McNab had a few questions for Robbie too. Regarding McLaughlin’s musings. Plus the interesting fact that it had been Robbie who’d been McLaughlin’s alibi for Mary’s disappearance.

51

She was dreaming. Either that or she was dead.

She was running towards the den because Mary was waiting there for her. They would be together again. She would say she was sorry. She would make amends. Her sins would be forgiven. She couldn’t bring Mary back to life, but she could join her in death.

But just as she ran faster and faster, a figure stepped out to stop her.

A man whose voice sounded familiar, although it came from long, long ago.

Then she was back at the wedding, watching, waiting. She wasn’t wearing the white dress her sister had wanted her to put on. Her mother and sister had pleaded with her, shouted at her, threatened that she wouldn’t go to the wedding at all unless she wore that dress.

Then she’d screamed at them the reason why she wouldn’t wear the bloody dress.

Her shocked mother’s face floated in front of her. Eleanor’s voice called her a liar. After that they’d retreated and her father had been called.

Sending the two women away, he’d come and sat beside her on the bed.

‘It’s because of Mary, isn’t it?’

It was, but not the way he thought.

She wanted to tell him everything, but horror and shock closed her throat again.

The dream, for it was a dream, abruptly ended there and her eyes sprang open to darkness. She was lying somewhere in the dark. Her searching fingers touched something soft and Karen realized she was in a bed.

Was it her bed? Was she back in Rowan Cottage?

She reached out for Jack, but of course he wasn’t there.

He would never be there again.

She dragged herself up and cried out in pain as her left wrist buckled under her.

She was hurt. Why was she hurt?

An image appeared, shocking in its power. She was ducking as the crow flew at her, cawing, its claws catching in her hair. The knife, already in the act of slicing her wrist, clattering into the sink. Then the spray of blood like a filigree fan. She smelled metal, tasted it on her lips.

The bird wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let her pick up the knife again. Wouldn’t let her finish the job.

So she’d run outside, flailing, trying to get free of the crow. She was running along the path and then . . . nothing . . . until the woods and Jack’s grave. And what he’d reminded her of.

The innocents.

What had she been planning to tell the police? Who had killed Mary? But she didn’t know. Or she couldn’t be sure.

But you suspect, a small voice said. You suspect you know.

I was a child, she heard herself repeat. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t know.

A line of light appeared in the darkness and Karen realized a door had just opened. Someone was here with her, but who?