Darper Danver: The Complete First Series Page 3

  Turning, I see that there's a woman standing in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries. I recognize her immediately from the photo on the nearby desk. It's Edie, Fisher's wife; she doesn't look happy to find me in her home, holding her baby, and I can tell from the horrified look in her eyes that she knows exactly who I am.

  Florence Madison

  "What happened to your old steak knives?" asks Derek as we stand at the back of the hardware store, admiring the plethora of different cutlery sets on display.

  "They've soured," I say, my eyes focused on a packet of twelve large, sharp knives that look as if they could cut through even the toughest meat. "I made the mistake of putting them in the dishwasher, and they've gone a kind of cloudy yellow color, and I swear they add a rather sour taste to the meat." Pausing for a moment, I turn to him. "Hasn't that ever happened with you?"

  "Sounds like you bought some cheap knives before," he says with a smile, before taking a set off the shelf and handing them to me. "Don't worry though, Mrs. Madison. All our knives are high quality, with a five-year guarantee. I've been selling the same sets for donkeys' years, and not one customer has ever come back with a complaint. Not one. You know I only sell good items. Sure, you can get cheap garbage from one of those big superstores, but you come to me, you won't be disappointed."

  I stare at the box of knives. In some strange kind of way, I feel as if my mind is a little cloudy right now.

  "Obviously quality comes at a price," Derek continues. "You pay a little extra -"

  "I'll take them," I say.

  "I promise you," he replies, "you won't ever -"

  "I said I'll take them," I tell him, feeling as if I'm a little short of breath. "You don't need to keep selling them to me. I'll take them. Can you wrap them up for me?"

  "Sure thing," he replies, taking the box and heading to the register.

  I pause for a moment, trying to regather my composure. Ever since I heard about Cassie Briggs coming back to town, I've felt as if I'm not quite myself. My chest is tight, and I keep imagining that I'm getting short of breath. I guess maybe it's shock, or whatever new-fangled name they're giving to human emotions these days, but I feel as if I have to get on top of it. I'm no use to anyone if I end up wandering around in a daze; today of all days, I need to stay strong and carry on with the tasks at hand. I simply can't afford to fall apart. Not after being so strong for five years.

  "That'll be seventy-nine ninety-nine," Derek calls over to me.

  I turn to him. "For a set of steak knives?"

  "These are good quality knives," he replies. "When my customers -"

  "Fine," I say, "stop with the sales talk." Hurrying over to the register, I reach into my bag and pull out my purse. "I'm sure you're right," I mutter as I count out his money. "Quality is quality, after all."

  "We take cards now, you know," he says, tapping a small device next to the cash register. "If it's more convenient, you can pay that way."

  I stare at the little device, and suddenly I realize that it would be a terrible mistake to pay electronically. After all, the last thing I want is for these knives to ever be traced back to me. In fact, it occurs to me that I shouldn't buy them at all. Looking at Derek's smiling face, I can't help thinking that he might remember this transaction. What if, in a few days' time, some police officers come in, asking if anyone suspicious made a purchase of a set of knives. They might even be able to identify the particular type of knife. Derek's has long been a good friend, but he's an honest man and he'd most certainly have to tell them that I was here.

  "On second thoughts," I say, putting the cash back into my purse, "I think maybe I'll manage with the knives I have at home."

  "You don't want them?" he asks, looking shocked.

  I shake my head. "They're far too expensive for what they are," I add, trying to justify what might otherwise be seen as an odd decision. "I don't have eighty dollars to spend on a new knife set just because my old knives are a little discolored. I'll be quite alright, thank you. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but I won't be needing these after all."

  "Mrs. Madison -"

  "Please," I say firmly, "stop trying to over-sell things. You really make customers feel quite uncomfortable." With that, I turn and hurry out of the store, feeling as if I might run out of breath at any moment. I don't stop walking until I'm well out of sight of the hardware store, and finally I stop and lean back against a wall. My God, I almost made a huge mistake. In my dazed state, I could have raised a huge red flag and made it absolutely obvious what I'm planning to do. Sighing, I realize that I have to be smarter, which in turn means that I need to overcome this cloudy sensation in my mind. I need to be sharp-witted and ready to act with precision. I just wish I could think properly; I just wish I wasn't filled with so much anger.

  Cassie Briggs

  "I didn't mean to get you in any trouble," I say, as Fisher drives me to my parents' house. "I hope she's not going to get mad at you for helping me."

  "It's fine," he replies, but it's clear that he's worried. Edie was very polite back at the house; in fact, she was way too polite, and way too quick to take Donovan from my arms. It was painfully clear that she hated the idea of having me in their home, and although she went to great pains to appear civil, I could tell that under the surface she was seething. When I told her I had to get going, she was visibly relieved, but when Fisher said he'd drive me, I could almost see the vein on Edie's forehead getting ready to pop.

  "Is she from around here?" I ask.

  "Edie?" He takes a left onto Sycamore. "She's from Collinsville, so not too far."

  "I guess I'm pretty famous around here," I reply, looking out the window and watching as white picket-fenced houses flash past. "I mean, not famous exactly, but well-known."

  "There are lots of uninformed people around," he says, the tension evident in his voice.

  "They watch a news report," I continue, "and they maybe check a website, and they think they know what really happened." Pausing, I feel a strange, clawing kind of nausea starting to spread through my body. I knew that things would be 'delicate' when I got back to town, but I figured I'd be able to deal with all the pressure. Instead, I feel as if I'm starting to crumble. I never anticipated that it would feel so bad to know that almost everyone around me thinks I'm some kind of evil murderer. Knowing this town, and the way gossip fuses to become 'fact', I'm probably persona non grata in 90% of the houses, maybe even some of the stores. Still, this is my home. I won't be driven away by ignorant idiots.

  As the car pulls up in front of my parents' house, I feel my chest start to tighten. I've been dreaming of this moment for five years, and I always pictured it as something joyous: I thought everyone would celebrate my return, but now it's as if I'm just causing trouble. There are no signs on the lawn, and no-one's peering out the window, desperately waiting for my first appearance. I feel as if I'm bringing nothing but complications in my wake, but that's not my fault and, again, I'm not going to let myself be driven away by a bunch of halfwits who don't know what really happened. No-one knows what happened, apart from the people who were there.

  "I'm sorry about earlier," I say, turning to Fisher.

  "It's fine," he replies. "Edie'll come around."

  "No, I mean... When I first arrived. I kinda jumped you. I was just..."

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  "Say hi to your folks from me," he says eventually. "I saw your Dad last week in town. He was looking pretty good. Bigger than before, but good."

  "You sure you don't want to come inside?" I ask, desperately hoping that he might act as a buffer for a few minutes. "I'm sure my Mom would be happy for you to stay for dinner."

  "Gotta get home," he replies. "Spend some time with Edie."

  "Yeah, but -" I pause as I realize that the days of Fisher popping in for dinner are over. The world has moved on while I was in jail, and Fisher's no longer a knockabout guy with too much time on his hands. He's a man now, with a wife and a child, and he
has responsibilities. I expected things to have changed around here, but there were a few things I thought would stay the same. I guess I'm not as good at predicting people as I'd hoped.

  "So are you sure she's gone?" he asks suddenly.

  "Who?"

  "Darper." He stares at me for a moment. "Are you sure -"

  "She's gone," I say firmly. "Believe me, I'd know if she was still around. I'd feel it."

  Leaning over, I give him a brief, awkward hug. He's clearly uncomfortable, and his whole body feels very rigid, as if he's just waiting for me to get out of the car. Pulling away, I open the door and grab my suitcase from the backseat before stepping back, slamming the door shut and watching as the car slowly pulls away. Finally, after so many years away, after so many years locked up in tiny cells, I'm home. This is the same tree-lined street where I used to play as a kid, but those days seem like they were so long ago now. A million years, at least. It's as if someone chopped my life in half, and even though the two pieces have now been pushed back together, there still a great big gaping line that's never going to heal over completely. Even if I live to be a hundred years old, my life is always going to be defined by what happened five years ago.

  Turning to walk to the house, I'm momentarily startled by a bright flash coming from behind a nearby tree. I turn around just in time to spot a woman running away, and I realize after a moment that I just got doorstepped by paparazzi for the first time. I guess I'm famous around here. Hopefully, now they've got their photo of the crazed suspected murderer Cassie Briggs arriving home after five years in jail, they'll leave me alone. Hopefully.

  As I get closer to the house, I keep expecting someone to come out and greet me. My parents know I'm due home either today or tomorrow, and although I didn't call to give them an exact E.T.A., there's no way they could have forgotten. I glance at the window, but there's no sign of anyone, and by the time I get to the front door I start to wonder whether maybe they've run out on me. For a moment, I'm scared to knock, in case it turns out that my entire family has changed its name and done a runner. I hold my breath, priming myself for the possibility that this isn't going to be the golden homecoming I was expecting, and then I knock.

  From inside, there's the sound of footsteps coming closer; they stop for a few seconds, as if someone's trying to summon the courage to answer, and finally the door opens to reveal my mother's smiling face.

  "Hey!" she says, stepping forward and giving me a huge hug. "Why didn't you tell us what time you were arriving? We could have picked you up at the station."

  "It was okay," I reply, almost being squeezed to death. "I got a taxi, and then... well, I got a taxi."

  "How much did that set you back?" she asks, still holding me tight, with her chin resting on my shoulder.

  "It was fine," I say. "The jail issues these pre-paid permits for the journey home."

  "That's nice of them," she replies, still hugging me.

  "Yeah," I say, feeling as if this is already pretty damn awkward.

  The hug continues in silence.

  "I appreciate the welcome," I say eventually, "but do you mind if we get inside?"

  "Of course," she replies, stepping back. Strangely, she's barely looking at me at all; instead, her eyes seem to be scanning the street, as if she's expecting to see someone.

  "There was some asshole with a camera," I say, pulling my suitcase through the door. "She ran off after getting a photo. I'm sorry if people like that have been causing trouble."

  "Who was it?" she asks, still staring out at the street. "It wasn't a plump woman with brown frizzy hair, was it?"

  "Kinda," I reply.

  "Oh, that's just Cindy Levenheim," she says, the contempt evident in her voice. "She's just a blogger." She pauses. "I thought there might be someone from the local paper, or maybe even the national news. They phoned up last week, just to ask a few questions."

  "You didn't talk to them, did you?" I ask.

  "I couldn't be rude," she replies, pushing the door shut with a hint of frustration. "You know what these people are like, Cassie. They don't stop until they get what they want. Besides, I've developed a bit of a relationship with some of the media over the years, since they started covering your case. It's better to get them onside, if you see what I mean. Cooperate a little, and they'll stop pushing so hard."

  I stare at her for a moment. "Your hair looks nice," I say with a hint of suspicion. "Did you get it done recently?"

  "Yes," she says with a slightly startled look in her eyes, turning and walking through to the kitchen. "Would you like a drink, dear?"

  I pause for a moment. My mother's behavior seems very strange. Truth be told, I was expecting her to be a nervous wreck, maybe even knocking back the brandy, but she seems to be coping remarkably well. As I leave my suitcase in the hall and wander through to join her, I can't help but feel that she's dealing with this very well. Almost too well.

  "So how are things?" I ask, watching as she starts setting out two cups of coffee.

  "Oh, you know," she continues, briefly checking her hair in the reflection of one of the cabinet doors, "very busy. Can't complain. I've been rather rushed off my feet recently, what with all the preparations for your homecoming and then everything else."

  "Everything else?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  "Well, I..." She pauses, and it's clear that she's got something to tell me. "It's very exciting, actually," she continues after a moment. "I spoke to a very nice gentleman from a publisher in New York last week, by phone, and he's extremely keen to get a book out. They'd provide a ghost writer, of course, so really it'd be a kind of fancy interview, where you'd tell your side of the story. I was going to tell you about it the other day, when you called, but I didn't want to get your hopes up too much, and I figured you were busy. But anyway, they need to hurry things along in order to capitalize on the public interest, but they've very keen, honey." She stares at me, and for a moment she seems extremely nervous. "What kind of coffee do you like? Did you change your palate while you were in jail?"

  "Regular," I say. "Thanks." I watch as she grabs a jar of instant coffee. "I'm not writing a book."

  "Well, no," she replies, "that's for the ghost writer. But it'll be a wonderful chance to put your side of the story."

  "I don't want to do any of that," I tell her.

  "You have to," she says, pouring water into the cups.

  "Why?" I ask. "Is there some new law that came into force?"

  "Don't be silly," she replies, with a forced smile. "It's just..." She pauses. "You've been terribly wronged, Cassie. You've lost five years of your life, all because the legal system got itself wound up in knots and no-one could believe that you didn't do those awful things." She takes a deep breath, and it's almost as if she's so full of nervous energy, she might burst into tears at any moment. "You're innocent, Cassie, and now the world knows it. You deserve to underline that fact and explain your side of things. Besides, they're offering a quarter of a million dollars."

  "I can't -" I start to say, but that number suddenly grabs my attention. A quarter of a million dollars? "No," I say after a moment. "I don't care about the money. I'm not doing some stupid book."

  "Don't make a decision now," she replies, sliding a cup of coffee toward me. "You're in a vulnerable place. You've just got home, and you must be so happy."

  "I'm not doing a book," I say again. "I'm not doing anything like that. I just want to get on with my life."

  "But you've been wronged," she continues. "Terribly wronged. Your life has been totally destroyed. There's a mark against your name that'll never be erased, honey. Why shouldn't you tell your side of events, and why shouldn't you get a little windfall in the process? You need money so you can rebuild after this tragedy." She pauses. "It's been five years, Cassie. You've never really opened up about what happened that day. Now's the perfect time. Let the -"

  Before she can finish, we both hear the sound of the front door opening.

  "That'll be you
r father," she says, lowering her voice. "He doesn't know about the book deal yet. Just let me work out how to tell him, okay?"

  I open my mouth to argue with her, but seconds later I spot a figure standing in the doorway, and I turn to find my father staring at me, with no real emotion in his eyes. He just seems to be looking at me, as if he has no idea how to react.

  "Hey, Neil," my mother says, sounding tense. "Look who's home."

  Florence Madison

  The knife goes in easily, perforating the skin and sinking deep into the flesh. I pause for a moment before pulling the blade back out, and there's a hint of blood smeared on the cold metal. Done. Easy.

  Except, this is just a leg of lamb from the supermarket. Next time, in theory, it'll be a human abdomen.

  Having finally packed Abe and Milly back off to their homes, I'm standing in my kitchen. I've been using the internet to research the best ways to deal with an opponent, and a knife wound to the belly seems like the most appropriate method. There'll be a lot of blood, of course, but there are two main benefits to this choice: first, so long as she doesn't get immediate medical help, she'll have no chance of survival; and second, it'll hurt. A lot. She'll die in agony, just as my poor son died in agony five years ago. I just hope she'll understand, as her life drains away, that she deserves such a wretched fate.

  Putting the knife down, I realize that my hands are shaking. Damn it, if I get like this when I stab a leg of lamb, what am I going to be like when I kill Cassie Briggs? There's a part of me that thinks I should practice a little more and maybe hone my skills, but there's another part of me that insists I'll be able to do the job when the time comes. Just because I'm a 57-year-old woman, there's no reason why I can't summon all my anger and rage and use it to teach that little bitch a lesson. People kill every day; children kill, women kill, men kill... I'm not some fragile little thing. The thought of paying Cassie Briggs back for what she did, and making her die in agony, fills me with passion. Since Bobby died, I've been on auto-pilot, waiting for the police to do their jobs and bring that whore to justice. Now that they've dropped the ball, it's my turn. I have no choice.