But you don’t deserve her.
Not after what you did.
Not after what I know.
I’m still waiting for you to start piecing it all together. All the fractured pieces of this fucked-up puzzle. For you to finally work it out, Rebecca.
Though you’re taking your own sweet time. Squirming with paranoia, not sure who to trust, overcome by the fear that at any given moment she will be taken from you.
It fucking hurts, doesn’t it? The want and need for your child to be safe, it’s eating you up inside.
All your fear laced with guilt. Because you, of all people, know how quickly things can be snatched away from you.
You don’t deserve any of it, do you? This life? This house? This child?
I hope the anxiety in the pit of your stomach crawls up inside your throat and chokes you.
Part of me feels a bit disappointed, if I’m honest. I was so ready to go into battle with you and fight the raging war that roars inside of me. Only there’s barely anything left of the old Rebecca these days.
You’re nothing more than a shadow, a ghost, festering inside your home. Once your sanctuary, now your prison.
You’re such a weak opponent that the novelty of tormenting you is starting to wear off now.
All this fucking with you and messing with your head. It’s not enough for me anymore.
I want you to suffer so much more than this.
I want you to feel real pain.
I’m done with playing these games, Rebecca.
It’s time.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rebecca’s eyelids flicker open, and immediately she feels unsettled. It takes her a few moments to work out where she is as she sits up in her bed and automatically listens out for Ella, but then she remembers that Ella isn’t here.
Or has Jamie come home?
Because she can hear another noise, the sound of gushing water coming from the shower in the en suite bathroom.
She stares toward the closed bathroom door.
‘Jamie?’ He must have come home while she was sleeping, but he mustn’t be able to hear her over the running water.
Rebecca is disorientated from sleep, can still taste the vile, acrid sharpness of Scotch that she’d drunk earlier this afternoon to take the edge off her exhaustion and help her sleep. Just the smell of it made her want to gag, but she needed something to take the edge off her exhaustion and help her sleep. Not wanting to risk taking sleeping tablets in case Jamie came home with Ella.
And she had slept. Glancing over towards the clock on her bedside cabinet, Rebecca saw that it was already six p.m.
She was surprised that she’d managed to sleep at all.
Her head was still pounding. A loud hammering radiating inside her skull.
Shaking her head, she tried to expel the fogginess that lingered there, still not completely coherent. She must have underestimated the strength of the medication they’d given her at the hospital, because it was probably still working its way through her system too.
Hoisting herself up from the bed, she makes her way unsteadily to the bedroom’s en suite to confront Jamie. Only, when she pushes the door open, he’s not there.
The shower is running full pelt, the water blasting loudly off the walls and echoing around the bathroom. The spray of water is ferocious as it hits the tiles and pours down the glass shower screen. Gallons of water, swirling aimlessly down the drain.
Reaching for the taps, she winces as a shock of icy cold water sprays her body and face, soaking her in the process. Shivering, she wonders how long it’s been running for, as she shuts it off.
Did she turn it on?
She doesn’t remember if she did or not.
Her head is fuzzy. And even now she can feel a wave of dizziness descending over her as she holds onto the wall for support, steadying herself.
And then she notices the smell. Wrinkling her nose, the scent is bitter like charcoal or a wood-burning stove.
Something was burning.
Like a bonfire? Only the smell seemed closer, as if it was coming from inside the house?
Running from the bathroom, her stomach flipped with trepidation.
The smell was inside the house. A fire?
Shit.
Her suspicions are immediately confirmed as she sees the thin wisps of smoke trailing in from beneath the gap in the bedroom door.
She panics, yanking at the door, recoiling as a thick, dense wall of smoke blankets around her. Coughing and spluttering as she makes her way down the hallway, Rebecca is panicking now. She needs to get out.
The smoke is everywhere. She can barely see. It’s filling the house and filling her lungs.
And as she reaches the top of the stairway, she can hear another noise. Something strange and unexpected.
Classical music is playing somewhere way off in the background. The melody is unfamiliar to her, though every chord that swims through the air sets her senses on edge. The noise is eerie and unnerving. She follows the sound, moving as fast as she can down the stairs, wondering what the hell is going on. She hasn’t got time to think. To call anyone. She needs to get out of the house.
As she makes her way down the stairs, the smoke is thicker now, a black wall of fumes in front of her, blocking her way. She shields her eyes and face.
Keep low. Smoke rises.
She squats down on the floor, the smoke too much to bear, she can barely breathe. She reaches out a shaking hand, patting her way along the carpet with a sense of fear and urgency, desperate to locate the bottom step without falling and breaking her neck.
Guiding her way toward the front door.
Her hand reaching up to the keys, only to find they are gone.
She’ll have to make her way to the patio doors in the kitchen instead.
Crouching again, her hand is clamped firmly over her mouth and nose to reduce the smoke intake.
But already she’s breathed in the toxic fumes.
Her head is spinning.
Her throat dry, burning now, which in turns makes her eyes stream with tears, restricting what’s left of her already blurred and strained vision, but she’s determined to keep going. Intent on battling her way through the black, hazy stream of smoke that leads her into the kitchen.
She still can’t see a fire.
But there’s a lot more smoke in the room. It’s thicker here, stronger and blacker.
Pouring out from the oven which glows a dim yellow, barely visible.
She left the oven on?
Rebecca shakes her head, unable to recall what she’d started cooking as she runs and shuts the power off. Then, yanking open the oven door, she recoils as a thick plume of smoke pours out, engulfing her.
The fumes are so strong now she almost passes out, but, grabbing at the cloth next to the oven, she reaches inside, the heat of the oven tray radiating through the cotton rag, searing her hand.
She slams the tray down into the sink and turns on the cold tap.
The pan hisses violently and she eyes the thick, solid black mass smouldering there.
The charred remains of a roast chicken?