Page 81 of The Best Friend
‘You’re being melodramatic, Louisa.’
That’s rich.
She rises to her feet. ‘I’ve had enough of all this talking. It’s time for you to write this goodbye note to your family.’ She nods to her brother. ‘Callum, cut her hands free.’
Darcy strides across the room towards the window. She reaches up to the deep sill and lifts down a clear plastic A4 wallet. Inside it are a few sheets of paper and a biro. Callum snips the zip tie that binds my wrists behind my back. Their sudden release prompts spasms of pain up both arms and shoulders, but it does feel better to be able to move them again. I bring my hands around to my lap and rub at the red weals on my wrists.
There’s no way I’m writing that note, even if she uses her knife to coerce me. As soon as I write it I’m dead anyway, so if I have to suffer some pain… Yet the thought of her slicing through my skin is terrifying. Despite my fear, I take a breath and narrow my eyes. ‘I won’t do it,’ I say. ‘You write it. You’re quite the expert at forging notes – school notes at least.’
‘Ooh, Louisa’s got a bit of backbone at last,’ Darcy trills. She walks over to me, bends down and puts her face up close to mine. I can’t help marvelling at her beauty. At her narrow heart-shaped face of perfect proportions. It’s almost too perfect, her skin too smooth, her features too regular. ‘Youwillwrite this note, Louisa,’ she says. ‘Don’t give me that look. I have your son. I can always arrange for Joe to disappear along with you. Jared would curse your memory forever if I was forced to take that route.’
I draw in a breath. I don’t doubt she would use my son to make me do what she wants.
‘Why are you still talking in an American accent?’ I ask, trying to delay. ‘You just told me you were British, born in Bristol. Do you have a west-country accent like your brother?’
‘I’ve become attached to my US accent,’ she replies, ‘like I’m attached to Darcy. I think I’ll keep her. Anyway, my son knows me as Darcy Lane. To him I’m American. He’s half-American, half-British. Once I kill you, that information about my old life will be buried.’
‘What about all the surveillance equipment?’ I ask, stalling again. ‘Why did Max – sorry, Callum – tell me to buy all that stuff?’
‘Oh,’ Darcy says airily, ‘that was just for fun. I wanted to see if you’d do it. If you’d put your trust in a complete stranger and go into debt just to try to catch me out. Turns out you would. Plus, it’s icing on the cake for me. The police will discover you bought a bucket load ofsurveillanceequipment, completing the picture that you’d planned to spy on me because of your jealousy and paranoia.’ She’s enjoying this. Savouring my confusion and fear. I’m no longer surprised by her responses. I realise she must have some emotional defect. I remember watching a TV programme on psychopaths – or was it sociopaths? – I can’t remember the difference. But I’m sure Darcy is one or the other. She has no empathy. She doesn’t care about what she’s done, or what she’s about to do. She wants what she wants and that’s it.
‘Enough questions,’ she says, placing the plastic wallet on my lap.
I shake my head even though I know I have no choice.
‘That’s right,’ she says as I reach into the wallet with trembling hands. ‘Take out the pen and one of the sheets of paper and I’ll dictate your farewell note.’
I do as she instructs, conscious of my clammy fingers on the pristine page, marking it with my prints, branding myself a killer.
‘Lean on this,’ she says, passing me a hardback book on Californian wines from the dining table.
I rest the paper on the book and grasp the biro in my hand.
‘Jared,’ she says. ‘Go on, write that.Jared.’
I do as she asks, writing my husband’s name on the paper. A tear drips onto the centre of the page, soaking into the paper.
‘Perfect!’ She claps her hands together. ‘Tears add that extra touch of authenticity don’t you think? So, back to the letter.I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through these past few weeks. The truth is, I haven’t been myself.
She waits for me to finish writing, the scratch of pen on paper, my tears still dripping, wrinkling the page and smudging the ink.
‘Okay, good. Now keep going: ‘I blamed Darcy for everything that was going wrong in my life, but I know now that it was all in my head. She was only trying to help. I was jealous. I was mad at you both. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I tried to set Darcy up for Mike’s murder when it was me all along. I can’t believe I did it, I’m so sorry. If I could change things I would, but it’s too late now. I love you, and Joe is the light of my life—’
‘I can’t write any more of this!’ I cry, dropping the pen on the floor.
‘Fine, fine,’ she says. ‘It looks better if it’s half finished, anyway. Shows how upset you are.’ Darcy displays no sympathy towards me at all. No sign that she’s even remotely sorry about what I’m going through. She’s cold. Dead inside. I thrust the note out towards her.
‘Put it back in the sleeve,’ she says. ‘And pick up that pen. We’ll need it for evidence, too –it’s covered in all your lovely fingerprints. That’s it. Great. Job done.’ She takes the wallet from me and places it back on the high window sill.
Despair floods me. My legs and hands shake uncontrollably. I’m terrified about dying, but I’m more torn up by the fact that Jared will really believe I lost my mind. My heart twists, knowing that my beautiful son will grow up thinking his mother was a deranged murderer.
Light suddenly spills through the edges of the blinds. The sound of tyres on gravel outside.A car!
‘Joe!’ I cry. ‘Are they back? Can I at least see him?’
‘Shit,’ Darcy says. ‘It can’t be them already. It’s only?’ she glances at her watch ‘—six fifty-five.’
‘Want me to go and see to them?’ Callum says.
