The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

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      8

      Elise

      “The police were here earlier.” When Andrew comes in, I watch his face for a reaction to my announcement; see the split-second freeze before he continues as though it meant nothing. “They were asking about Hollie.”

      This time, his reaction is unmistakeable. “I hope you told them that girl is nothing but trouble.” His voice is abrupt, cold. “She’s probably run off with a boyfriend. We all know she’s more than capable of it.”

      “James is really worried,” I tell him, taken aback by the harshness of his words. “Niamh hasn’t heard from her. It isn’t at all like Hollie to do this.”

      “That’s nonsense, Elise, as you well know. That girl doesn’t care who she upsets.”

      That he could be so utterly callous in the face of a teenage girl’s disappearance appalls me. Then I remember the photo he was looking at on his phone. It was of a girl, not dissimilar to Hollie. Not for the first time, I wonder if my husband is into porn; if maybe that’s why he froze when I mentioned the police visit.

      “Andrew, that photo—” I start, but he cuts me off.

      “That wasn’t what you think it was,” he snaps. “Do you know how many men with frigid wives look at photos of pretty girls?”

      But before I can respond, my phone buzzes. My heart is in my mouth as I see an unknown number flashing up on my screen. Turning away, I answer it.

      “Elise Buckley.” I listen for a moment, glance at Andrew, then walk a few steps away from him. “I’m sorry... I can’t talk right now. Can I call you back?” I speak as quietly as I can, but when I end the call and put my phone down, Andrew’s staring at me.

      “My God.” His words are mocking, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. But I see it for what it is. He isn’t interested. It’s simply a deflection of attention onto me.

      “Whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t that,” I say wearily, knowing there’s nothing Andrew would like more than to point his finger and find me guilty, as if my having an affair would somehow validate his own extramarital activities.

      “Tell me who that was.” He barks it out, an order he expects me to obey. As he comes to stand directly in front of me, his presence is suddenly menacing.

      “No.” Shaking my head, I reach for my phone to keep it away from him.

      “Give me your phone.” Holding his hand out, he tries to snatch it from me.

      Putting my phone in my pocket, I manage to evade him. “It’s nothing to do with you, Andrew.” Summoning all my dignity, I turn away. “Now if you’ll excuse me...” As I start to walk away from him, I’m aware that I’m holding my breath, knowing how much he hates being crossed. But I’ve barely gone two steps before I feel him grab my arm, his fingers closing tightly, roughly pinching my skin. I spin around. “How dare you!” I stare at him, trying not to show my fear. “You’re the one who’s screwing around. You don’t even care who knows it. You’re despicable.” I hear Niamh move around upstairs and shake my arm free of his grip. “There’s only one reason I’m here—and that’s Niamh. You do know that, don’t you?”

      “Lying bitch,” he mutters.

      Hearing Niamh’s footsteps on the stairs, I step back, flashing him a warning look. Then as she comes into the kitchen, I turn toward her. “I was just telling your father about the police being here earlier.” My tone deliberately light, I glance at Andrew. “I’ve told them where the practice is. I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”

      I turn to Niamh again. “I’ve made chicken curry. Can you set the table?” But under my mask of calm, a torrent of anger rages inside me at Andrew’s complete lack of respect for me. I should be upstairs packing, removing myself and Niamh from this toxic house, from Andrew’s life, then calling the police, listing the abuse he inflicts on us. Being here isn’t good for Niamh. But then a sense of powerlessness overwhelms me. Andrew will never let her go. He’s made that clear—nor can I leave her here alone. I’m trapped.

      * * *

      It isn’t until the next day, when Andrew’s at work and Niamh is still in her room, that I return the call from yesterday, dialing the number with shaking hands, sounding matter-of-fact when an unfamiliar voice answers; waiting as I’m connected.

      “Hello. It’s Elise Buckley. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you before.” As I listen, I feel my world slip sideways. “Oh. Friday? I think that’s fine.” Swallowing, I rack my brain as I try to remember when I’m working. “Yes. Thank you.”

      After ending the call, I turn to see Niamh standing there. I wonder how much of the conversation she’s overheard, but I can’t read her face. “Are you OK, Niamh?”

      Going to the fridge, she nods. After getting out СКАЧАТЬ