“You’re out of milk so I made coffee instead.”
“Thanks.”
I eye the biscuits.
“Go on, help yourself.”
I devour one after another.
“Hungry?” she says, sounding concerned. “No offence, Isabel – but if you can’t remember to feed yourself, isn’t it possible you forgot to feed Fluffy, too? Maybe he’s wandered off somewhere to find food.”
“I never forget to feed Fluffy.” I say, through a mouthful of biscuit. “Just go and look in his food bowl, if you don’t believe me. It’s full to the brim.”
“But that’s what Deacon thinks too, isn’t it?” I say, after I’ve wiped the crumbs from my mouth. “That I neglected Fluffy, and that’s why he disappeared.”
“He’s just worried about you. We all are.”
“Well, it’s him and Rhett you should be worried about. They’re the ones living under the same roof as that psycho.”
Kate frowns, as though she can’t quite comprehend this argument. “You know – maybe you should go and see that psychiatrist,” she says, softly. “If only to put everyone’s minds at rest.”
“You think I’m crazy!”
“I didn’t say that, I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
I am about to argue when a strange thought pops into my head:
Maybe this psychiatrist guy could help me. Maybe if I go and see him, he can help me convince them all that I’m not crazy. Then they’ll have to believe me.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I say slowly. ”Maybe I will go and see him, after all.”
“Good!” Kate hugs me in relief. “Good for you!”
This whole thing is totally cringe worthy, I think to myself as I sit in the waiting room later that day. I half expect Deacon to come out and check I’m really here, but he doesn’t. I suppose he must be tied up with his own patients.
“Isabel Anderson?” The receptionist calls my name in such a soft voice that I almost miss it.
Setting aside my magazine, I walk up to Jim’s office and knock tentatively.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly, remembering the way I acted the last time we met.
To my relief, he acts as though nothing happened.
“Come in, Isabel. Take a seat.”
“Where?” I ask, looking around at the mismatched assortment of chairs.
“Wherever you like.”
I plump myself down in a big comfy armchair. The chair is very relaxing, and as he rattles off his preliminary spiel, I feel my eyes start to droop.
“Isabel?”
“Yes!” I sit up sharply and force myself to pay attention.
“How are you sleeping, Isabel?”
“Not very well,” I admit.
How can I, with all this hanging over my head?
He nods. “You know, sleep deprivation can play terrible tricks on the mind.”
“That isn’t the problem.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, then?”
So I spill the whole story. His frown grows deeper and deeper, the longer I talk. I suppose I can understand that. It sounds crazier every time I tell it. When I’ve finished, I lean over and peer at his notes. He looks a little taken aback, but does not attempt to hide them. My nostrils flare with indignation as I see what he’s written: “Has a morbid fascination with fire”.
“I do not have a morbid fascination with fire!”
“What’s that in your hand, Isabel?”
I glance down. “My lighter.”
I hadn’t even realised I was holding it. It must be a subconscious thing.
“Look,” I tell him. “If I’m obsessed with fire, it’s because she’s made me that way.”
He does not argue.
“So you believe me?”
“I can see that you believe that that’s what’s going on.”
“That’s not what I asked!” I say angrily. “I want to know what you think.”
But he won’t give me an answer.
I let myself out, seventy pounds out of pocket, and no closer to the answer.
As I stand outside the office, smoking a cigarette, I sense him watching me from the window. When I turn to look, he has his head buried in his notebook. I can just imagine what he’s writing: “Exhibits smoking behaviour”.
This was clearly a very bad idea.
I return home to find Mum’s left me a voicemail on my landline. She doesn’t like calling me on my mobile, in case I’m driving or something. I think she’s getting worried though, because I haven’t been in touch. She even left me a private message on Facebook last week. I’d better send her a quick reply, just to stop her worrying. I’ll tell her that I’m swamped with work or something.
I open up my laptop and log in. After replying to mum, I notice someone has invited me to join the Robertson’s Facebook group. I didn’t even know Robertson’s had a Facebook group.
Hang on, if Robertson’s is on here…
Almost before my brain has a chance to register, my fingers have typed in the words ‘Camp Windylake’. There’s a hit. I scroll through the page. How do I know this is my Camp Windylake and not one in Canada or somewhere? No, this is definitely mine. I recognise a couple of the members. I skim through a potted history of the camp. According to the site, it closed down nine years ago, just after I was there.
Oh look, group photos!
I flick excitedly through the album till I come to summer 2003. There are a few of me and Kate and a couple of other people I recognise, dancing like idiots at the disco on the last night of camp. And who’s that? As I click to enlarge the picture, a chill runs through me.
But it can’t be…
Standing next to us, a tight scowl on her lovely face, is Alicia. Not the sweet little ten-year-old Alicia from Kate’s photos, but a mature, grown-up Alicia. And she looks about the same age as Kate and I.
Chapter Sixteen
OK, think rationally, Isabel. This cannot be Alicia. And yet… I click to enlarge the picture. Just look at that curly black hair, the dark piercing eyes. It looks so much like her. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at that picture, completely unable to grasp what’s going on. It seems quite some time before the penny finally drops:
There are two of them. That’s how she does it!
The realisation jars my body. Alicia has a double, a doppelganger. Probably an older sister or cousin. It seems like a bit of a crazy conclusion to come to, but I feel in my gut that it’s right. I can’t understand why one person would have such a grudge against me, let alone two but it all seems to fit. Whoever it is, they are working together to spy on me and make my life a misery.
My mind flicks back to the day I was with Deacon at the concert. I saw Alicia in the crowd. At least, I thought I did. And yet she was there on the end of the phone when I rang the Beach House. If there are two of them, then it is entirely possible that Alicia’s double started the fire at the caravan park while Alicia herself was still at the party. And that could have been her I saw in the rear mirror, following me home from Julio’s on Christmas Day. She could have even followed me into the cafe and written on the toilet walls that day, making me think I was going mad.
I bet she’s out there right now, watching, waiting.
Perturbed, I go to the window and look out, but there is no way of knowing if anyone is out there in the darkness. I shudder. We’re not just talking about Alicia skulking about in the shadows anymore. It’s much, much more sinister if there are really two of them. And if I’m right, her double, whoever she is, has a car.
Why are they doing this to me?