Leaving Jerome on the porch, Emily ducked into the dimly-lit corridor and took a second to adjust to the coolness of the house. The Hardys’ living quarters were up ahead. Emily hovered outside, wondering if Sam was still inside. It was quiet, so she knocked on the door. Pamela answered a few seconds later, looking weary and lost.
“I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing,” Emily said.
Pamela tried to smile as she invited her inside. The door opened directly into the living room. Colourful woven mats covered the floorboards. Abstract paintings hung on burnt orange walls. A trace of sandalwood hung in the air like a memory.
Sam stood hunched up in the corner. Emily turned and their eyes briefly met.
“Thank you, Sam. That will be all,” Pamela said, her tone clipped. It was clear the reprimand she’d just delivered had been severe.
Head bowed, Sam gave Emily one final look, then strode across the floor, brushing past Pamela as if she were invisible.
When they were alone, Pamela ushered Emily towards a small couch before sinking into a comfortable-looking armchair next to a bookcase filled with spiritual teachings and theology studies. On the other side of the room, a fat Chinese-style Buddha with a round belly and wide smile sat on an altar. Sculptures of Hindu gods and goddesses dominated a shelf above—Ganesh, the Deva of Intellect and Wisdom, whose father, Shiva, lopped off his head and replaced it with an elephant’s; Parvati, mother of Ganesh and goddess of love, fertility, and devotion; Kali, the dark mother, four-armed goddess of creation, preservation, and destruction.
“In answer to your question,” Pamela said, leaning back on the chair, “this hasn’t been one of my better days. But for the sake of maintaining some sort of order within the group, let’s just pretend that I’m fine. How are you? I’m sure this isn’t the weekend you had in mind when you signed up.”
“I’m sure it’s not the weekend you had in mind either,” Emily said. “Still no word from Marcia?”
“No. She’s always so reliable. I don’t understand it.”
“There could be any number of reasons why she isn’t back. Perhaps she’s had car trouble. Perhaps, like you said, the police are slow at getting their act together. It must be difficult not to worry though, especially in light of everything that’s happened.”
Pamela took a moment to adjust her position, then smooth out the creases in her trousers. “Marcia and I, we don’t always see eye to eye. When she was a teenager, she was very wilful. To be honest, I often wonder if I did the right thing moving her out here at such an impressionable age. She was cut off from society, home-schooled, with no real friends to speak of ... but ten years on, she’s still here. I suppose that has to mean something; that she didn’t hate it as much as she used to say she did. Or at least, that she warmed to its merits.”
“Perhaps we should send someone else to Lyndhurst, even if it means walking,” Emily said. She looked for a clock but there was none. There was also no television, no stereo equipment, no indication that they were living in the twenty-first century.
“Perhaps.” Getting up, Pamela moved to the window. Outside, the forest swayed in the breeze. She sighed, wistfulness misting her eyes. “When we first came to Meadow Pines there was so much work to be done. The house had been empty for years. All the woodwork was rotten, all of the windows smashed in. Animals had made it their home. Marcia and I worked day and night, putting every last drop of energy into transforming what was essentially a ruin into what you see today.” She was quiet for a moment, lost in memories. “Meadow Pines was supposed to be my oasis. A sanctuary from the toils of modern living, where the outside world remained on the other side of the gate. The moment Helen’s story appears in the papers Meadow Pines will come tumbling down. My home, the retreat—all of it will be gone.”
“You don’t know that,” said Emily. “Oscar’s suicide has nothing to do with the practices of Meadow Pines. People will understand.”
Pamela surprised the air with laughter. “Have you ever heard the phrase, mud sticks? I’m grateful for your optimism, Emily, I am. But you know very well what happens when your reputation is dragged out into the open.”
Emily’s heart thumped in her chest. Did Pamela know who she was?
“But that’s the charms of the British tabloids for you. Which is exactly why I stopped reading the newspapers years ago.”
Emily peered down at her hands, which had clamped themselves to her knees. What the press had done to her following Phillip Gerard’s suicide was tantamount to a public flogging. A young boy had taken his own life, which was tragic and awful, but a dead child wouldn’t sell anywhere near as many copies as a child driven to suicide by his crazed teacher. The headlines had made the story front page news. Suddenly, everyone knew Emily Swanson’s name. She was the teacher accused of assaulting an already vulnerable child. The monster who’d reportedly attacked him after he’d turned to her for help, driving him to leap to his death. The truth—that Phillip had been saying terrible things about her recently deceased mother, that she had shouted at him, not hit him—had had little bearing.
Months later, as quickly as the tabloids had sought to destroy Emily, they had rallied around her, proclaiming her a hero for exposing the heinous crimes of Doctors Williams and Chelmsford. She had redeemed herself, they’d said. All was forgiven. The tabloids were as fickle as children, Emily thought; one minute they were your sworn enemy, the next your closest ally.
She released her fingers from her knees and felt the tension sink into the floor. What people thought of her was none of her business, but it seemed that still wasn’t enough to stop her from worrying after all.
Pamela was staring at her. “Are you all right? You’ve lost some colour.”
Emily nodded. She hoped the headlines would be kind to Pamela and Meadow Pines, even if in her heart she knew it was a false hope. She turned her thoughts to the real reason she had knocked on Pamela’s door.
“I keep thinking about Oscar. I wonder why he did it. I wonder why he chose Meadow Pines. Had he been here before?”
Pamela moved away from the window and leant against the wall. “No. I have a good memory for faces and I definitely hadn’t seen his before. I have no idea why he chose this place. Tell me, Emily, what exactly did you see when you found Sam and Helen in the forest?
“Sam had already cut Oscar down,” she said. “Helen talked him into it. She manipulated him.”
Anger lit up Pamela’s face. “Sam may not be the sharpest tool in the box but he’s far from stupid. What he did, manipulated or not, will only serve to make things worse for us.”
Emily was quiet, observing the strain in Pamela’s body.
“Did Sam tell you about the photograph?” she asked.
“Yes. A picture of a young man.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange?”
“In what way?”
“Oscar didn’t leave a suicide note but he kept that photo in his pocket. It feels significant. I wonder who he is, the man in the picture.”
Pamela’s gaze flicked from Emily to the bookcase. “A family member perhaps.”
“They didn’t look related.”
“A lover then.”
“It’s possible.”
The women’s eyes met. Pamela clasped her hands together and said, “Regardless of who he is, these are matters for the police.”
“Perhaps that man had visited Meadow Pines before,” Emily said. “If you saw the picture you might recognise him.”
“I think Oscar’s body has been tampered with enough, don’t you?”
Emily leaned forwards on the couch. “You’re right. Perhaps I could describe him to you.”
“Lots of people have passed through here, Emily. I highly doubt I’ll be able to identify someone just from a description.”
“But he was so distinctive. It was his eyes—they were deep and black, like staring into a void. And he had a scar just above his left eyebrow.”
She watched as Pamela closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, beads of perspiration had formed at her temples.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
Sitting back again, Emily heaved her shoulders. “Well, I’m sure the police will have their ways and means of finding out who he is. It’s just all very strange, isn’t it? Oscar, the robbery, and now this photograph.” She paused, watching Pamela closely. “There’s something else that I haven’t told anyone apart from Jerome.”
Pamela returned to the armchair and sat down. “Do I want to hear this?”
“Last night, I was lying in bed when I heard an argument coming from the next room. Oscar’s room.”
“Really? An argument between Oscar and whom?”
“I’m not sure but it was a woman. Doesn’t that suggest that someone here at Meadow Pines knew Oscar? Why else would they be in his room late at night?”
Pamela opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. She shook her head. “But how could anyone know him? It was his first time at Meadow Pines. Unless, I suppose, one of the guests knew him from outside...”
“Whoever it is, they’re keeping very quiet about it. Which makes me ask, what are they trying to hide?” Emily hesitated, rubbing her chin with her thumb. “The more I think about it, the more questions appear, and it all keeps going back to how Oscar died.”
Pamela stared at her with searching eyes. “What is it that you’re trying to say?”
It was a good question and one she thought about for a moment. “I’m having a hard time understanding how Oscar managed to hang himself without anything to stand on and no way of climbing at least fifteen feet up a tree.”
Pamela’s mouth moved silently up and down. Her eyes flicked from corner to corner. Then, realisation punched her in the gut.
“I can’t believe this is happening! You think someone murdered Oscar?” she gasped, sweat pouring from her brow. “We’ll never recover from this. It’s all over. Meadow Pines is finished.”
“I could be wrong,” Emily said, leaning forwards.
“And what if you’re right?”
“If I’m right, if someone did kill Oscar, then there’s a very good chance that they’re still here at Meadow Pines.”
Horrified, Pamela stood up. “Where is my daughter? Why isn’t she back with the police? What’s happened to her?”
Before Emily could try to calm her down, the door flew open and Jerome burst into the room. He stared at Emily, then Pamela, eyes wide, chest heaving.
Emily leapt up from the couch.
“What is it?” she asked.
When Jerome finally caught his breath, he said, “It’s Ben and Sylvia! They’re gone!”