‘What’s this all about?’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘You’re worrying me, Clare. Stop being so bloody paranoid about everyone and everything. Now, I’m going to end this call before we fall out with each other. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep, get yourself on that aircraft tomorrow, get yourself back here and get your life back on track.’ With that he hangs up.
I spend the next few minutes staring at the telephone, wondering whether I should call home again and try to speak to Luke. In the end I decide against it.
I head out to the diner opposite the motel. It’s a quiet night, from what I can tell, and I sit undisturbed while I eat a burger and chips I don’t really want and drink a beer that I do want.
When I came over to Amelia Island just two days ago, I wasn’t sure what I would find. I knew there was more to Alice than met the eye, but what I didn’t know was the full extent of it. And now I do. Again, I have to banish the thought of might have happened to Alice Kennedy, my sister. I can’t let myself go there, not yet.
When I get back to my room, I check my rucksack to make sure I have my passport, tickets and bank card all ready for tomorrow’s journey home. I wonder if Luke will call me back. He probably hasn’t even looked at his phone. I have to say that about my husband, he’s not one for constantly checking social media, uploading pictures of his dinner or pictures of the girls. To Luke a phone is a necessity for communication verbally or via text, nothing more. Still, I wait up just in case he does call. When he doesn’t, I put it down to him being busy sorting the girls out for bed. I don’t want to acknowledge the notion that he might actually be avoiding me.
When my phone rings just after midnight, I immediately think it must be Luke after all. My heart gives a little flip of relief. At last someone I can talk to, who I trust. I pause. I do trust him, don’t I? Another thought to banish. Of course I do. I was just overreacting about Alice or Martha, whatever the hell her name is.
I grapple with the bedside light and snatch at my phone.
Home calling, I’m informed by the screen message. Strange. Why would Luke call on the house phone? I answer it.
‘Hello, Luke?’
‘It’s me.’
I struggle for a second to think who it could be. The voice is lowered to almost a whisper. It’s definitely not Luke. ‘Mum?’ I try the next logical person, although something tells me logic is not applicable here.
‘No, it’s not your mother.’
‘Alice?’
‘Who else?’
‘Why are you calling me?’
‘Listen, Clare, listen carefully.’ There’s a hardness to her voice I haven’t heard before. It puts me on alert. I wait for her to continue. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing in America and I don’t know what you think you may or may not have found, but I’m warning you, whatever it is you think you know, you’d be wise to keep it to yourself.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘And why, exactly, would I want to keep it to myself – presuming I know anything?’
‘Don’t get involved, Clare. You’ll regret it.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Things have gone too far. It’s out of my hands now. You need to drop it.’
‘Do you really think for one minute that I’m scared of you?’ I frantically search my phone for the ‘record’ app. I quite often record work conversations so I can go back and check the nitty-gritty detail. I have a feeling this is going to be useful.
‘It’s not me you need to be frightened of.’
‘What?’ I hit the ‘record’ button, but it’s too late. The line has gone dead. ‘Shit.’
I try to ring back but the call doesn’t connect. I suspect she’s unplugged it from the wall. I check the ‘record’ app on my phone but all I have managed to get is me saying ‘What?’
I rest my head in my hands and try to think clearly. There seems little point in trying to get hold of Luke or Mum. What am I supposed to say? They won’t believe me, they’ll just defer back to Martha, who will, of course, deny it all and then they’ll blame my jealousy or rampant paranoia they’ve decided I am now suffering from.
I think back over the conversation and grab my notebook and pen as I write it down word for word, or at least as close to that as I can remember. Her final words are the ones that scare me the most. I underline them three times, the pressure of the nib scoring through the paper.
IT’S NOT ME YOU NEED TO BE FRIGHTENED OF.