Destroy Me Karen Cole (guided reading books txt) 📖

so tired of bearing this by myself. I need to talk to someone, and despite everything, Theo is still my closest friend and the person I trust the most in the world. I take a deep breath. ‘It’s not just Delilah,’ I say. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you about Charlotte Holbrooke, the murder at Cecily House . . .’

He looks alarmed. I can see the cogs whirring in his brain. God knows what’s going through his head. Maybe he expects me to confess to Charlie’s murder.

‘When I said I didn’t know Charlotte Holbrooke, I was lying,’ I say. ‘She was an old school friend, but I hadn’t seen her for years, not since we were eighteen.’

‘I see,’ Theo says slowly. ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

I plough on. The words spew out. I want to tell him everything before I change my mind. ‘The summer before we left for university, I went to an end-of-term party with Charlie. I drove because I was the only one who had a licence at the time. At the party we drank a lot. We were planning to sleep over but, well for complicated reasons, we ended up driving home in the early hours of the morning and we had an accident. A girl was killed.’

There’s an appalled silence. Theo is staring at me open-mouthed. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the shock and disillusionment on his face.

‘There was nothing we could do. We were on a lonely country road and she just appeared from nowhere – this little girl. I braked, but it was too late.’

As I’m speaking, I fight a wave of nausea so intense it feels as if I might throw up all my internal organs. I grip the chair and look down at the carpet, focusing on a small speck of dust, willing myself not to be sick.

When the nausea has passed, I raise my head and I’m relieved to see that Theo’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his hands instead, lacing and unlacing his fingers, a dark, brooding expression on his face.

‘What happened then? Did you call an ambulance?’ he asks quietly.

I stand up and move to the window, stare out at the road. ‘No, what would have been the point? She was already dead.’

‘What about the police?’

I shake my head. ‘Charlie persuaded me not to. I’d been drinking. I’d have been charged with manslaughter. I’d have gone to prison. My life would’ve been ruined.’ I turn and look at him pleadingly, begging him silently to understand. ‘We made the decision to drive on and pretend it had never happened.’

‘Oh my God, Cat.’ Theo shakes his head in disbelief. ‘And you never told anyone about this?’

‘I know what we did was wrong, but we were so young, barely more than kids ourselves.’

There’s a long silence. Eventually, he looks at me. His expression is hard to read. ‘Jesus, Cat. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Do you hate me?’ My voice is small, pathetic. I hate myself, I realise.

‘No, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, but this is serious stuff. It’s a hit and run. My God.’ He rubs his hand through his hair so it’s sticking up on end. ‘You should have told someone.’

I see myself through his eyes, diminished in his estimation. I know he thought of me as a truthful person. It was a joke between us how bad I was at lying. It was one of the things he said he loved about me. My honesty.

‘It wouldn’t have done the little girl any good. Believe me, if I thought I could do something to make it right, I would.’

He stands up, paces the room, cracking his knuckles. It’s what he does when he’s stressed, a habit that used to drive me nuts.

‘But I still don’t see,’ he says slowly. ‘What has all this got to do with your friend’s murder?’

‘Don’t you see? It’s the only thing that explains every­thing – the murder, the photofit, the pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

I explain about the photos in Dylan’s book bag and the messages sent by George Wilkinson. ‘I think he’s a fake,’ I say. ‘That he’s really someone related to the little girl who died. Her brother or her sister, maybe as a message or a warning.’

Theo looks doubtful. I know him well enough to read his thoughts. Right now, he’s worried I’m losing my marbles. Women – scratch the surface and they’re all emotionally unstable. I know that’s what he thinks. Not because he’s ever actually said that in so many words, but because of small throwaway comments he’s made over the years.

‘But how would they know it was you who killed her? No one knew, right?’

‘I don’t know how. I think Charlie must have told someone. Anyway, however they found out, they know and—’

‘Let me get this straight.’ Theo says. ‘You think this person murdered Charlie and then tried to frame you for her murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know how nuts that sounds, Cat? Are you sure that you’re not reading too much into all this? I mean maybe it’s because you feel so guilty about what happened—’

‘Oh, spare me the amateur psychology.’ I fish the last photo – the snapshot of the road – out of my handbag and thrust it under his nose. ‘Look. It’s just a nondescript stretch of road. There’s nothing there. No reason why anybody would send it – apart from the fact it’s where she died.’

Theo examines the picture carefully. He’s thinking hard. ‘I don’t know,’ he sighs at last. ‘Perhaps you should take it to the police.’

‘I can’t. Don’t you see? I would have to explain about the accident and then I’d go to jail.’ I’m suddenly frightened, doubtful of my trust in him. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone either. Just imagine what it would do to Dylan.’

There’s a pause. Theo is a person who weighs every decision logically. I hold my breath. His loyalty is by no means a foregone conclusion. But Dylan is my trump card. Like