Dead Secret

The door eased open.

She let out a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. Then she slid into the roomy back seat, closing the door with a thunk that blocked out all sound. She lowered herself to the floor, crouching in the space between front and back. A travel rug lay folded in the foot well beside her, and she shook it out, covering herself head to toe. Then she slipped the gun out of her bag and hugged it to her chest.

She lay there, cramped, her nostrils filled with the scent of leather upholstery. From outside, the rug and tinted windows would hide her. By the time Ethan knew she was there, it would be too late.

Fatigue pressed down on her like a dead weight. Maybe it was the horizontal position, but suddenly the world seemed to tilt, as though she was losing her grip on it. Her mind scrabbled for a foothold. Fastened on Abby: all rough-and-tumble in her dungarees, frowning as she brushed a squirming Badger; never crying when he scratched and ran away, just wrestling him back.

A faint hum started up in Jodie’s throat, and she clenched her teeth to shut it off.

Her head buzzed with tiredness. She’d been fighting Ethan for so long now. Fighting for freedom. Freedom to work and be independent; freedom for Abby to make friends outside the house; freedom for herself to do the same; freedom to sell her paintings; to paint at all.

And more recently, the freedom to leave.

Jodie closed her eyes. Felt herself drift.

None of that mattered any more. Tonight would be the last battle. After this, there was nothing left to fight for.

Not now that Abby was dead.

The door clunked, cracking open the vacuum in the car.

Jodie’s eyes flared wide.

Cool air seeped around her, washing in with it the thrum of night insects.

She tried not to breathe.

Leather stretched and creaked. The door slammed shut. Jodie’s heart pounded, too loud in her own ears. Something light flopped onto the back seat. Ethan’s jacket. Jodie took shallow breaths, the rug trapping her respiration, turning it hot against her face.

She strained for sounds. Heard the friction of running fabric. Pictured him whipping off his tie, loosening his collar; his preferred style, since it played better to his daredevil looks.

Jodie listened for more.

Heard nothing.

Just a hold-your-breath stillness.

Ethan wasn’t moving.

She stiffened, every skin cell on high alert, waiting for a hand to snatch the rug away. Then his keys jingled, the engine fired, and she felt herself being dragged backwards against the seat as the car pulled out onto the road.

A tremor started up in her limbs. She fought against it, tried to keep track of their route. She’d wait a few minutes, just long enough to get further down the unlit road where no one else was around.

He switched on the radio, scratching through the stations till he hit on a cheesy talk show. The chit-chat was banal, but he chuckled along, turning up the volume.

The grieving father.

Jodie’s grip tightened around the gun.

He hadn’t mourned Abby; he’d just cleaned house. The week after she’d died, he’d boxed up all her stuff and got rid of it without asking Jodie. He wouldn’t tell her where he’d sent it. Just said they’d no more need of it and her railing at him wouldn’t change a thing. All Jodie had left of Abby was the drawing pad.

She twitched the rug down from her face, breathing in cool air. Dense trees whipped past the window. She pictured the dark, narrow road: tall birches lining both sides, the grassy verge rising to the left, sloping downwards to the lake on the right.

As good a place as any.

She eased out of her crouched position, slid quietly onto the back seat, keeping the gun out of sight till she was good and ready.

‘Hello, Ethan.’

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The car swerved.

‘Jesus, Jodie, what the hell—’

Ethan yanked the Bentley back on course, and Jodie grabbed at his seat to steady herself. His eyes locked on hers through the rear-view mirror.

‘What the fuck are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me.’

Her fingers dug into the soft leather. ‘We’ve unfinished business.’

‘It can’t wait till I get back from New York?’

‘You’re not going to New York. Not any more.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Jodie’s mouth felt parched.

Lift up the gun.

The weapon was suddenly heavy. Her arm wouldn’t move.

Ethan jerked up his chin to survey her in the mirror. ‘Look at you, you’re a mess.’

She closed her eyes.

Lift up the damn gun!

‘You’re not well, Jodie, I’ve been telling you that for weeks. You need help.’

Her muscles were rigid. She opened her eyes, squinted against a blaze of oncoming headlights. Then she stared at the back of Ethan’s head, at the longish hair waving in S-bends down to his collar. She gripped the gun. Tried to picture herself touching the barrel to his skull.

She failed.

Do it! What are you waiting for?

She knew she was stalling. Told herself she was waiting for the road to clear, so no one else got hurt. Was she losing her nerve? Maybe she just needed to hear him say it one last time.