Any hope I had of being vindicated dissolves the following evening when the police reveal they’ve found no evidence of the masked man’s presence. The security camera covers the back door but not the window. Forensics weren’t able to lift a shoe print from the garden, either. They say this could be because it’s mostly paved and the earth is bone dry. No fingerprints were found on the gate or the glass but he most likely wore gloves. What they don’t say, but do leave in the silences to be discovered and unwrapped, is that maybe he was never here at all and I am either delusional or lying.
Dad turns on me the second the police leave, all simmering rage and resentment. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘I saw him,’ I insist, but he looks at me as though I am a hysterical child, claiming Bigfoot is living under her bed. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘Caitie, love, he isn’t saying he doesn’t believe you,’ assuages Mum, trying to build bridges out of sand.
‘Do you?’ I ask him with so much hope because I want so desperately to be believed. I want my father to pull me into his arms and whisper soothing things into my hair like he did the night Olivia was taken. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘No one else has laid eyes on him. No one. How do you explain that?’
‘I was the only one down here! If you’d been in the kitchen, or Mum, then—’
‘Why would he risk coming to this house just to stand outside the window on the slim possibility you’d wander into the kitchen?’
I hadn’t stopped to consider why he was here. Seeing him had been such a terrible shock, it has eclipsed everything else. Dad is right. It was a risk – with the police so close by the masked man could’ve been caught – and to what end? Just to scare me? That doesn’t seem likely. I shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He was never there, Caitlin.’
‘So you think I’m lying?’
He takes a step closer. I sometimes forget how tall my father is. He’s at his tallest right now, towering over me in the hallway. ‘I think you were the centre of our attention for a very long time and now you aren’t.’
The acid that drips from his mouth hurts more than the scalding tea.
Mum starts scrabbling around in the sand again, even as the tsunami looms. She lays a hand on my father’s shoulder. ‘Myles, let’s talk about this tomorrow when everyone is less fraught.’
She’s looks imploringly to me. It would be better for everyone if I back down, apologise, lean into his narrative that I am an attention-seeking liar, refusing to share my parents with my sister. I open my mouth, the apology on the tip of my tongue, but then I hear Gideon telling me to be braver.
‘No, let’s talk about it now,’ I insist, fixing my gaze on my father. ‘What attention did I ever get from you growing up? You were always working. I’ve seen more of you in the last three weeks than I have in the last sixteen years.’ My laughter is hollow. ‘I’ve wasted so much of my life trying to win your pride and for what? So I could stand here while you accuse me of being an attention-seeking brat?’
‘He didn’t say that,’ Mum argues.
‘He didn’t have to.’ I look to my father, expecting more bullets, more insults, more anger. Instead he seems defeated. Seems to shrink. I wait for the wave of triumph that doesn’t come. His melancholy is somehow worse than his hatred.
‘You gave us all a fright last night, Caitie,’ Mum tells me, picking up the gun my father has apparently dropped.
‘I gave you a shock? What about the psycho who broke into our garden?’
‘Caitlin,’ she breathes, wary and irritated. ‘There was no sign of him.’
‘What about the woods behind the house? The old shed, did they check that?’ I ask, remembering Olivia used that shed as a landmark to find the road.
‘What shed?’ asks Mum.
‘The one in the woods.’
She frowns. ‘A homeless man illegally built that ten years ago. I thought the council tore it down. It’s dangerous, Caitie, no one is hiding in there.’
Dread pulses through me. Ten years … the shed is only ten years old. If that’s true, how did Olivia know about it when she went missing sixteen years ago? Over half a decade before it even existed?
‘Mum,’ says Olivia from her place at the foot of the stairs. ‘This isn’t Caitie’s fault.’
‘Don’t.’ I round on her because she is an insidious imposter and if it wasn’t for her meddling in our lives, I wouldn’t be in the middle of a row with both my parents. ‘Don’t you dare defend me. You don’t even know me.’
‘Caitlin!’ berates Mum.
‘How did you know about that shed?’ I spit at her.
‘What’re you talking about?’
Of course she’s feigning ignorance. I try again. ‘Why were you in my room last night?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were. I woke up and you were standing over my bed.’
The three of them share a look, as though I’m a pyromaniac waving around a can of petrol and a box of matches. ‘Caitie, that wasn’t me. I didn’t go into your room. I would never.’
‘You’re lying.’
Her eyes are so wide with sham innocence, her baby-doll lashes almost touch her perfect brows. ‘I’m not lying but I am worried about you.’
She reaches out and rests a patronising hand on my shoulder. I slap it away. The sound echoes, bouncing off the walls. Olivia’s bottom lip wobbles expertly. My parents are horrified. And it’s too much. All too much. I go upstairs and pack a bag.
Staying another night in Blossom Hill House, where the atmosphere is so thick, I could slice it up and serve it on sourdough, isn’t an option. No one said a word as I left, my overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Now, I sit in the car outside my house. Mum hasn’t even sent one of her worrisome ‘Are you home yet, sweetie?’ messages. In fact, since Olivia came back, they’ve stopped altogether. I never thought I’d miss them.
I left a voicemail for Oscar earlier, explaining I was coming home, at least for tonight, but he must be locked away in his study again with his headphones on because he hasn’t replied.
As I let myself in, I see his study light is on. I hear him moving around, but when I call out to him, he doesn’t reply. Sighing, I take my bag upstairs and change into the silk pyjamas Oscar always compliments. Back in my own home, breathing in the familiar scent of our house, I’m finally able to relax, tension flowing out of me like melted snow.
A loud bang from downstairs makes me jump. Leaning out of the bedroom door, I shout down to Oscar. ‘Everything alright?’
I wait. Silence greets me.
‘Oscar?’ I yell.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I stare down at the caller ID, confused. Oscar is phoning me. Why is Oscar phoning me when we’re in the same house? Then I realise with his headphones on, he isn’t even aware I’m back. I roll my eyes and answer the call as I make my way downstairs to see him.
‘I’m home,’ I tell him by way of greeting.
‘Sorry, just picked up your voicemail.’ Oscar is somewhere loud and busy. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Outside of his office now, I freeze. The door is part-way open, the light glows softly beyond it. I hold my breath to listen. Inside, someone is riffling about. Someone who isn’t Oscar.
‘Caitie? You still there? Can you hear me?’
I squeeze the phone, terror pulsing through me. ‘You … you aren’t home?’
‘No.’
My insides clench.
Fear snakes through me.
I glance down at the little key in the lock.
My hand whips forward, but before I can turn it, the door is flung open. I see the mask a second before I am tossed aside. I hit the ground so hard, all the air whooshes out of me. My phone cracks against the skirting board, out of reach. Chest burning, I gasp into the wood. I cannot breathe. I feel him standing over me and I throw myself onto my back. He is swathed in black: black boots and black jeans, black gloves and a black hoodie. He is built like a barn door. I open my mouth to scream but he lunges, snatching my wrist and hauling me up. I am slammed against the wall, pinned there by the hardness of his body. He brings his face close to mine and I stare up into black holes where his eyes should be. Another scream rushes like bile, but his gloved hand comes down over my mouth. I kick and flail.He secures me easily. Still holding me in place, he stomps. Once. Twice. Three times. Breathless, I see the shattered screen of my phone at our feet. My only hope of calling for help now lay in pieces.
‘Please,’ I whisper into his hand, but my plea is muffled by the leather. The smell of it clings to the back of my throat and makes me think of stretched, bloodied skin. He’s going to kill me. I am going to die in this hallway. I scream again. He moves fast, grabbing me by the throat, cutting off my cry for help. For several terrifying seconds, I can’t breathe. He swings me to the side and throws me backwards with frightening ease. I tumble into Oscar’s office and land in a bruised, panting heap.
The masked man slams the door shut. I hear the key turning in the lock on the other side. But I’m not trapped. I scramble to my feet, stagger to the window and unlock it. I throw it open and look down. Thank God his office is on the ground floor. I climb up onto the window ledge and jump.