Destroy Me Karen Cole (guided reading books txt) 📖

After that, the rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. I lost track of Charlie, May Ling and Jenson and ended up talking to a bunch of friends of Nessa’s brother on the stairs. One of them, a boy called Josh, made a clumsy pass at me and we kissed on the stairs, teeth bumping awkwardly. Feeling buoyed by his attention and drunk enough not to really care what happened, I decided to go and find James.

‘Have you seen James White?’ I asked, wandering into the living room.

No one seemed to have seen him for a while, but eventually someone pointed me in the direction of the garden. ‘He’s out there, I think.’

Outside, the air was deliciously cool, and it was breathlessly quiet. There was no traffic noise, just the chirrup of crickets and frogs from the garden pond. The moon was like a fat gold globe above the trees and the stars were clearly visible in the velvet-black sky. Solar lamps were surrounded by a haze of moths and other insects hung from the trees. It felt magical, like stepping into another world. A night for falling in love, I thought, drunkenly as I stumbled down the garden path. Maybe I’d ask James for a kiss. We’d kissed once before but that had been in a game of spin the bottle and was just a peck on the lips, so it didn’t really count. About halfway down the path, I heard laughter and someone murmuring in a low voice. The end of the garden was divided off by a high hedge and surrounded by trees. It was darker than the rest of the garden and difficult to see. But as I pushed my way through the gap in the hedge, I heard a strange, guttural noise.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the darkness and made out a bench, a white statue of an owl and two naked bodies entwined. It took me a while to make sense of what I was seeing. James was facing me but blind to everything, his face contorted in what looked like pain. The girl he was with was sitting, legs straddled across his thighs. Her head was thrown back, long red-brown hair tumbling down her white, curved back.

I gave a small involuntary gasp and the girl froze, then turned and stared at me, her eyes wide with shock.

‘Cat . . .’ she said. But she didn’t need to speak, and I didn’t need to see her face to know that it was Charlie.

Seventeen

I must admit that I wasn’t completely honest with the police. It’s true that I have no idea who sent them the picture – God knows I wish I did. But I may have an inkling about why.

In the car on the way home, I try to examine my theory in a calm and rational way, but my stomach is churning with anxiety and my hands are gripping the wheel as if I’m holding on to a lifebelt. Everything seems to be spiralling out of my control. The messages from George Wilkinson, the photo of the park in Dylan’s book bag and the photo of Nessa’s house. Were they all sent by the same person? And if so, why? The only possible connection between the two places that I can think of is the night of Nessa’s party, the summer of 2002. The park, the pub and then Nessa’s house. It’s almost like someone’s creating a photographic record of my movements that night. They’re sending me a message and the message is clear: they know what happened.

But why? For what purpose? Revenge? Blackmail?

By the time I’m almost home I’ve convinced myself that I must be mistaken. How could anyone possibly know? Only Charlie and I know what happened that night and Charlie’s dead. I cling on to this fact and the idea that it’s all in my head. It’s so much better than the alternative.

Feeling calmer, I park opposite my house. There’s a van blocking my parking space, but I’m so preoccupied that I don’t immediately clock that it’s a news van.

Stepping out of my car, I’m bombarded by a barrage of reporters. There’s at least six of them, including photographers holding cameras with large lenses. And they chase me across the road, thrusting microphones into my face.

‘Mrs Bayntun. Catherine Bayntun. Can we have a quick word?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ I duck my head and keep my eyes firmly on the ground, shielding my face with my handbag.

As I scramble to my gate, I notice the van has the logo of a national TV news station on it.

Shit.

‘Mrs Bayntun,’ a man shouts after me, as I dash up the path and fumble with my key in the lock. ‘Do you know anything about the murder of Charlotte Holbrooke? You were school friends, is that right?’

‘Can you explain why you were seen outside her flat on the night of her murder?’

‘Did you kill Charlotte Holbrooke, Catherine?’

I don’t answer. I lunge through the door, slamming it behind me, my heart pumping hard. For a few seconds I lean against the door, trying to breathe, trying to work out what to do. Should I phone someone? Theo maybe? Or the police? Are these reporters even allowed to be here? Isn’t this tantamount to harassment? After a few moments, paralysed by indecision, I go to the front room and peer out of the window. Bastards. They are hanging around outside, chatting and laughing, waiting for God knows what. I can’t believe I was ever part of this profession. They’re parasites, feeding off the misery of others. I remember with an uncomfortable churning in my belly a time when I was working at the Gazette. A two-year-old boy had been killed by a falling pylon. I wrote a short article describing simply what had happened, but my boss said it was too dry and wanted me to get a quote from one of the relatives. Even though