‘Brothers,’ Emilia mutters, her heart racing. ‘Why would they do this to brothers?’
She turns to look over at Ciaran but for a second it isn’t him sitting there, his fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
It is Sophie. Laughing. Throwing her head back, her long hair billowing towards the window as it’s caught on the warm summer breeze. Her sister. Emilia thought she had lost her in the worst possible circumstances. But this … one of them chosen to live and the other to die? She wouldn’t have survived this.
‘I don’t know,’ Ciaran mutters, breaking her memory. ‘We can’t even try to understand their motives –’
His phone rings again, amplified by the car’s speakers.
‘Tell me you’ve got their address,’ Ciaran says.
‘Yes – 155 Mordon Avenue –’
‘We’re not far from there at all,’ Emilia says. ‘I had a client who lived just around the corner.’
‘Response units are almost there,’ the voice on the call says.
‘I’m on my way,’ Ciaran barks.
He ends the call and reaches forward to the switch in the centre console. Blue lights and sirens scream out and up into the sky. The engine roars beneath them.
He weaves on to the main road, past cars which are pulling over at the sight of their approach, braking suddenly as a van moves into the lane directly in front. He pushes a button which sends the siren wailing louder.
‘I’ll never understand why people don’t move out of the fucking way!’ he shouts, clenching his jaw.
The van pulls over slowly, the driver sticking his hand out the window and raising it nonchalantly.
Ciaran manoeuvres past him and they drive on in silence, both focused on the road. The lines in the centre of the tarmac flash past and fall into a strange sort of rhythm with the lights and the siren. Emilia stares at them, listening intently to the rise and fall of sound bellowing from the car, pouring her focus into anything except those two souls. Brothers. Taken.
Line. Flash. Siren.
Line. Flash. Siren.
Line. Flash. Siren.
‘We’re here,’ Ciaran says.
He swings quickly into the road on the right and she stares out of the window, catching the street sign as it flashes past.
Mordon Avenue.
The car flies down the road, and Emilia scans the houses as even numbers pass on the left, odd numbers on the right.
‘There!’ she cries, pointing, even though it is completely unnecessary – Ciaran is already pulling in, the tyres screeching as he brakes quickly.
‘I know you’re involved now, but you need to stay here,’ he says, opening his door.
‘Ciaran –’
‘Just stay in the car.’
He slams the door and darts towards the house, his movements swift and precise. He pounds his fist on the front door and shouts their names, so loudly that she can hear it through the glass. A wailing sound rises from the near distance. The response units are coming. They’ll be here any minute. But … where are Joseph and Freddie?
Ciaran moves over to the window on the left-hand side of the front door, cupping his hand to the glass to stare inside.
They aren’t answering.
Emilia’s stomach churns but she shakes her head, forcing her mind to conjure up scenarios other than the worst. Maybe they’re at a friend’s house … Or maybe they have partners and they’re with them. Maybe they’re with their parents. The police will be making contact with anyone connected to them, warning them, trying to ascertain their whereabouts, to bring them to safety. Just because they’re not here, doesn’t mean that it’s too late.
She scans the front of the house, up to the top level. No windows are damaged, no glass smashed or panes forced open. And no lights are on. Maybe they’re somewhere else … they must be somewhere –
But wait.
There.
Her breath catches at the back of her throat, a tightly knit ball of anxiety forming at the very top of her chest – the side gate is ajar. Just slightly. Such a slim gap that she didn’t notice it at first glance.
She throws open the passenger door and runs.
‘Emi!’ Ciaran shouts.
His footsteps pound behind her, his voice still calling her name. But she ignores him. Sprinting down the narrow alley that cuts a path down the right-hand side of the house, she stumbles, her ankles thrashing through the tangle of nettles that are bursting through the ground, taking their territory. She rights herself then sharply turns left, her feet scrambling beneath her and –
She falters, that tight ball of anxiety forcing its way out of her chest and up into her throat, bursting out in a low cry.
The back door has been forced open.
Just like Sophie’s.
The wooden frame is splintered, a large chunk of it missing from where something – a crowbar – has been jammed in, the door prised open.
A hand grabs her shoulder and she jumps, spinning around to come face-to-face with Ciaran.
‘Oh no,’ he whispers.
He moves forward quickly, blocking Emilia’s view, his hands already reaching inside his jacket for latex gloves which he pulls on smoothly. He gently pushes on the fractured wood and the door swings inwards.
Sirens wail loudly and brakes screech. The response units have arrived.
Emilia rushes forward, her body seeming to move on its own, out of her control. She knows that she shouldn’t look. She knows that whatever is inside will be too much, too close to what she witnessed when Sophie was killed, but … she has to. She has to know what’s happened.
She pushes past Ciaran’s outstretched arm and stares inside, wide-eyed. Her chest heaves up and down, panic spiralling through her, her muscles tightening, ready to flee.
A smashed bottle of beer on the floor. An open can of lager on the counter. A chair thrown on to its side.
And a feeling – thick and cloying – hanging in the air.
Fear.