“But I didn’t come here to talk about them, Isabel. I came here so that we could talk about us.”
He takes my hand in his, and electricity flows between us.
“Will you come home with me?”
“I don’t think I can. Not if the police release Alicia.”
“But what about us?”
“I don’t know – we’ll have to work something out.”
“We have to.”
He finishes the last of his coffee and looks at me with strangely bloodshot eyes. “Something’s wrong…”
His hand slips through my fingers. There is a sickening thump as he hits the floor.
“Deacon!”
His skin is cold and clammy, but I feel queasy even as I rush to his side. I retch as I roll him into the recovery position, then double over as the nausea hits me.
Where is my phone?
My ears buzz and tingle and black dots dance in front of my eyes. This is the last thing I remember.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A thick fog weighs me down. I try to make sense of what’s happening but my brain can’t seem to process it and my body refuses to help.
I try to lick my lips, but my mouth feels heavy and my lips taste slightly sugary, like when you lick an envelope. Or when someone sticks a strip of parcel tape over your mouth.
As the fog lifts, I look down and see that my arms and legs are also bound with tape, making it impossible to move from the cold, hard surface I’m lying on. To my left, I can see an old oak dresser, stacked with willow-patterned cups and plates.
I’m still in Tumbledown Cottage. Tied to the kitchen table.
Panic grips me. I don’t understand what’s happened. One minute we were talking, the next we were dropping like flies.
“Deacon?”
But my words are muffled.
“Deacon!”
There is no reply. Desperately, I look around.
Where are you?
Finally, I spot him – tied to a chair, his head slumped forward in his lap.
“Deacon!”
There is no response, but I can tell by the rise and fall of his stomach that he is breathing.
High heels clack on the wooden floorboards. I close my eyes and try to pretend that I’m still unconscious. The footsteps stop. Hair tickles my neck. She is standing right over me, her breath like fire.
“I know you’re awake, Isabel. You might as well open your eyes.”
I shiver uncontrollably as her slim fingers trace my neck.
“Are you cold? Maybe I should light a fire?”
My eyes snap open and she nods with satisfaction.
“What did you do to us? Poison our coffee?”
But my words are stifled by the tape.
“We’ll just wait for Deacon before we begin,” she says, as though we’re about to conduct a seminar.
“Begin what?”
Deacon’s eyes flicker open and shut.
Oh god. I’m so sorry I got you into this.
I watch his face go from confusion, to alarm, to anger, all in the space of about thirty seconds. He looks at me and I look at him, desperate to communicate. Desperate to escape.
“This conversation is getting a bit one-sided.”
Alicia leans over and rips the tape from my face. It stings, but I refuse to show any emotion.
“Are you at least going to tell me why?” I say, stalling for time. I’m very aware of Deacon, straining to get free.
“Why? You know why!”
“But why now, after so many years?”
She looks at me cautiously, as if deciding whether I deserve to hear the truth.
“I found you by chance,” she finally says. “I had a job to do in Queensbeach and I popped into Robertson’s for some supplies. That was where I saw you. I recognised you straight away.” Her voice drops slightly. “I remembered you, as if it was yesterday, but you didn’t even give me a second glance.”
“Maybe I didn’t see you…”
“You served me at the till! We had a conversation. I even asked you about places to stay and you told me about the caravan park.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you. I meet a lot of people at Robertson’s.”
“My life was hell when I met you at camp, but clearly, my pain meant nothing to you. I told you my deepest, darkest secret and instead of helping me, you made it a thousand times worse. So yeah, when I saw you again, I saw my chance to get my own back. I wasn’t that innocent, little ten-year-old anymore. I knew I could destroy you. So I watched you for a while, found out where you lived, who your friends were. And then, when I was ready, I arranged for us to meet.”
She looks around for something, I’m not sure what. I glance at Deacon, who is struggling for all he’s worth but his binds hold tight.
“What does FRY stand for?” I ask, desperately. Anything to keep her talking.
“You still don’t know?”
I shake my head.
“Fire Releases You. My dad was right about that. It does release you.”
Her wicked eyes sparkle. “There’s something incredibly wild about starting a fire from scratch. It’s like giving birth to a brand new life. I can make fire from the most basic ingredients. I don’t even need matches.”
“I know. I saw you at Deacon’s barbecue. You made a fire out of practically nothing – just a couple of flints rubbed together.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? It’s such a beautiful thing, fire.” She smiles thoughtfully, before snapping back to attention. “And now, you’re going to burn, bitch!”
She storms over to the stove and there is a click as she ignites the flame. Then she picks something up and places it on the hob. The resulting smell reminds me of the soldering iron we had in the tech lab at school.
“What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer.
“What is that?”
I’m not even sure she hears me. She is too enchanted by the flickering blue flame, the crazy witch.
I glance at Deacon, but he is squirming too intently to catch my eye.
Shit! How do I get her talking again?
“How did you start that fire, that day at Deacon’s?” I ask.
But the conversation is over. After a couple of minutes, she picks up whatever it is by the handle and brings it over to the table. It looks hot. Really hot. The bottom is smouldering.
It’s a branding iron.
“Nooo!”
She brings it down on my stomach and I scream as I have never screamed before.
The branding iron burns straight through my shirt, onto the tender flesh of my tummy.
“Get it off! Get it off!”
The pain! I wiggle and writhe with all my might, but I can’t shift it. Can’t shift her.
“Somebody! Help!”
And just like that it stops. I watch in amazement as Deacon rips through his bonds with the aid of a penknife he must have had in his pocket. He flings her across the room, the branding iron clattering down to the floor beside her.
“You OK?”
I nod, but Alicia is as quick and agile as a cat. She hits the ground running and takes off at quite a speed.
“Quick, catch her!” I shriek, as she bolts for the door. Deacon runs after her. He has to, because as long as Alicia is free, we will never be safe.
My eyes stream as I look down at the scorched skin on my stomach. A freezer full of ice stands just a metre away, but I am still bound to the table and can’t move an inch towards it. It feels like eternity until Deacon returns, but it is probably only a couple of minutes. He drags Alicia with him, kicking and yowling like an animal, tearing at his flesh with her teeth.
“Quick, tie her up!”
I ache to be set free, but I know he must deal with her first. I’m still in agony, as he shoves her into the very chair he himself was tied to and binds her tightly with her own tape, which she left conveniently by the sink.