‘This is insane,’ I said. ‘None of what you’re saying makes any sense.’
‘I’m confident your DNA will prove otherwise.’
I grabbed hold of the bed frame, hoisting myself up.
‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘But I am, and meanwhile you’re not listening to me. We both know this isn’t a mistake.’
I cradled my forehead as a crushing weight seemed to press down against me. It was something other than the bang to my head or my fear. I’d begun to sense the hopelessness of our interaction. The futility of trying to talk to him.
Because whatever this was, whatever miscalculation or mix-up he’d made, there was no doubt in my mind that he believed it absolutely.
As I considered that, a new and much more disturbing thought occurred to me.
We both know this isn’t a mistake.
But I didn’t. I had no clue.
But if he believed it . . .
‘Do you know Sam? Have you worked with him?’
He scoffed and studied me with disdain. ‘Oh, that’s good.’ He wagged a finger. ‘That’s really insulting, actually.’
‘Have you?’ I pressed.
He leaned back and assessed me from a new angle, then rasped air from his lips, as if whatever patience he’d been holding on to was being stretched dangerously thin. ‘And by work with him, you mean at LSE? As what, a colleague? A fellow lecturer?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or are you suggesting I’m one of his research subjects? Is that what you’re driving at? One of his . . . “special projects”?’ He made air quotes with his fingers. ‘Because I know what Sam does, Lucy. I’ve read up on his work. His papers. His areas of expertise. It’s all very impressive, if disturbing. There are the support groups, obviously, but that’s just the vanilla stuff. I get that he has access to some pretty messed-up people. That he likes to study them one-on-one. So now what you’re suggesting is that you think I’m one of those people, is that it?’
He flapped his hands around suddenly, as if he was having a wild seizure, his eyes bulging and then darkening with a burst of anger as he stepped closer and jutted his head towards me.
‘And what about Bethany?’ He pointed at the cupboard. ‘Do you think I did that because I forgot to take my meds? Come on. I know exactly what I’m doing here.’ He paused. When he spoke again, I could detect a slight modulation in his voice as if he was struggling to maintain his cool. ‘Enough, OK? You want me to spell it out to you? Fine, here it is: I found you. I looked for you and I found you, simple as that.’
‘I’m not lost.’
‘No,’ he said, in a tone that was so subdued he sounded even more dangerous than before, ‘but you’ve been hiding. You’ve been hiding for a really long time.’
I reached out behind me for the bed frame. Felt my brow tangle.
Before I could say anything more, he plunged a gloved hand inside his coat and removed his phone.
‘I texted this earlier.’
He tapped and swiped at the screen aggressively, then rotated his wrist and extended his phone towards me.
‘The person with Sam? They recognize you.’
Something inside me lurched.
He was showing me the photograph he’d taken of our main bedroom. I could see myself in the middle of the frame.
Not much of the bedroom was visible around me. The image had been zoomed in tight onto my face and upper body. Or perhaps he’d edited it after taking it. Cropped it.
The focus was exact. My features were clear.
I realized then that he hadn’t been interested in taking photographs of our house at all. It had all been about this one picture.
‘But that’s not going to be enough, is it? Not after two years.’
A sudden threat leaped into his eyes. A predatory hunger.
Two years.
I felt myself teeter.
‘That’s right, the party, Lucy. We have time. Why don’t you tell me what happened? Make me understand.’