It was five in the morning when Astrid reached Sugar Hill, stopping at the first secluded spot she found. She wasn’t tired, her mind wired by her recent experiences. She removed her phone and checked for new messages from her sister, unsurprised not to find any.
Did Courtney go to the police as I told her to?
Unless her sister had changed since they were teenagers, which she didn’t expect, she guessed she’d wait until tomorrow before speaking to the police, which was a mistake. She read the texts again.
Olivia is getting strange messages on her computer.
Olivia has a game on the computer where she plays against friends online. She’s been getting messages there telling her how pretty she is, talking about her hair and eyes. And she doesn’t have a photo attached to her account.
Olivia doesn’t have access to a mobile phone, and she can’t get into my computer because it’s password protected. I don’t know about the school, but I’ll ask them tomorrow. Do you think she’ll be okay?
What Courtney had said was troubling, but she knew there had to be more to it than those texts. For her sister to reach out for her help, it must be tearing her apart.
So why am I here? I should drop everything and go home. My family needs me.
Her ribs hurt as she laughed out loud.
Family! She hadn’t had a family for a long time. She had no good memories of them, and her last visit with Courtney had only added to their mutual antagonism: a trip to her sister’s house which turned frosty the second she arrived.
‘You should have warned me you were coming.’
‘I’ll stick a red flashing light on the top of the car next time.’
It was the reception she’d expected, Courtney’s face resembling someone who hated every reminder she had a sister. She made no effort to open the door any further than the few inches it was already. It was nine o’clock on Saturday morning, and Astrid wasn’t there to heal a sibling breakdown that had festered for over twenty years.
‘Is Olivia awake?’
Courtney didn’t reply, stepping inside and leaving the door open. It wasn’t an invitation, but Astrid took it anyway. She followed her sister through the corridor and into the living room. Courtney adjusted the volume on the radio.
Astrid sat inside this stranger’s house. She examined the pale bare walls, the giant TV in the corner, the shelves full of porcelain figurines, and the framed photographs of Olivia. None of the furniture was cheap: a thick carpet separated a luxurious three-piece suite; two over-hanging lamps settled into the edges of the room.
‘Olly is out with Jack on his morning run. They won’t be back before mid-day.’
To Astrid’s surprise, Courtney lit a cigarette.
‘I thought you quit smoking when you were a teenager?’
Courtney snuffed out the match and dropped it into an ashtray. The cigarette lingered between her lips as she spoke.
‘I started again when you began hacking for those criminal thugs.’ She blew smoke, which swirled towards the ceiling.
‘Can I return later to see Olivia?’ The fumes attacked her lungs, and she fought off a coughing fit.
‘Do you remember what I said to you the last time you were here?’
She twisted in the seat. Painful memories squeezed at her brain, obliterating her previous calm with the guilt sitting not on her face. but inside her heart. What had happened couldn’t be undone.
‘You said I was a danger to Olivia, and I should get as far away from her as possible. You promised I could phone her every once in a while, but that was it.’
Courtney continued to suck on the poison stick.
‘Are you still a danger to her?’
Ghostly fingers clutched at her chest.
‘I don’t know, Courtney; I hope not.’
Her sister turned her back on Astrid, stubbing the cigarette out on the shelf at her side.
‘Then I think you should leave until you know for definite.’
Without looking at her, Courtney reached over to the radio and increased the volume. Astrid stood and turned for the door.
‘Can I still phone her?’ Smoke drifted over her face.
‘I’ll get her to text you.’ A smile crept from Astrid as she was leaving the house. It soon vanished. ‘I’ve given Dad your number as well.’
Electric fire shot through her heart. Her knees weakened as her legs trembled. She stumbled down the step and into the wall surrounding the garden. A cramp stabbed her neck as she twisted her head around.
‘He’s alive?’
Courtney laughed at her. ‘What made you think he wasn’t?’
Astrid’s fingers dug into the concrete. ‘I was told he was missing, assumed dead.’ She’d hoped he was dead, dead for a long time.
Another cigarette was in her sister’s hand. ‘He was travelling and incommunicado from the rest of us.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
A thousand crippling memories crawled out of the sepulchres of her mind, horrible images that burnt into her sinew and muscle.
‘He’s here every weekend to see Olly; she loves getting to know her grandfather.’
Astrid wasn’t a grown woman anymore; then, in the garden of her hated sister’s house, she was young again: a child who all of her family had betrayed.
‘You can’t let that happen, Courtney; you can’t.’
Her sister stepped forward, dripping ash onto the grass and spewing smoke into the air.
‘You’re going to tell me what I can and can’t do with my daughter? What gives you that right, you who nearly got her killed?’ The fire burnt in her eyes.
‘He’s dangerous; you know this. You can’t allow Lawrence anywhere near her.’
Courtney lifted a hand above her shoulder and Astrid expected a punch. Her fingers trembled, but no blow came.
‘You lied about him, and you ruined his life, and you sent our mother to the nuthouse because of it.’
She’d never seen her sister this angry. If she hadn’t lost all sympathy for her years ago, she could have felt sorry for her, but she didn’t: the only compassion she had was for Olivia. Compassion and fear.
Astrid pulled from Courtney and left the garden. She strode away without looking back. On her flight to America, she’d wondered if she’d ever return home.
No, not home. Being with them was never a home. But would she go back to Britain? That thought lurked in her head until it pressed against her skull. She’d wavered, but these messages from Courtney would force her to return to England.
Even so, she waited.
She put the phone to the side and examined her surroundings. The town was built on a steep hillside with houses and apartments piled on top of each other along narrow roads. Streetlights flickered like fireflies as she scanned the area and registered the silent cars sitting outside the residences.
Astrid checked the address Phoenix had supplied against the GPS directions on her phone. The interlude with the Sawyer family had delayed her longer than she’d wanted, but she hoped Medusa was home. She drove a further five hundred yards, parked a block from the building and read the information Phoenix had sent: Medusa, real name Samuel James Morrison, twenty-eight years old, living at apartment 22b Parkland House, Parkland Street.
The night embraced her as she got out of the car. Stars twinkled in the sky, their flickering illumination serenading her as the jukebox in her head spun through numerous songs about nocturnal activities until she settled on her favourite Patti Smith tune. The noise helped her focus on her task, pushing the worries about Olivia into the far corners of her mind. They’d return soon enough, but for now, she relaxed and controlled the tension in her body.
The streets hummed as she stuck to the shadows and weaved towards Morrison’s apartment building. Stray dogs chased each other on the street, jumping over homeless people and avoiding the odd hustler coming their way. It was the wrong side of the tracks, and she was glad of that. The more danger there was, the less chance she’d see the police, and the likelihood was reduced there would be any witnesses if anything got messy.
The more she thought about it, the less reason she saw for a connection between Caitlin Cruz and the human trafficking website. But those numbers in her and her children’s mouths were the URL for that site, so there had to be a link somewhere. Hopefully, Morrison would have the answer.
She stood across the road and scrutinised the building; nothing appeared out of place. No lights flickered in the apartments, and no one peered from the windows to see her approach. She checked the rest of the street before crossing over, creeping up the steps and hoping the door was open. For once, she got lucky, pushing her way inside. The aroma of pizza and unwashed armpits lingered.
Her footsteps echoed through the empty entrance hall. A trembling overhead light cast a long, twisted shadow across the floor. Water dripped somewhere, creating a hollow oozing noise impossible for her to ignore. She assessed her surroundings, her eyes shifting past the graffiti on the walls and the abandoned needles near her feet. Everywhere was quiet apart from the liquid leaking on to the ground and the beating of her heart matching the music inside her skull.
There was an elevator in the far corner, but she ignored that and headed into the stairway. She pushed her way in, her eyes adjusting to the gloom and deciding no threats waited for her. She crept up to the second floor and through the door; 22b was the first apartment on her right. She reached into her pocket to find something to pick the lock before realising she didn’t need it: the door was ajar. Astrid placed her hand on the faded wood and gave it a shove.
The lights were off, the small space only illuminated by the blinking street light outside the window. She twisted her head from side to side, scanning to see if anyone was there. She saw the bathroom and a bedroom, but her vision fixed on the person sitting in the chair at the far end: an unmoving body slumped forward as if asleep.
‘Morrison, are you awake?’
Astrid didn’t need to take more than two steps forward to realise he was dead. The smell of fresh blood hit her before she saw the mark on his neck. Somebody had cut across his throat and sawed through it. His head hung by a thread, eyes bulging from their sockets, the screen of his laptop flickering red and green as she stared at his corpse.
Bits of computer equipment littered the desk, with his blood staining the keyboard and mouse. She was about to search the apartment when she saw something impossible. Sitting in front of the dead man was the murder weapon, a piece of immaculate steel she’d seen before: the large kitchen knife she’d used to slice the apple in Campbell’s house. And there it was, covered in blood and presumably her fingerprints.
She didn’t hesitate, turning and heading into the bathroom. Astrid stuck the plug in the basin and switched on the tap. Then she grabbed a towel and returned to the dead man. She picked up the knife in the cloth and was back in the bathroom as the water reached halfway. She dropped the blade into the sink and turned the tap off using the cloth, making sure she wiped her fingerprints off the metal first. The blood seeped into the water as the sound of sirens drifted into the apartment from outside. The question now was whether to leave the knife there or take it with her.
Could it be traced back to the Campbells? It was possible, but if she took it with her and the police stopped her, it wouldn’t look good. At least her fingerprints weren’t on it anymore.
What if there are other things here with my prints or DNA on them?
She left the blade and returned to the living room. The sirens grew closer as she looked over the apartment; there was no time to check now. She opened the door and closed it with her foot, striding down the stairs and out of the building as the sirens advanced. She was around the corner and heading to the car when she realised what Sawyer had been doing with his little diversion and offer of a fake job.
He needed me at his vape factory, so he had time to kill Morrison and set this up. The job offer was nothing but a lie. But how did he know I was on to Medusa and was coming here?
And why was Benedict Sawyer trying to frame her for another murder?
The sirens were reaching a crescendo when it came to her: someone must have bugged Campbell’s laptop. That was the only way they could have known. But how did they get the knife from the house? It was a crime scene when she left, and both Campbell and Moore were there with a forensic team.
She thought of the attack at Moore’s place, then the one at Campbell’s. Were they also in danger?
Astrid was contemplating the question as a baseball bat flew towards her head. She saw it just in time to duck, and it bounced off the wall behind her. When she lifted her head, she wasn’t surprised to see the two idiot cowboys from the diner grinning at her; one held another bat, the other clutched a long knife in his hands.
They didn’t follow me here; I would have seen them. They’ve been waiting for me.
The one in the white hat pushed the blade towards her.
‘We hoped you’d make it back to the car.’
She glanced behind them. To her left was a large fire hydrant; on the right, a bicycle chained to metal railings. Would they attack together, or had they learnt a lesson from what happened in Bakerstown?
White Hat answered that by peeling from his friend and circling Astrid to stand between her and the kerb. Now there was one behind and one in front of her.
‘You don’t need to do this, boys.’ She monitored the swinging bat and the pointed dagger. ‘Whatever Benedict Sawyer is paying won’t cover the costs for your stay in hospital.’ Black Hat twirled the club above his head. ‘If only you Yanks had proper medical insurance.’
They came at her together, the bat crashing towards her head as the knife thrust for her guts. She swivelled to the side and dodged their clumsy attempts, moving to the kerb as the cowboys stumbled into each other. They swore loudly enough to cut through the air as they bumped their legs and hit the pavement hard. She could have run then and made it to the car, but she needed information from them.
Why would Sawyer send two incompetents like this after me? Perhaps they murdered Morrison and left the knife to frame me, but they’re hardly the brightest bulbs in the socket.
And what had she done to upset the man who allegedly owned Bakerstown?
They whispered something to each other and got up. The one with the blade laughed at her.
‘You can dance all you want, girlie, but you can’t dodge us forever.’
As they regrouped side by side, she stepped up and on to the fire hydrant, precariously balanced as they grinned at her like circus clowns.
‘I’m not trying to dodge you, boys.’
White Hat smirked at her. ‘What are you doing up there, missy? There’s nowhere for you to go.’
‘I wondered if you looked as stupid from up here as you do down there.’
She studied their movements, analysed each facial tic and curl of the lip, deciding Black Hat was the slower of them. In the instant she made that decision, they attacked with the bat and knife aimed at her. But she was quicker, kicking out with her leg to catch White Hat in the jaw and shatter his teeth, blood splattering the road like a Jackson Pollock painting. Black Hat’s slower reflexes meant he missed her as she landed on the ground. She spun behind him and kicked into the gap between the back of his right knee. He bounced off the fire hydrant and hit the pavement.
Astrid watched them groan together as a small crowd gathered nearby, seemingly excited by the free entertainment on offer. Above her, nervous eyes peered through windows, and curtains twitched in the houses and apartments. The cowboys lay crumpled on the ground, scowling at her as she moved towards them. The baseball bat had rolled over to the side of the road, but the knife lay close to White Hat’s trembling hand. She let him crawl for it.
‘You touch that blade and I’ll break your fingers, mate.’
He gazed into her eyes, and she imagined the cogs spinning slowly inside his head. He made his choice and pulled his hand from the blade.
‘You’ll pay for this, girlie.’
She sighed and towered over the two of them.
‘Why are you here?’
Neither of them spoke, but someone behind her did.
‘Kick him in the balls.’
Astrid glanced to her side to see there were more than a dozen onlookers. She didn’t know who’d spoken, but it was a woman’s voice. She turned back to her attackers.
‘Who sent you after me?’
White Hat grinned through gritted teeth. ‘Nobody sent us. We owe you for what you did outside the bar.’
She didn’t believe it. White Hat was spitting blood on to the ground when she placed her foot on his ankle.
‘You didn’t come here because of what happened in Bakerstown.’ They groaned in stereo. ‘So why did Sawyer send two incompetents like you after me?’
Were they only delaying tactics sent there to stop her from getting back to town?
Why is he so afraid of me? Is this to do with Caitlin Cruz?
He’d called Cruz an irritating woman. Why was that?
Black Hat growled at her. ‘You’ll get your answer soon enough, girl.’
She was going to hit him again just for calling her a girl.
‘And what would that be?’
The answer came from behind her before she’d finished speaking. Ringed knuckles smashed into her cheekbone, and she staggered forward and fell over Black Hat’s legs. She lurched to the ground, her damaged hand no protection against the sharp thud of the cold concrete. Before she could lift herself, her new attacker kicked her twice in the stomach.
‘That’s because they were only the distraction, Limey.’
Jimmy Sawyer jerked his foot into her head before she could speak. His laugh was the last thing she heard as the darkness engulfed her.