Page 63 of The Trap by Catherine
She’d reported seeing Tana Meehan at the bus stop in Kildare town that night. But had she really? Or was that just a way to worm her way into this tragedy? How did you prove you had seen a missing person?
As far as Angela knew, a report like that would be taken at face value.
She wondered now: were there other sightings to back Caroline’s story up? Did they know that Tana had definitely got the train out of Dublin? Because if Carolinehadn’tactually seen her, Tana Meehan might never have left Dublin that evening at all. Her last known location might be somewhere else entirely, and that could be hampering the case.
Angela pulled the handle to flush the toilet.
She could see how such a thing would’ve played out, and why Caroline might think her white lie was a victimless crime. A woman she used to know goes missing. She lives not far from here. Caroline comes up with some story about having seen her at the bus stop in town the night she disappeared.
Maybe she did see someone who looked like Tana, someone who could’ve been her, but she wasn’t sure, and all she did was lie about her certainty. She probably thinks it’s harmless. What difference does it make to anyone but her? She gets attention, and some excitement, and access; no harm done.
Angela got up and turned on the tap, let it run for a bit.
Then she took out her phone and composed a text to Denise.You can bollock me for this later but I’m at Caroline O’C’s house in Kildare and something isn’t right. Is she legit? Do we know Tana got the train out of Dublin? Because something is off here. I think maybe she didn’t see her. Can’t talk but if you can, text back.
She pressed send and then quietly opened the bathroom door.
Almost directly opposite, another door was ajar, offering a narrow view of what looked like a bedroom decorated in pink-and-blue wallpaper. The light was on in there, which was strange—although maybe this was where Caroline had been when she’d heard Angela’s car drive up outside. There was a single bed covered in boxes, and a desk with—
A printer.
A newish one, whose digital display was glowing blue.
That lying little bitch.
Angela checked the hallway: coast clear. She reached out and pushed the door open a little wider, wincing as its hinges creaked. She held her breath, listening for footsteps, but none came. All she could hear was the low murmur of the TV in the living room.
Caroline must still be in there.
She could see nearly the whole room now, which didn’t contain much more than she’d already seen: a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe.
But now the wall above the desk had revealed itself to her too, and it was adorned with a collection of photos in what she would’ve guessed were IKEA frames. In their clean, modern, primary-colored newness, the display looked completely at odds with everything else.
And that was before you looked at the photos themselves.
Angela blinked at them, convinced she was imagining things, and stepped into the room to make sure she wasn’t.
No, every single photo—she counted them quickly: thirteen, ranging from the standard 4x6 to something approaching poster size—was of the same person, and that person was, inexplicably, Roland Kearns.
Angela’s itch flared up into a third-degree burn.
Why the hell would Caroline have so many pictures of him? Why would she haveanypictures of him? Were they together? Were they in cahoots?
Washeher fiancé?
Had something been going on between them before Tana disappeared—or died? Had Roland killed her to get rid of her so he and Caroline could be together?
But then, earlier, when they’d gone to his apartment, Roland had had only bad things to say about Caroline. She was unhinged. She was obsessed with him. She’d been sitting outside his place at all hours.
Denise had said that wasthem, the Gardaí, that he was being watched.
But had Caroline been there too?
And if so, doing what?
While she’d been mentally asking these questions, Angela had gone all the way into the room.
Now, she was standing within touching distance of the photos. Close enough to see that there was something about them that was much stranger than all of them being of Roland Kearns.
