Chapter 12 - Daisy

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Cole really breaks my heart when he looks like this, all forlorn and cute. It’s honestly one of those puppy-dog moments. He’s like Eeyore. 

If Eeyore had a stick up his ass. Which I think would have made for a very different book. 

It breaks my heart. If I was that way inclined, I’d let him catch me just to see his ikkle face light up. 

But conjugal visits are so difficult to be granted when you’re not married, so poor Cole will just have to take his small wins for a bit. 

As for me, I delight in knowing that I’ve given him a titchy clue that might help him out a bit- and really boost my ego. When he catches Eliza as the leak, he’ll feel a little higher and he’ll be free to be mine. 

I might have my issues, but cheating is a line I just won’t cross. 

My upper lip curls instinctively as I walk, thinking about her. Her and the stupid little dilemma she dumped on me last night. How could you be so stupid, Eliza? Why couldn’t you just have been cheating on Cole like I thought you were? 

I had been thrilled, doing a little dance in my hiding space in Uncle M’s office while Cole had had the bullpen fingerprinted painstakingly for hours. Cole will dump her the moment he finds out. No question. I barely need to do a damn thing. 

But then I realised. 

She’ll get fired too. 

And… as much as I hate to admit it, she’s a pretty good cop. 

I’d looked over at the case files on her desk. She works domestic violence cases. Each of the files are women and men… children who need someone to stick their neck out for them. 

And Eliza’s good at that. 

Technically, she’s done this to herself. Technically. She knew the risks when she started selling info to the reporter. 

I sigh, my pace quickening as the sky darkens overhead. I want to get to the care centre before the rain starts, nothing is worse than stalking someone when you’re wet. Nothing. 

So… the woman who has my man had left me with a dilemma, one which I really don’t know what to do with. And I’m rarely lost for things to do. Do I out her now? Break them up, take Cole and let her already over-laden colleagues take her workload? 

I stop under a cafe awning overlooking the care home as I think about the case files she’d piled up on her desk. Broke my heart. Almost all of them had some kind of note on them “Closed: Won’t press charges.”, “Closed: pulled statement” and the worst “Passed on to homicide.” 

I know the stats and the job she does isn’t easy. There was only really one in the pile that I thought I could help with. As I keep half an eye on the door in front of me, I take out my phone and flick through the hasty pictures I’d taken while Cole slept. 

Typical domestic case, really. Man beats wife. Wife protects man. Even though he’s a prick who deserves to eat his own large intestine. 

The thing that set this apart was that Eliza had refused to close it. It had several recounts of statements from the wife, several times where she had turned down help. Over and over. Yet Eliza hadn’t closed it. The edge of this case file was worn, dog-eared and creased like she’d carried it around in her handbag, held it, read it late at night. 

The rain pours and I use the excuse to put up an umbrella, even though I’m under the awning, concealing my face a little bit. 

What was it she thought she could do to close this case that hadn’t already been done? The victim has been in and out of hospital five times, broken bones, cuts, bruises, even one suspicious miscarriage which I don’t want to think about. She’s even been in jail before herself for domestic violence, which has her husband written all over it, and when she’d got out, she’d gone straight back to him. 

So why does Eliza think it can be closed favourably? Or is it she just can’t let this one go? 

I know that feeling. 

The door to the care home opens and my twenty-something soon-to-be guest steps out into the rain with her shoulders high about her ears, running straight towards me. She’s stupid. Young. Cruel. The kind of cruel you don’t learn, you just are. 

Her hair is too short for her head and curls into her ears on both sides. She doesn’t suit it, nor does she suit the purple. Perhaps she was going for quirky, but instead she looks like a lollipop. 

She gives me a polite smile as I move out of her way to let her out of the rain into the cafe, and her overbearingly cheap perfume hits my senses. It smells like body spray, like someone bottled what flowers are supposed to smell like rather than what they actually do smell like, and then gave her a shower in it. 

I don’t hate her because she’s a plain-lollipop-flower-stinking-idiot. No, I hate her because of what she does.

Caring isn’t for everyone. Hats right off to those who do it and do it well. Must be draining to look after men and women nearing the end of their lives, dealing with their lack of memories and their violent attacks of confusion, not to mention more physical things like lifting or cleaning someone who is in agony and just doesn’t want to be touched. I certainly wouldn’t want to go after people who did that job well. 

Or who even does that job for a while, realise how hard it is and quit. Please, by all means. What I don’t get is how Chelsie Dennis here can go for five years in the profession, with all the complaints mounting against her from family members and yet raking in the promotions. 

Making sure Chelsie is stuck in the long cue behind me, I stride over into the care home and through the double doors like I own the place. The reception is clean, clinical and boring. Shutterstock images that may as well have been printed from a xerox machine sit on the walls like there’s just been an earthquake, but there’s not enough in the space, except for two cardboard and foam armchairs, nothing to make it look untidy.

Behind the desk is Mandy, another young woman, thinking about running from the profession that has her here fifty hours a week. At least she cares a little.

I start to walk past her desk with a throwaway comment that will tell her I’ve spoken to her before- I haven’t. “Hey! How are you? Oh! How’s your dog, Cindy?” It’s a cute dog on her Insta, little Jack Russel. Reminds me of Cole. 

And with cultural obligations done, I walk straight into the care home, which stinks of disinfectant and has about as much personality as a brick, and into room 32 at the end of the hall. The man in the bed won’t know I’m here as I grab the camera I’ve hidden on the bookshelf. He’s permanently half asleep. Had a great life, had three wives- all of whom still visit him in this very care home, which is cute. 

That camera grabbed. I walk back out into the hallway and up the stairs to room 147, where Mrs. Donnaly sits in her wheelchair. She’s non-verbal, so she can’t say, but she’s been pushed right up to a plain white wall. Knowing Chelsie, she’s been there for hours staring at paint. I make sure I steer her over to the window where she can see the garden- she used to be a horticulturist, used to work in the city’s famous poison garden, which is awesome. As I grab the camera from her doorframe, I hear her give a soft sigh of contentment. Bless. 

My last room sits empty now, and my heart gives a little creak of sadness for the woman who sat there hurtling insults at me when I installed the camera. Nice lady. Called me fat though, which I felt was below the belt. The room sits bare, clean, and ready for the next occupant. Next victim of Chelsie’s if I don’t act quickly enough. 

I reach up to the camera, thankfully undisturbed on the shelf, and tuck it into my bag. All three cameras collected. I pull open the room door and step out into the disinfectant-smelling hallway. Only it doesn’t smell of disinfectant. This time it smells of flowers. 

Or what flowers should smell like. 

“Hello.” says Chelsie Dennis from behind me and I whirl around to look her in the face, only two steps away from me, her thin lips in a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Can I help you?” 

“Hello. Uh-” My heart is racing with the thrill. Caught by my own guest- what a delightful change to my normal pattern. “Actually, yes, I was wondering what happened to Mrs. Sandusky?” 

Her head tilts, her eyes narrow. “Are you family?” she asks. She has to. It is her job. If only she did the rest of her job with the same amount of passion. 

“I am yes, I’m Lynn, her niece.” Does Mrs. Sandusky have a niece called Lynn? I doubt it. Be cool if it turned out to be the case though, wouldn’t it?

Chelsie just nods in exaggerated slow motion. She doesn’t trust me. I’m used to that when my mask is down. Something about the way I look at them just sets the hairs on the back of their neck on end. Some long-forgotten, evolutionary-destroyed part of her brain is telling Chelsie right now that I’m a predator. Somewhere in the airy space between her ears, some part of her knows I’m going to kill her.

Her pupils constrict to pinpoints as they search my face for whatever it is that gives her chills. It’s a sight I know well, a sight that makes my whole body react. 

Fear. 

Fear without understanding. 

It’s deep, it’s primal, and it tastes like candy. 

“I’m afraid Mrs. Sandusky passed away this morning. She wasn’t in a good way for quite a while.” And Chelsie’s own mask is back on, professional, sympathetic, kind, lies. “Would you like to have a cup of tea and a sit down?” 

My hand flies to my chest, perhaps a bit too soon, and I gasp. “Oh! I- I- hadn’t heard. I’ve just come back into the country, you see…” I milk the hiccuping breath and pinched eyebrows for a moment. “Does Angelina know?” 

The drop of Sandusky’s daughter’s name eases Chelsie’s mind visibly, and her muscles relax slightly and she leans on one leg. 

“Yes, we let her know this morning. I’m sure she’s just getting around to calling family,” she says and I bob my head up and down, keeping those eyebrows pinched just so. 

“Of course. My God. Poor Angelina,” I say as though we were in church. “I- I’m so sorry to disturb you. Thank you so much…” I give a slight hiccup. “For taking such good care of Auntie Carol.” I might have taken the pitch of my voice a little too high, but Chelsie doesn’t seem to care. Her guard is well and truly down now and she’s just thinking about all the other things she’s got to do with her time. “Truly. Thank you for your time.” 

I say and, still making sobbing-like sounds; I turn and walk away from her down the hallway, through reception and out into the rain. 

When I’m dried up, nursing a glass of wine and stroking a pug’s ears several hours later, I glance at my To-Do List: 

Find evidence to help close Eliza’s last case. 

Show Cole exactly who Eliza is. 

Find out what happened in Rhaduat when I visit his therapist tomorrow. 

Make Cole fall in love with me

Horrifically murder Chelsie Dennis

Live happily ever after. 

I take a sip of my wine as the video footage loads. It’s a busy life. No rest for the wicked, as they say.