Tana French - The Likeness

“Thanks for coming in,” Frank said cheerfully. “You’ve all been very, very helpful. Your mate Daniel is just finishing up a few things for us; he said you should go ahead, he’ll catch you on the way.”

Justin started upright, like he’d just been woken up. “But why-” he began, but Abby cut him off, her fingers coming down across his wrist.

“Thanks, Detective. Call us if there’s anything else you need.”

“Will do,” Frank said, giving her a wink. He had the door open for us, and was holding out his other hand to shake good-bye, before anyone caught up enough to argue. “See you soon,” he said to each of us, as we passed.

“Why did you do that?” Justin demanded, as soon as the door closed behind us. “I don’t want to leave without Daniel.”

“Shut up,” Abby said, giving his arm a squeeze that looked casual, “and keep walking. Don’t turn around. Mackey’s probably watching us.”

In the car, nobody said anything for a very long time.

“So,” Rafe said, after a silence that felt like it was filing my teeth. “What did you talk about this time?” He braced himself, a tiny jerk of his head, before he turned to look at me.

“Leave it,” Abby said, from the front.

“Why Daniel?” Justin wanted to know. He was driving like someone’s lunatic granny, switching back and forth between bursts of suicidal speed-I was praying we wouldn’t run into a traffic cop-and patches of obsessive carefulness, and his voice sounded like he might be about to cry. “What do they want? Have they arrested him?”

“No,” Abby said firmly. There was obviously no way she could have known that, but Justin’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“He always is,” Rafe said, to the window.

“He figured this would happen,” Abby said. “He wasn’t sure which one of us they’d hang onto-he thought probably Justin or Lexie, maybe both of you-but he figured they’d split us up.”

“Me? Why me?” Justin’s voice was getting a hysterical edge.

“Oh for God’s sake, Justin, act like you have a pair,” Rafe snapped.

“Slow down,” Abby said, “or we’ll get pulled over. They’re just trying to shake us up, in case we know anything we’re not telling them.”

“But why do they think-”

“Don’t get into that. That’s what they want us doing: wondering what they’re thinking, why they’re doing stuff, getting all freaked out. Don’t play into their hands.”

“If we let those apes outwit us,” Rafe said, “then we deserve to go to jail. Surely to God we’re smarter than-”

“Stop it!” I yelled, banging my fist against the back of Abby’s seat. Justin gasped and nearly sent the car off the road, but I didn’t care. “You stop it! This isn’t a competition! This is my life and it’s not a fucking game and I hate all of you!”

Then I startled the living hell out of myself by bursting into tears. I hadn’t cried in months, not for Rob, not for my lost life in Murder, not for any of the terrible fallout of Operation Vestal, but I cried then. I pressed the sleeve of my sweater over my mouth and bawled my eyes out, for Lexie in every one of her changing faces, for the baby whose face no one would ever see, for Abby spinning on moonlit grass and Daniel smiling as he watched her, for Rafe’s expert hands on the piano and Justin kissing my forehead, for what I had done to them and what I was about to do, for a million lost things; for the wild speed of that car, how mercilessly fast it was taking us where we were going.

After a while Abby reached into the glove compartment and passed me a packet of tissues. She had her window open and the long roar of the air sounded like high wind in trees, and it was so peaceful, in there, that I just kept crying.

As soon as Justin pulled up in the stables, I jumped out of the car and ran for the house, pebbles flying up under my feet. Nobody called after me. I jammed my key into the lock, left the door swinging open and thumped upstairs to my room.

It felt like ages before I heard the others coming in (door closing, fast overlapping undertones moving into the sitting room), but actually it was less than sixty seconds-I had an eye on my watch. I figured I needed to give them about ten minutes. Any less, and they wouldn’t have time to compare notes-their first chance all day-and work themselves into a full-on panic; any more, and Abby would pull herself together and start bringing the guys back into line.

During those ten minutes I listened to the voices downstairs, taut and muffled and fringed with hysteria, and I got ready. Late-afternoon sun was flooding through my bedroom window and the air blazed so bright that I felt weightless, suspended in amber, every movement I made as clear and rhythmic and measured as part of some ritual that I had been preparing for all my life. My hands felt like they were moving on their own, smoothing out my girdle-it was starting to get grubby by this time, it wasn’t exactly something I could stick in the washing machine-pulling it on, tucking the hem into my jeans, easing my gun into place, as calmly and precisely as if I had forever and a day. I thought about that afternoon a million miles away, in my flat, when I had put on Lexie’s clothes for the first time: how they had felt like armor, like ceremonial robes; how they had made me want to laugh out loud from something like happiness.

When the ten minutes were up I pulled the door closed behind me, on that little room full of light and lily-of-the-valley smell, and listened as the voices downstairs trailed off into silence. I washed my face in the bathroom, dried it carefully and straightened my towel between Abby’s and Daniel’s. My face in the mirror looked very strange, pale and huge-eyed, staring out at me with some crucial, unreadable warning. I tugged my sweater down and checked to make sure the bulge of the gun didn’t show. Then I went downstairs.

They were in the sitting room, all three of them. For a second, before they saw me, I stood in the doorway watching them. Rafe was sprawled on the sofa, snapping a pack of cards from hand to hand in a fast restless arc. Abby, curled in her chair, had her head bent over the doll and her bottom lip caught hard between her teeth; she was trying to sew, but every stitch took her about three stabs. Justin was in one of the wingbacked chairs with a book, and for some reason he was the one who almost broke my heart: those narrow hunched shoulders, the darn in the sleeve of his sweater, those long hands on wrists as thin and vulnerable as a little boy’s. The coffee table was scattered with glasses and bottles-vodka, tonic, orange juice; something had splashed onto the table as they poured, but no one had bothered to clean it up. On the floor, shadows of ivy curled like cut-outs through the sunlight.

Then their heads came up, one by one, and their faces turned towards me, expressionless and watchful as they had been that first day on the steps. “How’re you doing?” Abby asked.

I shrugged.

“Have a drink,” Rafe said, nodding at the table. “If you want anything that’s not vodka, you’ll have to get it yourself.”

“I’m getting bits back,” I said. There was a long slant of sun lying across the floorboards at my feet, making the new varnish shine like water. I kept my eyes on that. “Bits of that night. They said that might happen, the doctors did.”

Trill and snap of the cards, again. “We know,” Rafe said.

“They let us watch,” Abby said softly. “While you talked to Mackey.”

I jerked my head up and stared at them, open-mouthed. “Well, Jesus,” I said, after a moment. “Were you going to tell me that? Ever?”