On top of that, there was the admission that Milla gave, quietly, just to me, before her first A-level exam – the need to clear her mind, I think. That she had seen two sets of fresh footprints heading up to the Ridgeway from the railway crossing where Lucy met Amber. The police didn’t know about either of them because the overnight rain had washed them away, but both Caden and Sean had parked on the top road, and Jess had taken the route from the railway station, so who did the second pair belong to? And the mystery of what happened to Bronwen’s letter has never been solved either.
But none of it matters. Not after reading Jess’s letter – that Matt isn’t violent, and Sean is an accomplished liar.
I make it through the nature reserve, then gradually drop down onto the bridleway and head back towards Chinnor. As I run past the fenced area that stores the derelict railway carriages, my mind wanders to Felix. I was shocked when Milla told us it was Ava he’d been with the night Jess disappeared, but Matt wasn’t. He then admitted that he’d seen them together a couple of weeks before while out on a bike ride, climbing through the hole in the fence, their body language furtive. That’s why he’d guessed correctly in the pub. But he’d chosen not to tell Milla about her best friend and boyfriend. It wasn’t a choice I would have made, but who knows which one of us is right. Or even if there is a right and wrong in these situations.
When I get to the parade of shops, I slow down. As I laced my trainers this morning, Matt suggested that he come and meet me after my run, and that we go to The Crown for breakfast together – Steve and Jade’s new initiative to make the most of their beer garden in the summer. Milla is in Corfu – her A-level exams already a distant memory – and Lucy is otherwise engaged too. Now that the school holidays have started, Bronwen is visiting from Wales, staying with her grandparents for a week.
‘Ah, Rachel!’
I turn around, shield my eyes from the sunshine, laugh silently at the coincidence. Bronwen’s grandfather is walking out of the bakery. ‘Hello, Michael,’ I say, smiling at the older man. Even though the late July heat is already strong, he’s wearing a long-sleeved, button-down shirt and beige slacks.
‘I hear we’ve got Lucy coming over again today?’
‘Yes, thanks for having her. And an advance apology, because I think she might end up basically moving in with you this week. She’s been so excited about seeing Bronwen. She’s missed her a lot this year.’
‘It’s lovely to see them getting on still,’ Bronwen’s grandfather says, nodding. ‘I thought, after her last visit, that Bronwen might have cut her ties with her life here, moved on. But it seems not, which is a good thing, obviously,’ he adds, suddenly worried that he’s offending me. But I’m too intrigued by his words.
‘Her last visit?’ I ask. As far as I knew, this was Bronwen’s first time back since the family moved away last August. I know they didn’t come for Christmas because Michael and Jean went to Wales, and Lucy hasn’t seen her this year.
Michael’s eyes tilt downwards. ‘They came for a weekend in the spring,’ he explains. ‘The traffic was bad – usual bank holiday exodus – so they arrived later than planned on the Friday evening. It was all a bit chaotic to be honest – a couple of Jean’s bridge cronies had dropped by and we couldn’t get rid of them once Thomas and Liv arrived – so I didn’t think much of it when Bronwen snuck off to the garden room early.’
‘Garden room?’
‘Oh, we’ve had one of those glorified sheds installed at the bottom of the garden so that she can have her own space when they visit. I think she slept in there okay, at least she didn’t complain, but she wasn’t herself all weekend. Quiet. Withdrawn. Like she really didn’t want to be here. And every time one of us suggested she get in touch with Lucy, she bit our heads off. Anyway, they left early, on the Sunday, in the end.’
‘You said bank holiday weekend. Which one was it?’
He sighs. ‘Jean said it was probably for the best, Bronwen not turning up on your doorstep asking to see Lucy. It was the weekend that poor girl died, you see. And I know you were the one to find her body. I imagine you were reeling.’
I lift the corners of my mouth into a smile, but it’s like dragging sticks through cement. ‘Yes, I was reeling,’ I repeat, anxious to get away, to have some space to process what he’s telling me. Bronwen was in Chinnor when Amber died. She was sleeping in a room in the garden by herself. She stayed away from Lucy all weekend.
‘Hey, Rachel!’ I tether myself to Matt’s familiar voice, turn towards it. ‘Oh, hi, Michael,’ he continues as he gets closer. I watch Matt reach out his hand; Michael clasp it; the rhythm of their connected limbs moving up and down. ‘Thanks for having Lucy again today.’
‘We should go,’ I say. It’s too abrupt, but I can’t take it back now, so I smile again, the cement getting denser.
‘Someone’s hungry,’ Matt says, plastering over the crack in my social skills. ‘See you around, Michael.’ He lifts his hand in a small wave, then drops it onto the small of my back and ushers me towards the pavement. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asks when we’re out of earshot.
I don’t answer straight away. I think about what Bronwen knew, the weight she carried on her shoulders, a burden that should have been mine. It was Bronwen who read Lucy’s blogposts, her sole follower; not me. It was Bronwen who Lucy confided in too, daily, probably hourly, as I resisted, too caught up with the idea that Lucy should give the troubled sisters a chance. It was Bronwen who never believed that Lucy could be rude to another girl, and cared enough to dig up the real reason Amber and Jess were bullying her best friend.
Did Bronwen know about Lucy’s meet-up with Amber that night? And how Amber had stolen her letter? Of course she would have done. She was Lucy’s first choice of confidante.
Did that second pair of footprints belong to her?
Amber’s death wasn’t planned. It was a dark, messy end to a spontaneous lashing out.
It was tragic, yes. Like her life. But Amber never tried to change, never took responsibility for the suffering she caused – to Lucy, or to her sister. How many other lives would she have damaged if she was still here?
No one deserves to die, but who deserves to be punished more? Bronwen for protecting her innocent friend? Or Sean, a drug dealer who stabbed me, and tried to make Matt pay for a crime he didn’t commit?
It’s not a hard question.
I tilt my head and lean in for a kiss. ‘I think we’re all good.’
Epilogue
I look at Amber.
Why isn’t she moving? Why do her eyes look like that? Rolled back, like marbles, the moonlight bouncing off them. The bluebells are wilting around her head, drowning in something dark and globular.
Why is she so completely still?
Oh God, what have I done?
My hand is still in the air, I realise, Grandpa’s torch from his shed still clenched between my fingers. It starts to shake. I think it’s the effort, the burden of fighting gravity, but it doesn’t stop when I lower it. My other arm starts to shake too, then my legs; my chest goes into spasm.
Is she dead?
Should I check?
It’s dark, I can’t see. But that’s stupid. I’m holding a torch. It takes five attempts to press the small rubbery button, but eventually I do it.
Light.
The bluebells are covered in blood. Amber’s eyes are glassy, unseeing. I stare at her chest. Will it to rise and fall.
It doesn’t.
I replay it in my head. Lifting the torch, swinging it at her head, hearing the thud, watching her fall.
But she deserved it, I remind myself. Mocking Lucy, bullying her for months, slashing her with that broken bottle. Stealing our letter.
On the day I left Chinnor, I kissed you. You kissed me back … The truth is
(wow, if you could see me blushing right now) it felt totally right for me.
That we can be best friends and something more – without it being an either/or.
But the blood coming out of the back of her head; I didn’t do that.
That was an accident.
Except the police won’t see it that way. I’ve seen enough true crime programmes to know that.
Except nobody knows I’m here. I didn’t tell Lucy I was visiting for the weekend because I wanted to surprise her. But then she snapped me about her meeting with Amber while we were on the motorway. When she said it was at 10 p.m., I thought I could join her. Two against one. But then the traffic got bad, and we were late arriving, so I didn’t make it in time. I raced to the railway track as quickly as I could, but Amber and Lucy were already there, arguing, fighting, so I hid in the bushes. Then Amber lunged at Lucy with that broken bottle, and Lucy folded so fast it was like she disappeared. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help Lucy, but I was angry. Too angry. So I followed Amber up to the Ridgeway. I thought I could message Lucy, check on her, but she didn’t open my snap. It scared me, her not responding, but now I’m glad. Because it means I can delete it, and she won’t find out where I am.
I heard the man’s voice before anyone saw me, so I had the chance to hide. Him asking why Amber had ignored his messages, her appeasing him, saying how cool it was for them to hang out off grid together. Then the sister turned up, hiding too, and things got wild. But I waited, and eventually got Amber to myself.
It was my chance to teach her a lesson. Show her that Lucy has friends too.
