You Can Trust Me (43 page)

I pace up and down. The room is only ten paces long and five paces wide. Solid concrete. No windows. No way out apart from the door. I check Zack again. I can't find anything physically wrong; he's just not waking up. What is Paul doing with Hannah? I think about what the killer did—what
Paul
did—to Kara before he killed her.

Oh, Jesus. Bile rises into my throat; my breath is jagged. I can't keep still.

Think,
Livy. I force myself to sit. To breathe. I have to try to work out what to do.

I count ten slow breaths, but jerky images fill my head. Damian covered in blood. Will in our car, unconscious. And now Hannah, her mouth open in a scream as the man who has taken her presses one hand against her throat, forcing her down. I make myself stare at Zack, trying to follow his own, steady breathing.

“Help me,” I pray into the void. “Help me.”

My mind won't keep still. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. I realize I have absolutely no idea what time it is. From the way the sky looked outside, I'd say somewhere between 3 and 4
A.M.
, but I can't be sure.

The door opens again, and Paul comes in. He's alone. I stand over Zack. “Where's Hannah?” I demand. “What have you done with her? Where's Will?”

Paul tilts his head to one side, watching me. It's unnerving. A beat passes. A new resolution forms in my guts. I will not let this man harm my family. I will die before I will let that happen.

“I need Zack,” Paul says.

I glance down at my boy. Agonizing tears roil up inside me. “No, you're not taking him.” I clench my fists, ready to fight. “You'll have to kill me first.”

Paul chuckles as if I've missed the point entirely. “No, Livy. You're coming too. Pick him up.”

I try to haul Zack into my arms, but he's too heavy. I end up half carrying, half dragging him across the room. Outside, I look around for the car. It's still there, but I can't make out whether or not Will is still inside. It's lighter now, almost dawn. Paul directs me down the cliff edge, to a small, rocky ledge high above the sea. Hannah is already lying there.

I gasp.

“She's just unconscious,” Paul explains. “I gave her some more GHB, same as everyone else has had.”

“GHB?” I turn to him. “What's that?”

“A date rape drug,” he says. “Like Rohypnol, but it acts faster. No trace after a few hours.”

“Date rape?” I stare at him. “Have you—? Are you—?” I can't bring myself to ask the question.

Paul shoots me a contemptuous look. “For goodness' sake, Livy,” he says. “She's a
child.
”

He directs me to lie Zack down beside Hannah. His dark head nestles next to her blond one. They look like they are sleeping.

“What
are
you going to do to them, then?” My whole body is trembling, but I am hyperalert, seeing everything sharp and clear.

Paul smiles, and I remember the many evenings he and Becky and Will and I have spent together and how kind he was when he came to the house earlier. My head spins. How can someone so normal, a person I have been friends with for almost twenty years be
doing
this?

“Aren't you concerned about your husband?” Paul asks dryly.

“Yes, of course.” I look over toward the car again. I can just make out its shape in the light that seeps out from the hut door. I turn back to my captor.

Paul smiles again, sensing my confusion. “My mother called and told me that she was almost certain one of her clients—an Olivia Small—had taken the set of keys Poppy was using—”

“Your mother? You mean Alexa Carling?”

Paul nods. “Remember I told you I've been staying in one of my mother's properties while our house is remodeled and Becky is away? We talked about it at Leo and Martha's party. I mentioned it earlier today as well.”

Memories of these conversations filter through my brain. So Alexa was the link, the reason why everything kept coming back to Honey Hearts.

“Poppy's my half sister,” Paul says. “I told you about her too—years ago.”

I shake my head. I have no recollection of Paul ever talking about a sister. I vaguely remember his contempt for his mother back when we met as students. Paul was angry she had remarried. I definitely recall him saying he hated his stepfather, but did he mention a little sister? I can't be sure.

“Poppy got into drugs years ago. Not surprising, considering what a bastard her dad was. She hasn't kicked it, though from time to time she persuades our mother she has.” Paul sighs. He doesn't sound angry now, just sorrowful. I can't make him out. It's like we're having a normal conversation. “Poppy got chucked out of her last place, so Mum insisted she stay in the rental with me for a few weeks. Then when she stole that locket … I couldn't explain why it mattered so much. Mum was all about giving Poppy a second chance. And Poppy was trying. But I couldn't have her stay after the locket, so I made it easy for Poppy to start using.” He sighs again. “It didn't take much.”

“You took that locket from my sister.” My head can't process what I know to be true. “You took it when you killed her. She was only eighteen.”

“I know,” he says. “She was beautiful, wasn't she? An angel.”

He seems genuinely moved by Kara's memory. I don't understand him. I don't understand any of this. “How
could
you?”

Paul rolls his eye. “Such predictable questions. Don't you want to ask me about my father? It's his fault Poppy found you earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“Poppy overheard me talking about you on the phone to Dad … Leo … this morning. That's how she worked out you were looking for the locket.”

I frown. “What's Leo got to do with this?”

Paul smirks. “Poor Julia thought Leo was your sister's murderer.”

“What?
Why?
”

“I told Poppy the box containing the locket belonged to my dad, that I was storing it for him. Poppy told Shannon. Shannon told Julia.”

“Does Leo know you said that? Does he know what … who you really are? Does
anyone
 … Martha? Becky?”

“No, no, and no. But Dad did find my bottle of Nembutal the day after Julia died. He challenged me about it. At first I blamed it on Poppy. Then, when we heard the postmortem on Julia, he couldn't help but make the connection. He came to me again,
furious
.” Paul sighs. “I told him Julia had asked for the Nembutal as part of some article she was doing into fashion industry suicides. That I'd had no idea she wanted to kill herself. Dad believed me. He
wanted
to believe me. But he could see straightaway that there would be a huge scandal if people found out I'd supplied her an illegal drug, whatever I thought she was going to do with it.” Another smile twists around Paul's lips. “The whole suicide story worked very well, actually. Almost
everyone
believed she was secretly depressed and suicidal.”

“I didn't. Damian didn't.”

“That's right,” Paul says softly. “And when Dad knew you were suspicious about Julia's death, he got scared that you would find out what I'd done. Scared for me, of course. But also terrified of the scandal. I could have gone down for fourteen years. I'm Paul Harbury, the boss's son. Harbury Media would never have survived me going to jail. Dad would have lost his business. We had to distract you, stop you investigating, so I came up with a lie for him to tell you.”

“A lie?”

“About Will. To preoccupy you, so you'd forget about Julia. It was sadly easy to convince you he'd gone with that whore Catrina again,” Paul says with contempt. “No trust.”

What's he saying? That Will didn't sleep with Catrina? That, all along, Will was telling the truth?

“I can't promise Will is faithful, but my father didn't see anything in the hotel in Geneva. I know that.”

“Leo
lied
to me about that?”

“And to his own wife,” Paul says with relish. “And you believed them both.”

Shame fills me. I look back at the car where Will lies unconscious, and my guts twist into a tight knot. “If you hurt me and my family, your father will work that out too,” I say, trying to sound convincing.

Paul's eyes widen. “Who's being hurt?”

“You killed Damian.” Another image of the blood in the car, the throat oozing red, flashes in front of my mind's eye.

“That's right,” Paul says smoothly. He points across the cove to a pinprick of red that glows in the darkness. “D'you see that fire?”

I nod.

“That's Damian's car with Damian inside it. After I transferred you to the trunk of your own car, I took his and torched it on a field just outside Salcombe. It'll look like a bunch of drunken vagrants got carried away.” He sounds smug. “The police won't find anything of me in there.”

Oh, God. Poor Damian. “So what are you going to do with us?” I glance from Zack to Hannah, then look up at Paul again.

“We're going to play a game,” Paul says, his eyes gleaming.

My heart thunders against my ribs. “What game?” I keep my gaze fixed on Paul's dark, mean eyes.

“A choosing game,” Paul says. “Kind of like musical chairs.” He chuckles and looks down at the children.

My heart skips a beat. “Choose?” I say, my voice a whisper. “You mean you want me to choose which one you kill?”

“No.” Paul shakes his head contemptuously. The easy smile has gone. Suddenly he looks furious. “Credit me with a little originality, you stupid bitch.”

I stare at him, my stomach falling away. “What do you mean, then?”

He watches me. I get the sense he's waiting to see if I can work it out.

My head spins. I can't think. I try to work out what he must mean. He is a murderer, but he's saying he doesn't want to kill my children. “Choose. Choose.” I repeat the word, hoping it will help me understand. “Choose what then, if no one dies?”

Paul shakes his head. “Oh,
one
of them
will
die,” he says slowly. “And you
are
going to decide which one.”

Panic spirals up into my throat. I can barely speak. “But you said you
weren't
going to kill them.
Either
of them.”

“That's right, Livy,” he says. “
You
are.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Kill one?” I stare down at my children, unconscious in the damp, cold night. The wind plasters my blouse to my body. Spray mists my face. I'm frozen, yet I barely feel the cold. A single tear leaks out of my eye.

Paul watches as my entire world spins on its axis. I gaze from my beautiful boy to my angel girl, curled up on the bare rock.

Kill Zack to save Hannah. Kill Hannah to save Zack.

No.

The tear dries on my face. I will not let this man take my children. Seconds tick away. I breathe in, then out, trying to slow myself down. My fear transforms to rage. How dare he take us and threaten us?

“Have you chosen, Livy?”

I turn on him. “How can you expect me to do that?”

“Because the alternative is me killing them both. This way you save one. Livy's choice.” He laughs, his dark eyes like bullets. How could I ever have thought he was kind?

My fury sharpens like the point of a knife. I meet his gaze. I will not tremble. I will not show fear.

“How do I know they're both still even alive?” I demand. “Zack's been unconscious for hours.”

“He's smaller than the rest of you,” Paul says in a bored, matter-of-fact voice. “The GHB will take longer to work itself out of his system. But check them both, if you like.”

I drop to my knees and feel for Zack's pulse. It's steady and strong. I shake his shoulder and he moans in his sleep. I turn to Hannah. She is more deeply unconscious, but her breathing is warm on my finger.

A muffled yell sounds from the car, then a series of thuds. I scramble to my feet, looking round. I can't see Will from here, but I can hear him. He must be hurling his body against the door.

“Ah, you see? Will has come round.” Paul rubs his gloved hands together. “Perfect timing. He can watch.”

He walks away, toward the car. I crouch down again, willing the kids to wake up.

“Zack! Hannah!” I hiss their names and shake their arms. I try to lift them, to drag them away, but they are heavy. I have barely moved them an inch before Paul is back, Will at his side. His hands are tied behind his back, but the gag has been removed.

Will's eyes search my face. “Are you all right? The kids?”

“They're all fine,” Paul says impatiently.

I nod. “I'm okay.” I look down at the children. “They've been drugged, so—”

“We're waiting, Livy,” Paul interrupts. He folds his arms. “Who's it to be?”

“What are you talking about?” Will's voice rises. “Paul, please, it's
us.
We're
friends
. You can't—”

He stops abruptly as Paul produces a sheathed knife from his pocket. He draws the blade out of the leather. It's at least six inches of gleaming steel. The same knife that killed Damian, that I last saw held to my son's throat. Now he places the tip against Will's shirt, just under his ribs.

“Quiet,” he orders.

Will looks down at the knife, but Paul is watching me. His black eyes glint as he searches my face. He's expecting me to be frightened. But I'm not. I am only one emotion. I am only one idea. One ambition.

“So which child will you sacrifice?” he asks.

Will gasps.

“You promise you'll let the other one live?” I know Paul will not keep this promise, but still there's a voice in my head arguing that he told the truth about putting Zack in the trunk of the car with me, that maybe I can bargain with him.