The car edges its way across the icy gravel away from the hotel. Jonny is at the wheel, staring grimly ahead of him. Evie is in the passenger seat, clicking her tongue against her teeth, her long legs bunched up to her chest.
‘There they are,’ Jonny murmurs, changing gears and pressing down on the accelerator. ‘Vultures.’
Expelling frosty breaths into the air are a huddle of photographers and journalists. One man in fingerless gloves holds a bulky television camera at his thigh. Others smoke cigarettes and crack jokes, their gaze never leaving the façade of the hotel. They are craggy and worn, with beer-flushed faces and eyes as sharp as flint.
On the backseat of the car, underneath a pale blue blanket, Hazel keeps her eyelids tightly shut, feeling the warmth of her breath against the wool pressing down on her nose. She senses the car speed up, the sound of its tyres spinning over the frozen ground.
‘Nearly there,’ Jonny mutters. ‘Get out of the way, you idiots!’ He beeps quickly on the horn and a woman in jeans and a Puffa jacket hops out of the way. ‘Piss off,’ he says to her through gritted teeth.
One of the journalists bangs the car roof as they pass and Hazel flinches in her hiding place. It is only after what seems like hours, when Jonny finally tells her that it is safe and they have left the hotel grounds, that she risks uncovering her face, blinking in the bright of the day.
There is so much to say that there appears to be nowhere to begin. The three of them are silent, digesting the earlier controlled chaos with the arrival of the paramedics and the coastguard helicopter that was commandeered to speed Georgie to hospital. Once she had been found, it had seemed they were free to tell Hillier they were leaving, bundling their possessions into the car, taking Max’s advice to hide Hazel from the waiting press. Now they sit quietly, watching the countryside race past them, thinking of all that has transpired in the last twenty-four hours and how it will affect them.
Hazel’s shoulders are hunched inwards, as if she is trying to hide from the two people who sit like Sphinxes in front of her. Jonny looks washed out, freezing in his shirtsleeves. His normally confident face is moon-white, his usually neat hair dishevelled from his agitated raking of it. Evie’s expression alternates between scorn and anger; her chest rises and falls rapidly as if struggling to contain the violent tears which lurk beneath the checks of her lumberjack shirt.
‘Look,’ Jonny says at last, ‘the girl has been found. Thank God.’ He licks his lips, checking Hazel’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘Going home is the right move now. We can talk about things properly there, without the police looking on. Work out what to do.’ He flicks a look sideways at his daughter. ‘And sort things out with you, Evie. Most importantly.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ his daughter replies. ‘It would be nice to have some idea of what’s going on. Why Hazel’s hiding under a blanket, for instance?’ She studies her own reflection in the wing mirror. ‘Is it because of that woman who attacked her by any chance? The mum of the girl who went missing.’
Jonny can’t speak for a moment, scanning the road ahead as he drives. He clears his throat and places one hand on his daughter’s knee. ‘Evie darling, yes, I’m afraid it was. And this is exactly what we need to talk about. It’s not only about the attack. It’s because . . . well, it’s because . . .’ He glances at Hazel in the mirror. What should they say?
‘Evie . . .’ Hazel begins. ‘A long time ago . . .’
‘In a land far, far away?’ Evie laughs. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I know all about it. I know about you, Hazel. I know who you are.’ She lifts her head, staring out at the frigid fields, her jawline set. ‘I’m not an idiot, Dad. I know she’s one of the Flower Girls.’
The car swerves across the white lines in the middle of the road. From the backseat, a despairing moan emerges from Hazel’s mouth as tears spring to her eyes.
‘How?’ Jonny exclaims. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Oh, please,’ Evie says, twirling a piece of her hair around her index finger, pushing out her bottom lip until she resembles a sulky toddler. ‘Everyone was talking about it in the hotel. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who they meant. Two clicks on Google and I brought up her school picture.’ Evie jerks her head backwards in Hazel’s direction. ‘It’s not like she’s had plastic surgery or anything, is it? Although she might need it now, with those scratches on her face.’
Jonny’s words trip over themselves as he scrambles to recover his composure. ‘Oh, God . . . Evie. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know we should have told you. But . . . we never thought . . .’ His voice tails off and he runs a hand through his hair again in frustration.
‘Never thought she’d be found out?’ Evie scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him.
‘No, not that. But it never seemed . . . I mean, well, obviously this is a shock.’ Jonny grips the wheel tight. ‘For all of us.’
‘Not for Hazel, though, is it?’ Evie puts in. ‘She knows exactly who she is. She’s known forever.’
‘Look, Evie,’ he says in a level voice, trying to recover some control. ‘The fact is we didn’t tell you, rightly or wrongly. And I’m sorry about that. I really am. We certainly would have told you – in the future – when the time was right. But now . . . obviously, all this has happened. And you mustn’t conflate the two things. It was simply a terrible coincidence. Georgie probably just slipped and fell down the cliffs. In which case, this will all blow over very soon and we can get on with our lives. But, right now . . . what’s important now . . . is that we need some calm. Some peace and quiet so we can gather ourselves and work out what to do. Don’t you think, Hazel?’
She sways on the seat behind them, her gaze vacant. She stares through the back of Evie’s head as if the girl isn’t there.
‘And, of course,’ Jonny goes on, gathering confidence as he speaks, ‘we need to figure out whether we talk to this Max guy. I mean, personally, I think that could be a good thing, don’t you?’
‘What Max guy?’ Evie whips her head round to face him. ‘What else is going on, Dad? What else aren’t you telling me?’
Jonny pats her thigh, staring at the road ahead. He seems lost in himself, dipping in and out of a dream. ‘It’ll be OK, Evie,’ he says. ‘I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I?’
‘Yes . . . but, Dad?’ she says and, for a moment, she sounds like she did only a few years ago, before her hormones popped and fizzed inside of her and she stopped being his little girl. She remains entirely still until he removes his hand and something streams across her face, an alchemy of fear and confusion.
‘Now people know,’ Jonny says, ‘they’ll hound Hazel. They’ll come for all of us.’
Neither Evie nor Hazel says a word.
‘Max Saunders is a journalist, an author,’ Jonny continues. ‘He thinks he can help us put Hazel’s side of the story across. Explain that she was only six years old when Kirstie Swann was killed, that she had nothing to do with the murder. He wants to write a book about her. Laurel Bowman – Hazel’s sister – she’s already had a chance to put her side of the story across in court. Why shouldn’t Hazel? he says. After all, she’s the innocent one.’
Hazel takes a breath to speak, leans forward in her seat.
Evie stiffens as if she can’t bear to hear the sound of Hazel’s voice. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what?’ she snaps. ‘What is it now?’
‘There’s something else,’ Hazel says. ‘Something I’ve not mentioned . . . I’ve had emails, Jonny. And cards. Just in the last few months. Things sent to me, threatening me.’
‘What do you mean? You never said.’ His voice is raw, his stare drilling into the tarmac ahead.
‘The emails . . . they’ve come from an account. A fake account. But the name of the sender is Primrose Bowman.’
Jonny frowns. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Someone has been sending me emails telling me that they know I’m a Flower Girl. Pretending to be me. Pretending to be Primrose Bowman.’
‘But who knows? Who has known before me?’ Jonny sounds bitter.
‘I don’t know, Jonny. I got the first one a couple of months ago. And then I’ve had about one a week. I’ve had dead flowers sent to me too. At the flat. At work. And cards. The emails are always just a sentence or two. Nothing more. But frightening. Upsetting. They say they know who I am. That they’re going to . . . hurt me.’ Hazel is practically whispering.
‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
She twitches involuntarily. ‘I didn’t know what to say, I suppose. I was scared. I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Evie blurts out, folding her arms. ‘Is it that much of a surprise? That someone is threatening you, wanting to punish you? It’s not exactly quantum physics to work out the reason why, is it? Given what you did.’
‘Watch the language, Evelyn,’ Jonny says.
Evie tosses her hair. ‘Yeah, all right. But it’s true. And once more people find out, they’re going to go mad, aren’t they? Look at that little girl’s mum. She wanted to scratch your eyes out. And I can’t believe you’re not the same, Dad. In all honesty. That once you found out about Hazel, you would have . . .’ She pulls back, her lips pursed.
‘What?’ he asks tersely.
‘Nothing.’ Evie refuses to look at him. ‘Nothing!’
He drives for a minute before speaking. ‘You’re just upset, sweetie,’ he says then, sounding as if his throat is constricted. ‘We need to work out a plan of action, that’s all. There’s a lot to think about. But attacking each other, saying things which could damage us all,’ he swallows and his voice eases, ‘isn’t going to help. And these emails,’ he says, flicking on the indicator to change lanes, ‘are plainly blackmail. We should tell that policewoman about it – Hillier. Definitely we should.’
‘It’s irrelevant now, though, isn’t it?’ Hazel’s tone is bitter. ‘It’s like Max said. Now the Greenstreets know, the press will know.’ She puffs out air, the beginnings of an emotional storm creeping into her voice. ‘They’ll find out where I live. Where you live. Where Evie is with her mum.’ She shakes her head violently. ‘It’s no good, Jonny. I don’t want you or Evie involved with this. It’s not fair on you. Just take me back to the flat and leave me there. This is my problem and I’ll deal with it.’
‘I agree totally,’ Evie says drily. ‘Home is where the heart is.’
‘Evie, I mean it . . .’ Jonny warns.
‘No, she’s right,’ Hazel says, a strange smile on her face as she looks at the teenager’s blonde hair, twisted into its glossy ponytail. It occurs to her that both of them are Matryoshka dolls in their stealthy concealment. ‘We have to think of Evie. We have to protect her. The journalists will be brutal, like they were before.’ Her voice cracks. ‘Someone’s already bullying me with the emails and that’s only going to get worse. It’s not right that you’ll both be exposed to it as well. Why should you be?’
‘I knew about this,’ Jonny says. ‘About you and your sister. I knew about it before – it didn’t matter to me. I loved you anyway.’
Evie wrinkles her nose, concentrates on pressing her fingernails deep into her palm.
‘I knew about it and I took it on. I won’t abandon you, Hazel.’
Evie looks at him. His cheeks are flushed and he is turning to Hazel, not her, not to his daughter. Despite everything she’s done for him. As he speaks, drops of rain spatter against the windscreen and the sky darkens and Evie feels that pull of sadness that threatens to take her over all the time these days. That longing for it all to be over.
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Can we just go home?’
But Jonny and Hazel are silent, locked into their own thoughts as the rain begins in earnest. Neither of them seems to notice that she’s said anything at all.