Chapter Two
NEVE
I never run.
I hate it, but the adrenalin overwhelms me and pushes me forward, although my feet aren’t so sure-footed. My vision is blurred, and panic claws at me from every direction.
Escape. That’s what I need to do.
They’ll never understand.
Derek and Betty have an old car in the spare garage. It’s not for driving, but it’s my only hope to get out of here. I check behind me and take the fastest route to the back path. My eyes swivel around, keeping watch, and I dash my tears from my face. Landon’s voice still echoes in my ear – he’s sent someone after me, so I have to get moving and clear the grounds before I’m found. Hopefully, then I’ll get the space I need to figure all of this out.
The old garage is more like an abandoned shed. Derek's used this for years and kept the family garage pristine for all of Father’s old car collection.
A wave of tears surge over me as I think about him, and I rattle the door handle and thank heavens it’s not locked. The familiar smell of old paints and engines hit me as I enter, throwing me into more guilt. Over the years, I’ve often wandered out here to escape all of the commotions of the house.
The emotion confuses my mind. I’m fighting with myself about the best steps to take, but there’s no time for that right now. I can cry later. The lump in my throat nearly chokes me as I swallow down the pain of everything I’ve done.
Without turning on the light, I feel along the back wall for the tool rack. There was always a hook with the keys to the car somewhere here. A slight jingle as my fingers brush them sets my heart pounding. “Please let it start. Please.”
I crack the door on the drivers’ side but remember to swing the garage door open before climbing in. The light streams in, and I wait for a second, anticipating voices or footsteps. It’s all quiet. With any luck, this Locke guy will go to the other side of the house, choosing the stables and outbuildings, which would provide plenty of hiding spaces for someone who just …
My feet drag as I rush back to the car and jump in the driver's seat, and my shaky hands slot the key into the ignition. I grit my teeth as I turn it over. The car starts with a wheezy pop, and I shove the relic into gear.
As stealthily as possible, I inch the car out and then cross the grass to the back road; and as soon as I’m clear of the main house, my foot levels the accelerator. The old car probably hasn’t been driven further than a trip to the next village in years. “Petrol!” I cry out.
Will this plan even get me home?
I pause and take a moment as I leave the road and grounds of Tallington, wondering if I made the right decision. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
My gaze lingers in the rearview mirror before dipping to my hands gripping the narrow steering wheel. It's smeared with blood from my handprints. I lift my fingers and turn them over, as if needing to examine the bloodstains for myself, then squeeze my eyes shut and grab the wheel again to turn out onto the road.
If I’m lucky, and going by the events of the last hour, I’m not, I’ll make it home and be gone before anyone else comes looking for me. There will be a footprint, but hopefully no one is going to check that – not in any detail, at least. I’m the one they come to when they need information. I just need to stay under the radar for a little bit.
The drive back into London was uneventful, yet the worst of my life. Every few minutes I thought I saw a car following me. Or heard a siren and assumed they were after me. So, my nerves are a wreck by the time I pull onto my street, and even then, I don’t feel safe.
Parking a few doors down from my flat, I wait in the car. I risk a glance up into the mirror and wish I hadn’t. Red blotches litter my face and neck from crying. There’s even a spray of blood over one cheek, splattering the frame of my glasses. The blood on my hands has finally dried, but now all I want is to get it off. Although, I know that scrubbing them clean won’t erase anything that’s happened.
My eyes study the street for another moment before I escape from the car, bury my hands in the pockets of my skirt, and rush to my door. I use my knuckle to press the keypad entry code and push the first door open with my hip. My bag is still across my body, and I fish the keys out to enter my ground floor apartment.
As soon as I cross the threshold, Murphy comes crying, brushing up against my legs and showing his appreciation. I do the same with the alarm keypad and disable it, rushing through the digits. I pull my bag over my head and leave it in the hall.
“Not now, Murph.” I rush across the hall to the bathroom and turn the taps on full flow, scrubbing my hands with the soap until I’ve made a pink foam and then rinse them under the water. The water trickles down the drain, taking the remnants of Daddy’s blood with it. I let the water pour over them and stay transfixed on my hands, running them back and forth over each other to get every drop or speck of blood gone. Even when the water runs clean and my hands are sore from rubbing, I don’t stop. Next, I remove my glasses and clean them, followed by my face, but I can’t look at my reflection in the mirror.
My head stays bowed and my gaze locked on the water, but teardrops join the flow of liquid. All I want to do is break down and cry for a week - curl up in my bed and go to sleep - but when I wake up, nothing will have changed. The emotional distress I pushed away while I was at Tallington is still right here behind my eyes and simmering in my chest, but I fear if I start, I won’t stop.
Turning off the water, I shake my hands, splashing Murph in the process and earning a disgruntled meow. I dry them on a towel and throw it into the hamper, but my feet won’t move. I look down at what I’m wearing and suddenly feel suffocated by it all. I strip the skirt and top from my skin and shove them both in the hamper.
Grabbing my glasses, I head to the bedroom to get dressed. Knowing I’ll be travelling, I take out a comfortable outfit of loose, wide-legged trousers, a fitted top and a light jacket. I check in the mirror, but my gaze still won’t meet my eyes.
Enough of this.
I need to get moving.
I pick up my bag from the hall and move to my study. My computer and other belongings all look untouched on first inspection, so I tip out the contents of my bag and see to my phone first. I take a pin from the pen pot and pop the sim card out, followed by the battery. The paperweight that has sat on my desk for the last few years finally has a valuable purpose, and I smash both items. It’s not a far stretch to assume I’d visit my flat, but from here, I don’t want to make it so easy.
My home computer is a mirror of my workstation at InTech, making it easier for when I’m working remotely. My other laptop is set up on a private network, unconnected to anything else with its own firewall and security. I unlock both systems, which should be enough of a deterrent for anyone trying to hack in. The Arabic encryption prevents many from even trying to access anything on the hard drives. I run the software I designed to check for the last time and date that either machine was accessed – nothing suspicious. I log back out of both and unplug the laptop.
