Run Away (22 page)

Chapter 35

June 17, Thailand

T
HERE WAS ONLY
one other time in my life I’d seen this much blood
.

Or, at least, this breed of blood—­not the poppy red hue of a shaving cut swirling into bathwater or the stale maroon of a drying scab begging to be scratched
.
This was angry
.
A deep crimson syrup whose quantity betrayed its origins
.
This blood was a consequence of pain
.

My mind whirled, stuck on a waltzer of panic
.

The worst part was knowing who the blood belonged to
.
It belonged to the man I cared about most in the world
.

Why was it always the ones I loved the most?

My stomach lurched
.
This couldn’t be happening
.
Not again
.
Someone had to be playing some sort of practical joke, albeit a sensationally cruel one
.
He was gone
.
How could he be gone? How could there possibly be this much blood? I’d only seen him thirty minutes earlier, when I’d told him exactly how I felt
.
When he gazed at me through his sad brown eyes and uttered the last words I’d ever hear him say: “I’m sorry
.
”

I stepped back from the crimson pools
.
The bedroom started spinning
.
My thoughts were bleeding into each other
.
Splotches of red seeped into my vision
.

Think, Kayla
.
Focus
.
This cannot really be happening
.
Not again
.

There were no indicators of foul play
.
No smashed windows, no screaming, no sirens wailing in the distance to tend to the crime scene
.
Just blood
.
Lots and lots of blood
.

But somewhere deep within my gut, I knew the truth
.
My body knew
.
My knees buckled
.
I fell to the floor, causing a ripple in the red lagoon rapidly forming on the tiled floor
.
Sam’s blood
.
The sticky air was difficult to inhale, and I could feel myself losing consciousness
.
Good
.
Maybe I’d wake up and realize none of this had ever happened
.

But it had happened
.

Sam was gone
.
And somehow, it was all my fault
.

Chapter 36

August 2, England

T
HE ACCOUNT WAS
created at this address.

What the hell does that mean? Did Gabe send those messages to himself?

She couldn’t think clearly. She felt drunk, disorientated, still disconcerted by the mysterious figure on the rope swing. Her skin was crawling, as if the revelation about the origins of the IP address meant she could no longer trust her own house. The bricks and mortar had eyes, the wallpaper had ears, the very foundations were built on dark secrets and cruel intentions.

She left a voice mail for Sadie. Of all the times she needed to speak to the detective, this was the most urgent.

She reopened her laptop and logged into Facebook, typing hastily into the search bar. Daniel Burns: one mutual friend. Daniel Burns, who joined Facebook in February this year. Daniel Burns, who drove her brother to suicide. Daniel Burns: a fictional character who was born in the building she used to call her home.

Hang on a second
.

Daniel Burns joined Facebook in February. That couldn’t be right.

There was only one person living at Berry Hill in February. And that would mean . . .

Kayla froze.

Oh dear God, no . . .

Chapter 37

August 2, England

T
HE STUDY IN
Berry Hill House had a unique smell that transported Kayla back to her childhood.

It was a vast room with high ceilings, an ornate fireplace, and three very expensive—­yet exceedingly uncomfortable—­sofas. Every wall was lined with deep mahogany bookcases, which formed a series of enclaves, much like a library. They were stacked with shelf upon shelf of classic old books in traditional burgundy and forest green leather covers.
Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice
. Kayla had a vivid memory of perching on the rope swing at the ripe old age of seven, a heavy, leather-­bound Mark Twain book sitting in her lap as she struggled over each and every word, loving every second of it. Her mother had found her, bent her over her bony knee and smacked her three times on the bottom. Hard. Those books were not for reading. They had cost a fortune, didn’t you know?

Fake. The whole thing was fake. The books were never read, the glorious shelves never scoured for the next captivating story,
Encyclopaedia Britannica
never opened and pored over like it deserved to be. The books had been bought in bulk as a decorative display, not painstakingly built over a long career of collecting and cherishing each title.

But no, those books were not for reading. They were all part of the act.

Kayla shuddered as she opened the door to the empty study and was hit by a waft of musty air; the odor of expensive mahogany and unloved books. It triggered a twitch of resentment buried somewhere deep inside her. She wondered how long that had been suppressed.

She walked over to the desk at the back of the room, facing intimidatingly outward like the one in her old headmaster’s office, and lowered herself into the chair behind it. She switched on the computer—­which was rarely ever used—­and tried to steady her shallow, rapid breathing as the machine croaked slowly into action. As the browser history loaded. She tapped her foot impatiently on the wooden floor.
Come on, come on, come
—­

“Kayla.” A warm voice, laced with a glimmer of unease, from somewhere near the door. Kayla leapt out of her skin. She hadn’t heard anyone follow her in. “What a surprise. I haven’t seen you in the study since you were little.”

Mark Finch was leaning against the door frame with a too-­big smile plastered on his face. The bags underneath his eyes bulged angrily, and his jaw was covered in thick, steel-­gray stubble. His pale lilac shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, accentuated the sickly tinge to his pale face. Growing up, all of Kayla’s school friends had a crush on her dad; he was rich, attractive, and powerful. She wondered whether they’d still fancy him now. Haggard and balding, with the dull, lifeless eyes of a man very much in the depths of a dark and prolonged depression.

He walked slowly toward the desk. “What are you doing in here, sweetheart?”

Kayla searched her brain frantically for an explanation. “I—­I . . . my laptop isn’t working. I just wanted to . . . ch-­check this one too, to see if it’s a problem with the Internet server or just my own computer.” She could feel her cheeks burning furiously.
Subtle, Kayla
.
Really subtle
.

Mark looked at her strangely. “Why didn’t you just reboot the router? It’s in the kitchen, not the study. You know that.”

“I . . . erm—­yeah. I mean, I could have done that. I should have. Sorry, I’ll go and do that now.”

Kayla stood up shakily and started to walk, as confidently as she could, toward the door. Her dad edged to the left, blocking her path. He grabbed her arm, his eyes boring into her pupils, scaring her. She’d never been scared of him before. He spoke in a stony, measured tone. “I don’t like it when you lie to me, Kayla.”

“Wh-­What? I’m not. What?”

“What were you doing on my computer?”

She tried to shake her arm free but his grip was too tight. She felt like a trapped animal. “I just told you.”

He took a step closer to her, so his face was inches from her own. She could smell strong coffee on his breath. “And I just told you I don’t like it when you lie to me. Why were you on my computer?”

Kayla gulped. “I found out something strange today. I was just investigating. That’s all.”

His grubby nails dug even deeper into her arm. She wanted to yelp in pain, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to. “What did you find out that was strange?”

There was no point in trying to lie. Kayla sensed, instinctively, that he already knew the answer. “The Facebook account that sent Gabe those messages was created in this house. According to the dates, I was away skiing, Gabe was at boarding school and Mum was in rehab. There was only one person that could have created that account, Dad. Please tell me it wasn’t you.”

Mark held her gaze for a moment, then collapsed to the floor as though every bone in his body was made of cotton wool. “Shit, Kayla. Shit. How . . . h-­how did you—­”

“How did I find out?” Kayla’s voice was shaking more than her knees. Which was a lot. “Guy I went to school with tracked the IP for me. I checked the dates. Please tell me I’m putting two and two together and getting five?”

Silence. Mark’s head was lulling in circles. His neck looked dangerously close to snapping.

“Dad? What the—­” She tried to sidestep around her father’s crumpled figure, but his hand snatched her ankle.

“You can’t leave, Kayla. I’m sorry. It’s not safe. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Dad, you better tell me what the
hell
is going on. Now.” Kayla didn’t know whether she felt angry, scared, or utterly baffled. Probably a mixture of all three. “And let go of my leg!” She jerked her ankle free.

Mark clambered to his feet with the trepidation of a baby taking its first steps. He seemed to recover, then grabbed Kayla by the wrist and dragged her toward the desk chair, thrusting her into the seat. Her coccyx collided with the arm, and the pain took her breath away for a millisecond.

Mark walked around to the front of the desk and started pacing across the wooden floorboards. His hands were planted on his head as he patrolled his territory like a frantic police officer. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“
You
can’t believe it?”

“I know. I
know
. This was never supposed to happen. Never. Nobody was ever supposed to find out . . .”

“Find out what? Dad, I swear to God, if you don’t start telling me what’s going on . . .”

Mark continued to pace as Kayla sat in silence, trying and failing to understand what was happening. Eventually, he stopped abruptly and turned to face his daughter. His voice was calmer now, more measured. His tone, however, was still strangled, almost manic. “This was never supposed to happen.”

“So you said,” Kayla replied coolly.

“It all seemed so simple, so easy. Nothing could possibly go wrong. We had it all worked out; it was a simple solution. But you know what they say about things that seem too good to be true.”

“They usually are?”

“Yep. I sure learned that the hard way.” Mark ran his hands through his thinning air and gazed skyward. As he lifted his arms, the dark purple sweat patches spread even farther down his shirt. “Fuck.
Fuck
.”

“Dad,” Kayla whispered. “Tell me. Please.”

His voice quivered. “I tried so hard to keep you from finding out. So hard. You have no idea . . .” His eyes were wide, popping out of his skull. “Knowledge isn’t power, Kayla. Knowledge kills.”

She could have sworn the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Goose bumps tickled her arms and a cold sweat trickled down her spine. The dusty smell of old books was half nostalgic, half suffocating. “What are you talking about?”

Tears started to stream down Mark’s face. His mouth remained open, threatening to howl like a wounded wolf. Kayla couldn’t help but cringe—­nothing made her shudder quite like the sight of her father crying.

For a while it looked like he might throw up. Then his pacing resumed.

This time when he spoke, his voice was quiet. Distant, like he was sleep-­talking. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now. You’d figure it out for yourself, anyway, soon enough. Soon enough. Oh, Mark. Mark, Mark, Mark. You always knew this would happen.” He stopped walking and sat on the edge of the desk, facing away from Kayla, rocking steadily with his eyes closed. He looked deranged.

“Kayla . . . you know how important the family business is to me. It’s my life, and it was your grandfather’s life too. He built Finch Marketing from the ground up, then he left it all to me, right after we joined hands with Greyhawk Financial.”

“Wait. All this is about
business
?” Kayla asked furiously.

Mark’s eyes shot open. “Are you going to let me explain or not?” Kayla said nothing, terrified she’d broken the trancelike state in which he seemed ready to finally explain. His rocking movement continued. “All I’ve ever wanted was to do right by him. Your grandfather was a great man. I wish you could have gotten to know him better, Kayla. He would have loved you. He was so wise, so generous, so loyal. So unlike me. I was never cut out for the business world. Not in the way he was. I’ve always been weak-­minded. Easily influenced.

“So when Greyfinch started struggling shortly after my dad died, and Eric Walsh—­the CEO of Greyhawk Financial—­came to me with a solution . . . I crumbled. I knew it was far from ideal, and it was incredibly dodgy, but I was weak. Overwhelmed by grief, my own young family, and a badly bruised ego. I should have said no—­hindsight is a fine thing, I guess—­but I didn’t. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret that decision. Not one day.”

Kayla could hardly breathe. “What did you do, Dad?”

Mark swallowed hard. His throat was dry and raspy. “Think about it, Kayla. We had control over every single camera in the United Kingdom. The only ­people who could access the footage were regional police chiefs. Good guys. That was always the intention—­we wanted to provide a pure, functional system that benefitted everyone, and could also turn over a profit. That’s it. We never wanted more than that. We knew such a system was open for bribes and blackmail, of course we did. But we trusted our police chiefs and we trusted ourselves. I thought that was enough. I was wrong.” Mark thumped his forehead three times with the heel of his hand. “My God, was I wrong.”

Although it could only have lasted thirty seconds or so, the silence that followed seemed to last an eternity. “Th-­The running costs,”: he finally went on, “they were much higher than we anticipated, Kayla. We barely made a penny. O-­Our marketing staff was overwhelmed by the pressure, the strain, so we had to keep hiring more and more to deal with the sheer quantity of reports we were being hired to produce. But the extra staff . . . they ate into profit margins, and the money for most jobs didn’t come in straight away. We had to have a whole department dedicated to chasing debt. We were being swallowed under, but it wasn’t just about us any more . . . it was about our country. Our
country
, Kayla. So when . . . when we were in our most desperate hour, and an offer came in that could solve all of our financial problems . . . you can see why we faltered.”

“What was the offer?” Kayla was still struggling to keep up.

Mark paused, again for a gaping stretch of time that was so silent it felt like a vacuum.

“Dad?”

Mark lowered his voice, as though saying it quietly would somehow dull the impact of his words. “It was an anonymous data request from someone outside the police force. We get them a lot. Husbands determined to catch their cheating wives, bosses checking whether their employees really were off sick and not just away on holiday, that kind of thing. We always ignore them. But this one was different. It was an e-­mail, sent directly to the request account. It simply said: ‘I need last night’s footage from camera number C1029K to be doctored. I’ll pay one million pounds.’ Obviously, we looked to see what was on that footage. It was basically nothing, an empty back alley mostly. The only thing of note was a man in a stained yellow hoodie running past the camera at five past eleven. You couldn’t even see his face that clearly.”

Kayla felt sick. “So you took the money.”

Mark closed his eyes. “Yes. We altered the footage so there was never a man running down the street, and the million was transferred into our account. I paid our head accountant to keep it under the radar, make it look legitimate, and we got away with it. For a while our problems eased off. We had cash-­flow again.”

“Did you ever find out why the person wanted it changed? Was it another cheating husband scenario?”

“That’s where it started to get messy. A week later, I was checking the news Web sites and happened to notice a small news story in the regional section, about a missing-­person-­turned-­murder case. The body was found on the next street from the alleyway whose CCTV footage we doctored. I’m willing to bet the murderer didn’t want to be implicated. We never did find out who it was, exactly, but they must have had serious cash lying round to be able to cough up that amount of money just to keep themselves out of jail. Either that or it was an investment by a very smart man. It turned out to be the latter.”

Kayla frowned. There was a lot to take in, and none of it seemed to be making any sense. “What do you mean?”

“My heart sank as soon as I read that news story. We’d been bribed, and we’d taken it. As a result, we’d set ourselves up for a massive blackmail opportunity.”

“I still don’t get it.”

Mark sighed. “Think about it. We’d allowed ourselves to be bribed, and the murderer had evidence of this happening. He could have exploited us at any moment. Told the police or the press. We’d all have been arrested. Jailed. It was
treason
. But instead, he used his knowledge as a bargaining chip. Sure enough, a month after the story had broken, the demands started pouring in. First, he wanted his money back, or he’d leak his story. He’d tell the world that the most powerful surveillance system in the world was corrupt. So we obliged. Then he wanted another million. Then . . . then he wanted information.”