Lorna handed her a tissue. Gave Maeve time to compose herself.
“I always thought Doctor Who was stupid,” Lorna said.
“Well, nothing could compare to your beloved Hitchcock, could it?” Maeve blew her nose and folded the tissue into quarters. “It’s more stupid for me to watch it. Because he’s never going to come by. He’s never going to call or text, and I won’t need to wow him with all these random facts about the show. He won’t friend me on Facebook or any of those other stupid things he never got to do. Because there’s no such thing as a TARDIS. No time machine that can stop us from doing what we did.”
Lorna rested her hand on Maeve’s. “What they did. Hollis. Oliver. Ellie. Maeve, this was their fault. They took him from us. What happened at the party, we had nothing to do with it. Maybe we could’ve done more to stop them, but in the end, it was them. And they have faced zero consequences. I mean, look at this.” Lorna pulled out her phone, showed the news article she’d found. David and Eleanor Landon, a picture-perfect couple being lauded at a gala for their charity work. Ellie beaming in an expensive gown, dripping in jewelry, on the arm of a handsome, well-dressed man. “Doesn’t that make you sick? Princess Ellie and her perfect life. Hunt the Cunt getting her happy ending while Callum gets nothing. Not even the acknowledgment that he was murdered. Don’t you think it’s time they paid for it?”
“Pay for it how?”
“You know I love horror films, right? Have you ever heard of the Final Girl trope?”
Lorna leaned back in the chair, listened to milk being steamed, dishes clanking. People laughing. While Maeve stared at Ellie’s picture on the phone. Maeve’s face hardened.
She handed back the phone. “Let’s order more coffee.”
Present
The others never tried to hide the bad parts of themselves. Oliver was an arrogant ass. Maeve a cloying sycophant. Hollis a chummy conflict avoider. Lorna a people-hating bitch. They wore these traits like badges of honor. But not Ellie. Eleanor Hunt always had to pretend to be what she wasn’t. Beautiful Ellie Hunt pretended to be kind. She pretended when she needed a cup of tea and got one of the others to make it for her. She pretended when she needed to borrow a fiver or a tenner and, in her silly lightheaded way, always forgot to pay it back. She pretended when she needed a good cry and arms to hold her. Over the months, the tally of things sweet, kind Ellie had needed increased, while those she had given in kind were nonexistent. Lorna was the first to notice, followed by Oliver. Maeve, for once, was not the last. Hollis took the longest. He might have continued to condone her to avoid stirring up conflict, but he noticed.
But Callum never did. Callum took people at their word. Whatever side you chose to show him, that was the person you were. Which is why, to Callum, Ellie was always kind. Until she wasn’t. And then it was too late for him, for any of them, to do anything about it.
This was what Lorna wanted to say to Ellie before she killed her. As she and Maeve made their way up the main staircase, Lorna rehearsed it in her head, wanting to get every word right because she would only have one chance. She thought of villains in action movies. How their monologuing always got them in trouble. How if they would just shut up and kill the hero, they would win. She used to wonder why they fell into such a trap. Now she understood. She needed to say these things to Ellie. She needed to say them to her face because, if she didn’t, they would build up inside her to a crescendo that would tear her apart. So she would say them, and then she would kill Ellie. And then she and Maeve would find Oliver and finish the job, quickly. There was nothing she needed to say to him.
They reached the top of the first landing and continued up the next.
“Do you think she rang Mr. MacLeod?” Maeve asked. Lorna had been so lost in thought, she couldn’t understand the question. “Was it Ellie that got Mr. MacLeod to return to the house?” Maeve repeated.
“I already told you I don’t know.”
“But Ellie must know that we killed Hollis. What if she’s found a way to call the police? She might go to the police. She might—”
“I think she cares more about the police not finding out what she did to Callum.”
“And Caskie’s body? That was you and not—”
“Yes, it was me. I used the passage we used to move Hollis’s body to sneak upstairs and downstairs. I pushed the body downstairs to get your attention and keep up the ruse for Oliver.”
“Did you know about that other passage? The one to the ballroom?”
“No. Caskie never told me about it. Maybe he didn’t know.”
“Or maybe he only told Ellie about it. She does have more money than us. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced he was a double agent and she turned on him and . . .”
The conversation was drawing her attention away from Ellie, the words Lorna needed to say to her. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to keep them in. She’d smacked her head harder on the ground in that utility room than she’d meant to and a headache had blossomed behind her eyes. But Maeve kept talking.
“Ellie could have tipped him off but—”
Lorna turned and placed her hand over Maeve’s mouth. “Maeve. I understand you want to figure this all out, but right now MacLeod and Caskie are both dead, so for the moment, I’d rather focus on the people we came here to kill. Okay?”
“Right. Sorry.”
At the top of the stairs, Lorna stepped around an armchair and continued down the hall, but Maeve stopped. Lorna was afraid she’d been too crass and prepared to backpedal until Maeve asked, “Where are you going?”
“It’s down here, isn’t it?”
“No.” Maeve pointed. “It was this door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, because I put her in her staged room. It was already unlocked, so I didn’t have to worry about Oliver seeing me with the keys out.”
Lorna returned to Maeve’s side. Stared at the chair angled awkwardly in the hall.
“But,” Lorna said, “this door’s open.”
They looked into the room. It was empty.
The sound of breaking glass flooded their ears.
Oliver
3 months prior
The doctors had said she should’ve succumbed to the cirrhosis by now. Had promised she would. But each day she persevered. The smell bothered Oliver most. She’d lost control of her bladder and bowel movements a few months ago, a side effect of one of her many prescription drugs. Adult diapers wouldn’t have been so bad, except most days she was too drunk to change them herself. He either had to let her sit in her own filth or clean her himself. So he bought boxes of latex gloves. Unable to carry her anymore, he laid the plastic sheet under her, changed the diaper, and wiped her down. Each day he told himself this was what children were meant to do. Parents changed nappies for years and then they got old, and the kid had to return the favor.
Except Oliver’s mum wasn’t that old. She was just an alcoholic. He was, too, but not like her. He’d never be as bad as her. He’d need a drink or two to get through the day, but he could get through the day. He found work, paid bills, took care of the house. She lay on her backside and watched day-time talk shows and Antiques Roadshow, her bedroom full of empty Carling cans and vodka bottles because he refused to take them out anymore. He’d buy them, but she had to clean. That was a woman’s responsibility after all, wasn’t it? He didn’t care that he always kicked them when he entered her room, or that the drips of stale beer stained the carpet, so rough and brittle now. No, that he could handle. All that bothered him was the smell because now he smelled of it too. It was his sister who hadn’t been afraid to tell him.