Page 33 of Dissection of a Murder
On the black-and-white image, someone wearing a big, black coat and black woolen hat is peering through my patio doors in the middle of the night.
Frozen to the spot, I quickly glance at the time. It’s 12:23 a.m.
“Julian! There’s someone trying to break in!” I whisper frantically, shaking him awake. He barely registers what I’ve said, and I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but with my eyes on the screen, I jump out of bed to see this person for myself.
Switching every light on upstairs to let them know I am very much awake, I watch them quickly look up before turning around and running down the side of the house. Rushing to the front bedroom, I see nothing of where they went until, about ten seconds later, what looks like a red Mini zooms down the otherwise quiet road.
A Mini? That’s not a thug’s car.
When I drag Julian out of bed, he’s more concerned that I’ve interrupted his sleep than anything else. He thinks it’s an opportunisticthief looking for an open window on a Friday night. He stops me from calling the police, saying we’d be wasting their time because what can we offer them by way of identification? I didn’t get a good look at the person’s face, and we don’t have a registration for the car. I can’t even prove itwastheir car. I go back over the CCTV and that reveals nothing, either—their coat, or perhaps a scarf, goes right up to their nose, and the camera is positioned high up on the wall, so it only captures the person from above.
There’s something about the fact that someone was here, at our home, that makes everything feel dangerous. Closer. More threatening. The questioning at my event, the figure loitering by my car, the social media message—all those things happened, arguably, at a distance. But this? This is a step too far. This is my safe place. By coming here, this person has confirmed what I’d already started to suspect.
Someone is out to get me.
15
Witness X
Rule #4
Let People Underestimate You
Dolly Parton oncesaid, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap,” and it always reminds me of Dad. People underestimated him, too. It was one of his more strategic traits.
Most people want to be seen as intelligent, culturally elevated human beings, edging as close to the top of the social hierarchy as possible. Not Dad. He curated his public personality to be seen as the joker, the philandering fool, the life of the party, the one you can’t take seriously.
Nobody ever suspects the nice, stupid person of anything.
He liked it when people underestimated him. You saw it in his eyes—they lit up when he got the opportunity to surprise people. Or, rather, humiliate them. He lived for it. He was never a man who demanded respect from people he met; he preferred to lurk in the shadows and wait for an opportunity to strike. Like a snake.
He was the complete opposite to my mother. Even from a young age, I could never work out why she and my dad were together. She was always drunk, screaming and shouting right up in his face. She scared me. Dad had always been quieter than Mum. When I wasreally young, I thought that meant he was kinder and safer. I didn’t understand he was even more dangerous than her.
The problem with allowing people to underestimate you is that they can get quite nasty about it. Everything in life comes with a cost.
It was at one of Declan’s family parties that his dad cornered me. It was early on in the relationship and I was still enjoying the newness of it.
His dad was a quiet, intellectual type. Never said much, but you could tell he took everything in. It was out of character for him to spark up a conversation with me away from everyone else; I knew something bad was coming.
“This won’t last,” he said, glancing around the room, smiling like a raging sociopath so as not to arouse suspicion. “He’s drawn to the excitement of a girl like you. I understand it, I do. But you’re short-term. And you can drop this ditzy, nice-girl act—I don’t buy it.”
I was caught off guard.
“I care for your son a lot,” I replied, hoping he couldn’t sense the panic in my voice.
“No, you don’t,” he said, finally turning to look at me. “Cheap, common little slags like you don’t care for boys like my son. You see them as toys. You use them and spit them out when you’re done.”
This man was a sensible accountant; small in height, skinny. He wore rimless glasses that made him look like a kind little grandad. Part of me was incensed; the other, toxic part of me was impressed.
Because he was right.
That’s the thing about pretending to be something you’re not: you have to be prepared for someone to see right through it. You can’t fool everybody. And, when someone comes along holding a big, shiny mirror up to your behavior, you must be ready to face the grotesque, distorted monster staring back at you.
Then, you have two choices.
Either you can decide to be a better person and prove them wrong, or you can do exactly what they predicted and be the manipulative slut they already think you are.
I’ve never, ever forgotten what he said to me that night or how I felt when he said it.
