She spent two days in her childhood home. Haunting it like a frail, quiet imitation of the spirited, willful girl she'd been when she'd lived there. Like the dreams haunted her.
The glass shattering in the door, the hand reaching through to undo the lock. She hadn't gone easy. She'd hit that hand with…whatever was in reach, she supposed. It had all been so fast, so unexpected. And, yet, there'd been a constable outside, Robbie's solemn 'Laura, be careful' as he'd walked her to her car after leaving Ellen's bedside, the ominous turn of events…that shattered glass, that man bursting through the door and chasing her through the hall, grabbing her, pulling her from the house, throwing her into the van—it should not have been unexpected. She should have been ready, she shouldn't have depended on the man outside, she shouldn't have expected Robbie to do the impossible and make it all go away.
No, she should have known there was worse to come. Worse. "Laura, we've known each a long time…as colleagues, and…well—friends, I hope there's nothing else you can think of that I ought to know?"
She hadn't thought there was much that could be worse than that. Ligeia dead, Ellen in hospital, unconscious and battered, and Robbie telling her in his kind, soft-spoken way that he didn't trust her, that he believed her capable of lying to him. And her standing there, not able to come up with a word in her own defense because if he of all people could believe her somehow involved in this mess, if he…
If it had been the other way, even if he was caught with blood on his hands and every shred of evidence pointed to him as a murderer—she'd never have believed it of him. She'd never have questioned his integrity or the truth of his words. Never. She'd had nothing to say in answer to his question, because if she'd opened her mouth the pain of it would have come out in hot, stinging tears.
And the interview at her table over the phone calls. Him asking her—her—for her alibi…she'd been as hurt as she'd been angry. More even. She'd covered it with indignation and exasperation, but the interview had cut her deeply.
Yet, she'd known, even if she wouldn't have heard the reluctance in his voice, that he'd had no choice. "It's procedure," he'd said, pleading with her to understand that he wanted no part in what he was doing. And she had understood. She'd heard through the car window Innocent's demands that he question her as long ago as that day in Nethermoor Avenue. She knew he'd fought against the need to ask those questions. Still. They'd hurt.
That was a good part of what his job was about…asking questions no one wanted to answer, facing their indignation and lies and stonewalling, and what must he have thought of her? Hadn't made it easy for him, had she? She'd known he hadn't wanted to be there anymore than she had, and yet, she'd put the blame on him.
That hadn't stopped him coming for her. Him and James, white knights in suit coats racing to her rescue. She owed them her life.
More than that, she owed him an apology. How would he ever trust her again? And trust, to Robbie Lewis, was just about everything. Lies and cover-ups—he saw the damage they did every day at work; he needed to be able to believe the people around him were different than that. But, she'd stood there silently and let him think who knew what, and then she'd come close to spitting at him when she should have just accepted his questions had to be asked. She wasn't one of those people who would lie and cover things up…she'd always been prepared to face up to whatever she'd done and take the consequences, but how was he to know that? She'd had nothing to hide, but she'd stormed and thrown up a protective front before his questions just as though she did…
And, all the time, all he'd wanted to do was stop a murderer before he struck again, protect her, and keep her safe. Safe. She shivered and wondered if she'd ever feel safe again. That shattered glass, that hand through the door—they'd only been the beginning…
"How long do you think you can hold your breath?" the man had asked and then he'd sent her crashing down to land with a rib-cracking thud against the hard dirt and there were dirt walls surrounding her and then that first shovelful of dirt and she'd known…they were going to bury her. Alive.
She had been at her job far too long not to know that some deaths were harder than others. And she was so unready to die. But, that hadn't mattered. The dirt had kept coming, despite her screams, despite her frantic efforts to escape. It had been relentless, and slow…one shovelful at a time, a deliberate, malicious, unstoppable death.
She'd always thought she'd face death well enough. An old—not friend exactly, but they were well-enough acquainted; something to resist and avoid, of course, but with familiarity came understanding and with understanding a certain fearlessness—contempt even, perhaps. She knew its every trick, every process, every step as it took the life from a body; she'd never expected to give it the satisfaction of letting it taste her terror at its approach. She'd never been a coward; she would face it quietly, stoically like she'd faced all the other hard things in her life. No need to turn and run, to cry and blather in the face of death.
But, when it came for her, she'd screamed and fought; wept and despaired. It was the sound of her own screams echoing through her dreams that haunted her more than the weight of the dirt or its bite as it came rushing down to beat against her.
Death was for those who were done living, but in some ways, she had never gotten around to making a start at it. That's what she'd known lying in that grave, being buried alive…she wasn't ready to die. Not that she, of all people, didn't know that readiness had nothing to do with the process. Ready or not, when the time came, there was no stopping it.
And, yet, they had stopped it. She had survived. She was alive. Unfortunately, it was taking time for her to believe it…the doctors had sent her home with a prescription. She could have dulled her fears, given herself time before she faced them—but, she'd been that route before, hadn't she?
"I took a Valium and had an early night," she'd had to confess, and she'd hadn't liked that at all. She'd always seen herself as a strong person; always portrayed herself as a strong person—what had he and Hathaway thought hearing that? So. She hadn't filled the prescription.
Who was Laura Hobson, if she wasn't the strong, fearless person she'd always believed herself to be?
"I'm sorry," she'd apologized to him when he'd climbed into the ambulance beside her after she'd fainted in his arms…that had been good for her self-image, eh? And he'd assured her it was perfectly normal under the circumstances. Still, she'd sat there sniffing back tears and wiping her face on his handkerchief, and felt utterly helpless and ridiculous. It wasn't like she and Ligeia were even close…
And that had been bad enough, but the silence in the street, not even able to open her mouth and speak up for herself for fear she'd burst into tears…and the screams. She'd really let herself down there in that graveyard.
"Phone call, Laura," her mother said. "That's you, darling."
Laura shook herself out of her preoccupation and fumbled for her ringing mobile. It had gone to missed calls before she quite got to it.
Hathaway. Hathaway, who had heard her screams and held her while she'd sobbed uncontrollably. How was she supposed to be able to talk to him if she'd yet to come to grips with those screams herself? Hathaway with his calm assurance in an eternity—he wouldn't go down screaming, would he? Curiously, perhaps; regretfully, maybe; or possibly, even eagerly…but not kicking and screaming. She couldn't imagine talking to him knowing he'd seen her like that; weak, terrified, and very much out of control.
That was her fault, not his. It didn't give her the right to leave him hanging. He'd be worried about her—had she thought to tell anyone where she'd gone off to? No, she'd heard her mother's offer, and she'd taken it up gratefully and never given a thought to what work or friends might think about her disappearing. Or the police—'don't leave town without informing us'—wasn't that what they always told those involved in a violent crime? There'd be interviews and affidavits and who knew what all. She hadn't given it a thought. Just gratefully clutched her mother's hand like a frightened, little girl and ran home.
She saw Hathaway's missed call hadn't been the first. There were several. She weakly smiled at her mum and said, "I guess…I should take these. I'll be in my room."
"Probably best," her mum agreed. "I'll see about tea…if you're up to eating later."