her the strength she thought she’d lost, that had been drained first by Ellie, then Oliver, then Maeve. Hollis could leave, but Lorna needed him. By the time she spoke, he was already at the door.
“Hollis, you can’t,” Lorna said. “There’s no place else to go on the island, and Mr. Caskie told us the road might wash away in the storm.”
“And the last ferry’s already left,” Maeve added.
“Oh, leave it, Lorna.” Oliver kicked his feet up on the chair. “Let him run. It’s what he’s good at. I mean, I’m surprised he’s stuck around this long. It’s been, what? At least five minutes.”
Hollis re-gripped the neck of the bottle and removed his free hand from the doorknob. “What would you have me do? Stay for a drink? Or seven? How many have you already tucked away, Oliver? By the slur of your speech I’d say at least five. That’s a healthy belly you’ve put on, too. It can hold, what, at least half a dozen more? You know, I’m glad you’re sitting there smoking all casual-like while several mounds of shit are clearly hitting the fan. I’m not sure I would’ve recognized you otherwise. Getting your haircare tips from Prince Charles nowadays?”
“Really, Hollis. Insults?” Oliver said. “Can’t we at least try to be adults about this?”
“I don’t know what this is, but I have to say, that advice is rich coming from the person who coined the nickname ‘Hunt the Cunt.’”
Ellie gasped.
“Oh, you didn’t know that, Ellie?” Hollis asked as Oliver’s face went red.
“I always assumed it was Maeve,” she said.
“I may have said it, but I didn’t start it,” Maeve said. “And I didn’t even say it that often! I swear.”
Maeve apologizing, Ellie feigning ignorance, Hollis and Oliver fighting. How quickly they’d each fallen into their old roles, herself included. Good ol’ Lorna—keeping silent, trying not to let them draw her into their argument. But it didn’t take long for them to fling questions her way. She had blocked out the conversation after Maeve’s comment and didn’t know which direction the argument had gone when Hollis asked, “What about you, Lorna? Anything to add?”
“No.” She squeezed the single syllable out like the last drop of water from a dry tap.
“That’s just typical, isn’t it?” Oliver laughed. “Switzerland over here refusing to get involved while bombs are going off around her. ‘But it’s nothing to do with me!’ If it’s nothing to do with you, sweetheart, why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here?” Maeve asked.
“Don’t be thick, Maeve. If it’s possible.” Oliver rolled his eyes.
“There’s only one reason someone would get us together,” Hollis said. But no one wanted to say what that reason was.
“It wasn’t our fault,” Ellie whispered. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We didn’t do anything right, either,” Hollis said.
Lorna closed her eyes and pretended she didn’t know what Hollis was talking about. Pretended she could leave. But Lorna had no place to go.
2 hours prior
The Vauxhall sedan kicked up dust as it sped down the drive. Lorna gripped the steering wheel, her vision narrowed on the horizon, watching for the house that was to appear at the end of this drive, and missed the pothole. The car bounced in and out, landing so hard that the boot scraped the ground. She hit the brakes, and her head smacked back against the headrest. A squeaky belt chirped louder than the ping of the rain on the car. The steering wheel vibrated in her hands.
“Don’t die here. Don’t die here.”
She pressed down on the accelerator. The Vauxhall inched forward, then picked up speed.
“Thank you.”
A warning light dinged.
Hatch open.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the open boot bobbing up and down.
“Shit.”
If the universe wanted to stop her from exiting the car, it almost succeeded. The seat belt almost strangled her as she fumbled with the latch. On the drive, her shoes slipped on the wet stones as she stumbled around the car. Twice she slammed the boot down, but it refused to latch.
“Shit shit shit.”
Rain gathered at the nape of her neck and dripped down the back of her shirt to her bra strap. She rested her hands on the car and took several breaths, letting the water travel along her spine.
“I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. I will make sure everything is fine.”
She pushed down on the boot a final time and heard it click shut.
“See? Fine. Just like I said.” When she returned to the car, she didn’t bother with the seat belt.
Viewed from the crest of the drive, the lumbering red brick manor that was Wolfheather House looked like a redcoat soldier standing at the edge of a long, thin loch. Cast in the shadow of the surrounding snow-capped peaks, a single plume of smoke rose from one of its six chimneys. An inconsonant glass conservatory protruded off its backside, an unnecessary addition that made the house even more of an eyesore.
Lorna parked at the base of the drive, facing away from the house. Rain peppered the quiet loch and she remembered how, as a child, the water could calm her. Despite the weather, she left her suitcase by the Vauxhall and went down to wet her hands. It eased the pain on her scratched hands but failed to provide the calm she’d hoped for. The towering mountains made her feel trapped in a large cage, the gray cloud a heavy tarp pulled across the top. But wasn’t a cage what she wanted? She skipped a single stone, rippling the loch’s surface, then dried her hands on her jeans and made her way to the house as an unseen dog barked.
A fire burned in the empty reception hall while dishes clattered in a room to her right. Lorna followed the sounds of clinking porcelain and saw the back of a man laying out plates and cutlery in the large dining room. The room comfortably fit ten round tables, each surrounded by four chairs. No two tablecloths were alike—some lace, some polyester, some plain blue, others patterned with spring flowers. A hodgepodge of candles, two or three to a table, acted as centerpieces. The mismatched décor helped hide how the heavy red curtains clashed with the pea green carpeting and yellow walls. If she had her way, she would redecorate the entire place so that it didn’t remind her of her great aunt’s drawing room and the uncomfortable evenings spent there. She could almost smell the Jean Patou Joy perfume. Lorna rubbed her cold arms and cleared her throat.
The young man spun round, a dinner knife clutched in each hand.
“Bloody hell! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Give them a heart attack, you will. Sneaking around like a bloody ghost . . .”
“Sorry to interrupt. I’ll go wait till you’re ready.”
Lorna happily exchanged the coldness of the dining room for the warmth of the fireplace and debated sending a text as she waited. Her mother’s voice rang through her head.
Always let someone know where you are, at least one person, please, Petal, please. In case of an emergency. In case something should happen . . .
But who would care where she was?
“You’re the—”
“Bloody hell!” She jumped at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Now you know what it’s like to be frightened.”
“I wasn’t frightened.”
“’Course you weren’t.”
She stuffed her phone in her pocket and followed him to the front desk, signing the book.
“You’re the first one here,” he said.
As he handed over the key, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, but the phone rang. He answered, and she started for the stairs.
“Wolfheather House. James Caskie speaking . . .”
At the top of the stairs, her first instinct had been to turn right, but a rope blocked that direction along with a frayed roll of pulled-up carpeting. So left it was, down a hall with dark brown side tables adorned with silver candlesticks and geometric paperweights to a room with a brass 1 inelegantly screwed into the door.
She withdrew her phone and sent a quick text to the one person she thought might care. Then, before changing out of her travel clothes, she collapsed on the bed, eyes closed, arms outstretched. For the first time in months, she lost the feeling of being watched and, for a few brief minutes, became herself again.
Ellie
Ellie was not yet certain of what she was seeing. She could identify the images—Hollis yelling, Maeve rubbing her arms through the wet sleeves of her jumper, Lorna staring into her empty wineglass, Oliver with his cigarette burning down—but it was like watching a show on television. A show about their lives, dramatic reenactments portrayed by actors who resembled them but didn’t quite match with her memory of them. Hollis’s hair was never that short, and his shoulders were too wide. Maeve looked several pounds heavier, some of the fat rounding out her face. Lorna had a somewhat smaller chest, and wasn’t her nose stubbier? Oliver she could barely look at. He was all wrong. Like Oliver’s father had dressed in the real Oliver’s clothes. So yes, they were all here, but these weren’t the people she remembered. And although the prospect of spending the weekend with complete strangers sounded exciting, in reality she thought it would be better to follow Hollis’s original intent and vacate the premises as soon as possible. As soon as no one was looking. And yet, could she?
Possibly the best option was to wait and keep an eye on everyone. See how this all played out.
She thought of texting David and asking his advice. But she dismissed that thought with the blink of an eye. She couldn’t text David. Not about this. Not right now. Not until she could return to her room. She drank some of the wine, tasting nothing as it passed through her lips. Then she clapped her hands together.
“Right,” she announced, interrupting Hollis’s argument. “I’m here because of Avon.”
They all looked at her, confused, as if they’d forgotten she was there.
Hollis came so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. The wrinkle on his forehead that had once been a slight line had deepened to a crevasse.
“You’re here because of what?”
She adjusted her bracelet. “Avon. I sell Avon. You know, soaps, lotions, beauty products. We have an excellent men’s line that would do wonders for those worry lines, Hollis.” She uncrossed and crossed her legs. “Anyway, my regional supervisor held a sales contest to promote our new Highland fragrance line. I won.”
“Did you get to choose where to stay?”
“No. They arranged everything.”
“They?”
“Avon.”
“How did you know you won?”
“They sent me an email.”
“And you’re sure that email came from Avon?”
“Who else would’ve sent it?”
That terrible laugh, the one she never thought she’d hear again, sprang from Oliver’s throat.
“That’s the question, isn’t it, love? That’s why Hollis here is playing detective. He thinks he can catch you out in a lie, or figure out who’s been lying to you.”
Oliver’s voice drew Hollis like a lure to a greyhound.
“Playing detective?” Hollis slapped Oliver’s feet off the chair.
The heat of interrogation lifted, Ellie hadn’t realized her hands were shaking until they stopped.
“Playing detective?” Hollis repeated. “I am a detective, Holcombe. Manchester CID. What have you been up to? Any of your big plans come through? Your business investments? Saw Dragons’ Den by the way. Loved the suit.” Hollis’s face remained grim, but there was a smirk in his voice. “So, because I am what Oliver says I’m playing at, I’m going to ask you all questions, and you’re going to answer them. Because, one, I’m the most qualified person here to do so. And, two, I won’t trust any of you until I do. Ellie’s already volunteered. Do I have any others?”
Ellie held her wineglass to her lips and cast her eyes around the room. Each of them gave away so much on their faces. They didn’t know how to keep their emotions bottled in, not even Lorna, who kept fidgeting with the ring on her forefinger. No, there would be no leaving. Not until she saw more.
1.5 hours prior
“Talk to your father. He can make that decision. I’m sorry but . . . I’m sorry but . . . Well then, if that’s Daddy’s decision, I’ll stand by it. I’m sorry but . . .”
The world outside the windshield sank under water, rivulets blurring the gray road. Ellie scrambled to find the windshield wipers in the hired Land Rover while holding the phone to her ear.
“Poppet, I’m sorry. If Daddy said . . . if Daddy said . . .”
She switched her phone to her other ear, taking in a deep breath of the floral scent of her Avon car freshener.
“I do understand, poppet, but if Daddy—All right . . . All right . . . I’ll talk to him . . . Yes, I’ll talk to him. Yes, I’ll—Yes . . . I love you, too.”
She set the phone in the cup holder and located the correct lever. On high blast, the wipers distracted as much as the rain itself, but she could at last make out the twisting road ahead.
“What did I do? What?”
“In five hundred meters, turn right.”
“Haven’t we given her everything she’s asked for? God forbid her brother turns out the same way.”
“In two hundred meters, turn right.”
“I blame myself. I really do. You’re too nice, Ellie. That’s exactly how you get into these situations.”
“Turn right.”
“David’s right. You need to grow a backbone or you’ll never—”
“Missed turn. Make a U-turn.”
“What? How did I? Of course I did.” She spun the Range Rover around, slipping on the wet road but managing to save the car before it tipped into a ditch.
“In one hundred meters, turn left.”
“Where? There’s not even a—Oh, there!”
Her frustration shifted to a new target as the car bounced down the unpaved drive.
Why hadn’t there been a sign to mark the house? Why couldn’t they have done this on Skye itself? Why make her take a ride with a ferryman who wouldn’t stop leering at her? Why make her drive out into the god-forsaken middle of nowhere?
She smacked the steering wheel, then took a deep breath. Tried to see the positives. For example, when was the last time she had been on her own?
No David, no children, no anyone? It must have been before their wedding, so at least fifteen years. She looked at the passenger seat. So strange to see it empty. Yet freeing, in its own way. She was alone, and she was doing something for herself. Something that had nothing to do with her family.
The manor house, when it appeared, looked more like a child’s drawing than the real thing. Uneven lines and too many windows. Ellie would’ve laughed, except it seemed inappropriate, like laughing at the child who came to school in dirty jumpers and too-small shoes.
She parked near a beat-up little Vauxhall and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, debating whether or not to wait out the heavy rain that patterned the glass, obscuring the house’s façade. Through the rain, the house looked like a watercolor painting, one she might see hanging in a café on the King’s Road. She could be there now with a mug of black coffee, cooing over the babies in prams that clogged up the seating area. But that thought retrieved a memory, one she thought she’d shaken once her plane had taken off at Heathrow. One that now made her shudder. She unclipped the air freshener and stuffed it into her trench coat, pulled the trench over her head, and exited the car, only to step right into a mud puddle that splashed up her leg. She swallowed down a scream and ran into the house.
Hoping the staff wouldn’t notice the messy trail she left on the carpet runner, Ellie rang the bell at reception until an attractive young man hurried down the stairs.
“Yes, yes. I’m here. Let the bell rest.” His immediate frown conveyed his frustration at her mess, but he left it unmentioned as he checked her in.
“Such a lovely place you have here,” she said with a smile after giving her name, twirling her hair on her finger. “It must be so much work to maintain.”
“It keeps me busy. Your room is on—”
“And what an enterprising young man you are”—she laid a hand on his arm—“to run it all by yourself.”
He withdrew his arm with a closed-lip smile and held out her key. “I do what needs to be done. Now, your room is on the third floor. If you—”
“Could you be a lamb and help me with my suitcase? It’s been just a terrible drive, you see. I’m not usually this exhausted, but I haven’t traveled this far by myself in such a long time.”
He cupped the key in his palm. “Of course, Mrs. Landon. I’d be happy to assist. My mother is about your age, and she also tires easily.”
He carried the suitcase toward the stairs. Ellie frowned, wiped her muddy shoes on the carpet, then followed.
Once they reached the top floor, he handed her the key. “By the way, Mrs. Landon, if you happen to hear a wee knocking in the middle of the night, don’t let it alarm you.”
“Just the pipes?”
“No. It’s not the pipes.”
Without another word, he returned the way they came. Ellie stared at the shining 5 on her door, then leaned her ear toward the wall. Silence. She shuddered, then laughed it off and unlocked the door.
Once in her room, Ellie stripped out of her wet clothes, purposely leaving them in a pile by the bed. David would yell if she left damp clothes on the hardwood floors in their bedroom.
Water spat from the showerhead in fits and starts before the flow evened. She was lining up her own bath gel, shampoo, and conditioners on the soap dish, humming to herself, when her phone chirped. Expecting to see Jilly’s name, she returned to the bedroom. But it wasn’t Jilly. She read the text three times, now reminded of why she’d come all this way.
Oliver
“What about you, Oliver?” Hollis asked. “Did you win a contest, too?”
Of course Hollis would choose him next. Unfortunately for him, Oliver already had his answer ready.
“You think I’d fall for a stupid trick like that? Like I’m that naive?” He turned toward Ellie. “No offense, love.”
“Well, either you were that naive or you knew the plan all along. So which is it?”
It took every ounce of self-control not to pop Hollis one. That would only put more suspicion on him, so instead he finished off his whisky, let it burn all the way down. The others waited, watching. He plopped the glass onto the table.
“Fine. A mate. Said he’d booked the place but something came up and he offered me his reservation.”
“How well do you know this mate?”
“Worked with him once or twice. We have the same local and spot each other for drinks now and then.”
“And would this mate need money?”
“Yeah, suppose so.” Oliver lit a cigarette. “You think someone paid him off?”
“Easiest way to manipulate people, isn’t it?”
“If that’s true, then I’m going to beat Gerald’s ass into the ground.” He propped his feet on a chair.
“Happen to have Gerald’s surname and phone number?”
“Fancy a date?”
“More like evidence.”
“For or against my word?” Oliver met Hollis’s stare, took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled. “Sorry, we’re not that close. First-name basis kind of thing.”
“Convenient,” said Hollis.
“Or just the opposite.” He held Hollis’s gaze as he tapped ash into the empty whisky glass, daring Hollis to challenge him.
But Hollis gave in first and shifted his attention to Lorna, who had been pacing slowly since Hollis started his interrogations. Oliver watched the proceedings carefully, wanting to be ready if Hollis tried to catch him out.
“Go on, Lorna. How did you end up here?”
Lorna stopped pacing. Oliver watched her rub a scratch on her hand. “Similar to Oliver, really. A colleague. I needed a last-minute holiday. It’s a long story. But she offered me her stay here. Said I could pay her back.”
“How long have you known her?” Hollis asked.
“About two years.”
“And does your colleague have a full name?” He looked at Oliver as he asked the question.
“Jennifer McAllister.”
Hollis looked back at Lorna, another question on his mind based on the confused expression on his face, the one Oliver remembered from Hollis’s study sessions in the front room, but Hollis shook it off and turned his attention to Maeve.
Lorna caught Oliver staring at her hand and shoved it in her pocket. She toed a piece of broken glass on the carpet with her shoe.
Oliver bit the end of his cigarette to keep from jumping in with a well-timed insult. It had to be a lesbian thing, he thought. A girlfriend, the kind Lorna never admitted to having. She looked more like a dyke than ever, wearing that big black turtleneck that did her chest no favors.
“That leaves you, Maeve,” said Hollis. Oliver swiveled in his seat so he could watch Maeve stammer out a response.
“I thought . . .” She looked away. “I thought I was meeting someone.”
She wiped sweat from her forehead, then chewed the cuff of her jumper, the same way she used to act whenever she and Oliver had been alone in a room together. Out of all of them, she looked the most like her younger self. Almost pretty, if she could ever fix that hair and lose about a stone. When Hollis asked another pointed question about her missing companion, Maeve flinched and stammered out an incoherent response. It clicked then, and Oliver couldn’t stop laughing.
“Something to add?” Hollis asked.
“You haven’t figured it out, Detective? Maeve thought she was meeting a man here. That she was coming for a romantic getaway. You got catfished, didn’t you?”
She hid her hands in her jumper and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to meet his eye. It was too easy with Maeve. Like riding a bike that had hung in a garage for years. She might be a little rusty, but he remembered how to pedal. Twenty-odd years gone, and he remembered how to play them all.
1 hour prior
“God damn piece of . . . god damn!”
The jack lifted the tire, the tire iron cranked the jack, but for some reason the lug nuts refused to budge. Oliver’s fingers slipped on the wet hubcap, and he fell back into the road. Water seeped into his clothes from new angles.
“Fuck cars. Fuck tires. Fuck Scotland!”
Mud clinging to his hands and face, Oliver grabbed his phone and bag from the car, stuffed the pamphlet into an outside pocket, and continued on foot, carrying the tire iron out of spite, the long walk exacerbating his limp. If there was beauty in this barren landscape, he didn’t see it. Even a stupid hired car didn’t want to make this trip. Why should he have come? It was stupid. He’d known that all along. What would this solve? Fuck all, that’s what, he told himself.
By the time he reached the house, he held nothing but contempt for it. A spare parts house, that’s what it looked like. Cobbled together from bits and bobs nobody wanted, and poorly done at that. He was tempted to throw the tire iron through a window but flung it into the hedges instead.
After kicking the door shut behind him, he dropped his wet things and rubbed his hands by the fire. What he needed was a way to warm himself from the inside out. To his surprise, he found his favorite method in a room to his left. A large, Victorian-themed study lined with bookshelves and a long leather chesterfield sofa housed a full bar complete with tin counter and, most importantly, a healthy selection of spirits stacked in front of a mirrored wall.
“They must be having a laugh.”
He dug the damp brochure from his jacket pocket and glanced over it. But this was definitely the right place. He looked around, expecting a trick, but when no one appeared, he helped himself to a fifteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt.
“Five pound fifty.”
Oliver choked on the whisky.
At the other end of the bar, a young man in a suit wiped down the counter with a flannel. Oliver couldn’t see where he had come from.
“I can start a tab or add the cost to your bill.”
“The bill’s fine.” He wasn’t paying anyway. He finished the glass and poured another. “Oliver Holcombe. This your dad’s place, then?” He looked out the windows. The falling rain made it difficult to discern the edge of the car park and the wilderness that lay beyond.
“James Caskie. And it’s my place, actually. You might want to take it easy on those.” Caskie checked his phone and, face pinched, dropped it back into his pocket.
Oliver hadn’t checked his since the tire blew. She’d probably left three or four voice mails by now, he thought, but when he checked his notifications, there was a single email: Groupon Getaways.
“I didn’t hear you pull up,” Caskie said.
“My car copped it on the main road. Transmission, I think,” he lied. “Had to walk the rest of the way in.”
“Glad you made it in before nightfall.”
“My phone doubles as a torch.”
“Not the dark that should concern you.”
A shutter flapped against the window.
“Shit.” Oliver grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted spilled whisky off his hand.
“Care to see your room before you have another?”
Oliver bit his tongue and followed Caskie into reception, wishing he still held the tire iron instead of this glass.
Maeve
Maeve’s good jeans, soaked from the rain, chafed her thighs. She never had the chance to get changed. Not even Hollis had asked if she wanted to get out of her wet clothes before he questioned her. The worst part was feeling like she’d wet herself, and she pretended this was why she was uncomfortable as Hollis explained what catfishing was to Ellie.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Ellie cooed.
“It’s not a big deal, god,” Maeve snapped.
“Do you have his email or phone number?” Hollis asked. “I can have someone try and track him down.”
“His email. And his Skype username. Kit_Snow0273.” She reached for her phone, praying for her hands to stop shaking. Her phone case was damp from being in her pocket and she went to rub it on her jumper, but this was just as wet. “Sorry. Sorry, I—”
“Here.” Hollis handed her one of the cloth napkins from the table.
Maeve wanted to thank him, but he had already turned away. They were all drifting away from one another. Lorna toward the windows. Hollis toward the door. Ellie leaned against a far wall. The table behind Maeve kept her from drifting all the way back to the kitchen entrance. Only Oliver remained anchored to his chair in the center of the dining room, but Maeve got the impression he would sink through the floor if he could. Having embarrassed her, Oliver had shifted his attention once again, leaving Maeve to roil in a mix of relief and disappointment. She stayed nearer to him, both hoping and not that he would notice her again.
“Go on then, Drummond,” Oliver said. “Storytime. Who lured you here? Or maybe you’re the one who brought us all together?”
Hollis’s confidence slipped like a glove from a pocket. Pain creased his face, but Maeve could see he was going to answer. Lorna interrupted before he could.
“Someone’s leaving.” She stared out the window.
“Who else is here?” Maeve asked.
Everyone answered at once. “Caskie.”
Hollis led the charge into the front hall. By the time he flung open the front door, Caskie was nothing more than a pair of red taillights cresting over the hill of the drive.
As the others lingered in the rain, sharing shouts and curses, Maeve retreated inside, taking the warmth of the fire for herself. The burning peat sounded like soft wind through the trees, and she enjoyed that brief peace for all of a few seconds before the others joined her in the foyer. All four argued at once among each other, seeming to forget Maeve was there. So Maeve remained the only one by the fire and the only one to see the letter propped on the mantel.
As soon as it was in her hand, they noticed her again. Noticed that she had found something.
“What’s that?” Hollis asked.
“I’m not sure.”
He took it from her and opened it himself.
“Dear guests,” he read. “Due to a private family matter, I must return to Skye tonight. Prepared food is available in the kitchen refrigerator. See note for reheating instructions. Apologies that the normal caretaker is unavailable. Once on Skye, I will arrange for a housekeeper to arrive via private boat tomorrow morning. Thank you again for choosing Wolf-heather House. Yours faithfully, James Caskie. Note: In the earlier confusion caused by Mr. MacLeod’s absence, I neglected to distribute the gifts from your benefactor.”
“Your benefactor?” Lorna peered around Hollis’s shoulder to read the note.
“He must mean those.” Ellie pointed to the reception desk.
On the floor by the desk was a pile of brown-wrapped paper packages, each tagged with a name. No one said anything. No one wanted to.
“Those look like—”
“Shut up, Maeve,” said Oliver.
Hollis crossed the room first and grabbed the package with his name. He wasted no time in tearing off the paper. A two-liter bottle of Strong-bow Cider. Lorna went next. A cassette tape of Take That’s Everything Changes.
“I haven’t listened to that in ages,” Ellie said. “Not since . . .” But she paled and didn’t complete the thought. Oliver went next.
“Smallest of the lot,” he muttered. He tore the wrapping off in small pieces: a purple Sharpie.
When neither Ellie nor Maeve approached, Hollis handed them their packages. Maeve waited until Ellie went first: a joint.
On their own, each of these items was innocuous. But seeing them together filled Maeve’s mouth with a bitter taste. A memory echoed in her mind—thumping music, sticky glasses, sickly sweet alcopops, the smell of pot, and the haze of low lighting. By the looks on their faces, she could tell the others shared the same memory.
“Open yours, Maeve,” Hollis said.
Something rattled inside. Maeve’s clumsy fingers struggled to pull the string and tear the paper. An unmarked black box. She took off the lid, and they waited for her to reveal what was inside. After a long breath, she held it up.
“It’s a key.”
But the key mattered less than the Scottish Rugby keychain hanging from it.
“Well, it can’t be—” Maeve started, but a gasp from Ellie interrupted her.
“Of course not,” Lorna said. “It’s impossible.” Her words lacked their normal conviction.
“We should find the door that goes with that key,” Hollis said.
“The house is so big,” Ellie said. “It could be any door.”
“Two,” Maeve said. “It must be Room 2.”
“But why . . .” Then Ellie looked again at the gifts. “Oh yes. Of course.”
By silent agreement, they made their way upstairs.
Maeve hung back, letting the others lead her down the hall with its dark walls and carpets. She kept imagining the dim lights might flicker to reflect the mood, but they remained steady and sure.
Room 2 was near the end of the hall. She gathered with the others behind Hollis. The key was in her hand, but he didn’t ask for it. He knocked, and they waited.
“This is Detective Constable Hollis Drummond.”
Silence.
Oliver rolled his eyes and snatched the key from Maeve, his fingers brushing against hers. She stuck her hands in her wet pockets.
“Just open it,” he said.
“Wait.” Hollis knocked again. “I said this is the police. If you don’t answer, we’re going to let ourselves in. We’re giving you fair warning.”
He pressed his ear to the door, then took the key.
“All right. I’m unlocking the door.” He pushed the key into the lock but did not turn it. “Stand to the side.”
Maeve and Ellie moved immediately.
“Why on earth should I?” asked Oliver.
“We don’t know what’s behind that door. Or what might come out.”
“You think it’s booby-trapped?” asked Lorna.
“I have no bloody idea, but I’m not taking any risks.”
Lorna joined the other women. After a dismissive huff, Oliver did the same. Maeve smelled his aftershave—the same after all these years—and took an extra step back as Hollis turned the key. With slow, deliberate movements, he opened the door and looked inside. Maeve could not see his face, but his shoulders sagged. He ran his hand over his hair, and Maeve remembered the time Hollis had found one of Oliver’s friends passed out in the middle of the front room one Sunday morning. He’d made the same motions.
“What is it? Who’s in there?” asked Lorna.
“Come and see.”
Lorna pushed past Oliver, who went in next. Ellie’s shoulder bumped Maeve as she followed. Maeve heard no conversation, but no shouting either. Were they waiting for her? She approached, one careful step at a time.
They stood in a semi-circle, their backs to her, blocking the view of what Hollis had uncovered. The shortest of them all, she stood on tiptoe to peek over Ellie’s shoulders, seeing little until Hollis finally stepped to the side.
A worn brown armchair, the fabric on the seat worn down to a thin grayish patch, sat on the right side of the room, but what held their attention was positioned on the left: a pink sofa pressed against the wall, its sunken cushions bulging outward like a fat lower lip. Maeve recognized the stain on the left armrest, the splotch in the shape of France caused by a cup of tea she had spilled twenty-odd years ago.
“It’s not the same,” Oliver’s voice sounded hoarse. “Obviously, it isn’t the same one. It’s too old. Thing looks like shit.”
“No, just older,” Maeve said. “It’s the same. It’s just older. Like us.” But she wasn’t looking at the sofa so much as the note card of blue stationery that rested in the middle of it. Stamped in a typewriter font on the front were the words:
The Residents of Caldwell Street
Maeve wondered what would happen if none of them opened that envelope. Would they stand here forever, staring at that sofa?
Or would they be able to leave? Pretend they had never come here. Had never unlocked this door.
“That’s—” Ellie choked on the words. “That’s his stationery. He used to leave us notes in that stationery. And the gifts, oh god, the gifts. Brown paper. The Happy Wednesday Elf?”
“It’s not him,” Oliver said. “We know exactly where to find that fucker, and it’s not in this bloody house.”
Despite his bravado, Oliver distanced himself from the sofa. Ellie looked to the others for support, but Lorna kept glancing around the room, avoiding eye contact. Maeve, too, looked away when Ellie caught her eye. Hollis’s gaze never wavered from the sofa. The rustling of his clothes was as loud as a roar as he reached forward and plucked the envelope from the cushions. He looked it over, each corner, each edge, as if searching for some clue. Then he opened the envelope and removed the card inside. Unlike Caskie’s letter, Hollis read silently.
“Come on, Drummond,” Oliver snapped. “Out with it.”
Hollis cleared his throat. “It’s a rhyme. Trade one secret for another. Admit what happened to your brother. No one leaves until it’s done. Come on, friends, won’t this be fun?”
Oliver grabbed it from Hollis’s hand. “That’s it? That’s all there is?”
“This is wrong,” Ellie said. “This is all wrong. I don’t even have a brother.”
Lorna rolled her eyes. “He’s not talking about biological family.”
“But I don’t get it,” Ellie said. “What is it we’re supposed to do? Trade secrets? What secrets?”
Hollis examined the brown armchair. “If this really is the same one . . .” He ran his hands over the armrests, shoved them down the side of the cushion.
Oliver flicked the note card to the floor. “I’m not standing around while Hollis feels up a chair.”
“Do you lot really not remember?” Hollis asked. Something clicked inside the chair. “Ah ha! This armchair, or as Lorna lovingly referred to it, the poop chair, had a faulty armrest. Which could pop open.” He flipped up the left armrest, revealing the vacant space inside. “And is where you, Oliver, used to store your drugs.”
Hollis stuck his hand into the hole and rooted around.
“That . . . that really is the same chair then,” Lorna said.
“Or one designed to look like it.” He clutched something inside the armrest. “But I have a feeling it is the same. Why bother to replicate the cigarette burns?”
“They could be different burns,” Oliver said.
“They’re not. I remember.” Hollis pulled out his hand. In it were more blue envelopes—larger than the other. Padded with more paper.
“That means . . .” Maeve glanced at the sofa. “That means that’s really the same sofa.”
She closed her eyes, waiting for the tears to come, and backed away, bumping into Oliver, his body soft and warm. Until he stepped away.
“You may want to stay here,” Hollis said. “Until you read this.”
He handed Maeve an envelope stamped with her name, then gave out the rest. They all looked at one another, waiting for someone else to start.
“Were we supposed to find these?” Lorna asked.
“I think he was counting on it,” Hollis said.
“It’s not him,” Oliver muttered.
Maeve looked Oliver’s way. Wanted to reassure him, to hold his hand and squeeze it. But every time she inched nearer, he leaned away. She shrank back into her jumper.
“Well, if no one else is going to.” Hollis opened his envelope as carefully as the other. Lorna clenched her jaw and followed. Maeve looked at Oliver and Ellie, waited to see what they would do. When Ellie tore into the paper, Maeve did the same. Oliver followed with a reluctant sigh. At first, Maeve was too busy watching the others to read hers. Lorna covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. Ellie became very still, except for her face, which drew more lines as it hardened. Veins bulged in her hands. Oliver kept muttering “Bullshit” to himself. Hollis became very pale, and all his strength seemed to leave him.
Maeve finally read what she had been gifted. Photocopies of credit card statements in her sister-in-law’s name. Credit cards near maxed out. Line by line reminding Maeve of different purchases, including the jumper she was wearing right now. And the red suitcase downstairs.
Hollis folded up the papers he’d been given and slipped them back into the envelope.
“So.” He tapped his envelope against his palm. His voice was steady but sounded higher. Twenty years younger. “My guess is, if we admit what really happened that night, in exchange, none of this, whatever your this is”—he held up the envelope—“gets out.”
“Well, my this isn’t a problem.” Maeve tried to fold up the paper the way Hollis had, but it wouldn’t go. She couldn’t make it bend. Her hands shook. “I had permission. She said I had permission. Why would . . . he, why would he think he could blackmail me with this? He’s wrong. He’s made a mistake.”
Oliver ripped the papers from her hand. Waved them in her face. “Stop saying he. It’s not him! And there is one really good fucking reason. You remember that, right? He’s dead. Callum’s dead!”
The name transported them. Now that it had been spoken, it could not be taken back. Now there was no pretending there was the slimmest chance that this was about anything other than him. They were no longer adults standing in a bed and breakfast but teenagers in the front room of a grimy house share.
Maeve stumbled and caught herself on the doorframe.
“Maeve?” someone asked. Lorna, she thought, but she couldn’t see because her eyes were closed, and she was trying to show them how hard she was trying not to cry.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t touch me! I’m fine.” She wasn’t sure if anyone had reached out to her or not, but it was easy to imagine they had. And easier to know they hadn’t. “I’m tired. I drove for hours. And as soon as I got here I was roped into whatever this is and I’m bloody soaked and freezing and all I want is to shower and change and deal with whatever all this is in the morning!”
When she braved a look, she saw they were staring at her, but there was no pity. Only annoyance. They were pissed off to be putting up with her again. Just as she knew they would be.
“Maeve,” said Hollis, “we should probably talk about—”
“No! I’m too tired for talking. Not tonight.” She stopped herself. She couldn’t completely break down. They wouldn’t listen to her then. “So you do whatever you want, but I’m not thinking about this right now. I’m getting a shower and I’m going to bed and we can discuss this in the morning.”
She gathered the papers—her papers—that Oliver had dropped to the floor and left without waiting for their response, found her way downstairs, and grabbed the handle of her red suitcase. The warmth from the fire felt good, though, and she stood there, wondering what it would feel like if she could stick her hands into the flames without getting burnt. But like so many things, this was impossible.
When she returned upstairs, she saw them dispersing. Oliver ignored her and slammed the door to Room 3 behind him. Lorna met her eye and tried to smile but did not and continued on to Room 1.
Up the next flight of stairs, she caught sight of Ellie before Ellie slipped into Room 5. Maeve found her own room—Room 4—as Hollis called her name.
“If you want to talk, I’m right here across the hall.” He looked at his door. “Just like old times.”
“Thanks, Hollis. Really.”
She stood alone in the hall, imagining Callum waving goodnight and disappearing behind a door just like the others. But that was impossible. And the reason it was impossible was the reason they had all been brought here.
45 minutes prior
The wipers streaked back and forth at full speed, unable to keep up with the relentless rain. Maeve drove with her chest leaning over the steering wheel and stared through the waterlogged windshield, trying to piece together a vision of the road. She had wanted to get to the island earlier, when there was still some daylight left, but needed to take a later ferry instead. The darkness amplified her terror, so much so her anxiety made her shake, even though she knew she should be happy. This was what she’d wanted for years. At least half her life. Everything was going to be perfect. Everything was going to be fine.
Unless, of course, it wasn’t. Because when did she ever get what she wanted?
“No,” she said. “This weekend is about change. Remember? Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.”
Her phone chirped and she fought the urge to check it.
It chirped again. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel.
“You’re almost there. You can wait another five minutes before you check your bloody phone.” She resolutely kept her eyes on the road, counting the seconds. “See? Nothing’s so urgent that it can’t—”
It chirped a third time.
She grabbed the phone and checked the new text message, looking up in time to see the disabled SUV ahead. She yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, hydroplaning past the other car and spinning 180 degrees. Several seconds passed when all she could hear was her own breathing. When she could finally move again, she looked down at the phone and tried to type ok! but messed up the letters as her hand shook. It wasn’t canceled.
“See? Positive thoughts.”
She smiled, then kissed her phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
The turnoff welcomed her, and the house lights beckoned, promising warmth, companionship, change. It was all there. All for her. But once she parked the car and the rain fell harder, she couldn’t make herself open the door.
“It’s okay.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer. “You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You . . .”
She forgot the next line. From her pocket, she pulled out her laminated index cards.
“You’re a good person,” she read and flipped to the next card. “People like you. Well, some people, some of the time. I suppose. You have nothing to prove. Which isn’t really a nice thing to say, is it? If you don’t have anything to prove, doesn’t that mean you have nothing worthwhile that needs proving? I should talk to her about that one. Here we are. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to. Whatever you set your mind to.”
She looked up at the house as if its sturdy countenance could somehow be passed on to her. She drank it in—every window, every shingle. It would shelter her. Protect her.
“You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to.” She tucked the cards into her pocket. “And if you can’t, you can lock yourself in your room and not come out until the end of the weekend.”
Suitcase in one hand, phone in the other, and her jacket draped over her arm for the short dash to the house, she hopped out of the car into the pouring rain. In her rush to get inside, she dropped her bag, then dropped her keys trying to get her bag. She managed to hold onto her jacket until it caught on a plant near the front entrance. Then it fell from her arm into a puddle. By the time she made it into the empty foyer with all of her belongings, her hair and clothes were soaked from the heavy rain.
“Hello? God, I’m so wet. Hello? Mother of . . .” Her bag slipped from her wet hand, and she let it drop. “Hello? I’m here to check in. I hope I’m not too late. I got lost. Missed the turning probably five times.”
The silence felt expectant, as if it were waiting for her to say more. Hearing noises from a room to her right, she approached the door, clothes dripping and shoes squelching. What an impression to make, she thought and opened the door.
“Hi hi hi. Sorry to interrupt! I’m—”
But when she saw them all standing there, all she could think was, how could anything this weekend possibly go right?