Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller by Jane Holland Read Free Book Online

the house if I do need anything.’
    Connor
hesitates, then nods. ‘Of course.’ He nudges Tris. ‘Come on, let’s give the
woman some space. We’ve got to shift the sheep down from the top field anyway.’
    Tris,
who has never done this before, looks at me with an uncertain expression. ‘Are
you sure, Ellie? Because we can stay if you want.’
    ‘Go,
both of you.’
    Connor kisses me on the cheek and heads back
outside to the quad bike, whistling an old Cornish tune. He’s probably already
thinking about his sheep.
    Tris
hovers in the kitchen doorway, still unwilling to leave me alone, bless him. ‘But
what happens now?’
    My head is still in the green space of the woods,
but I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s one of those fake antique
clocks with a large face and stiff black hands, the kind you might find in a
Victorian railway station. One of Hannah’s discoveries at the local garden
centre. The time is a little after half past nine. I’ve been awake less than
three hours.
    ‘Now we wait until they find her.’

 
    Much as I have
always relied on my old friends to keep me sane, it’s good to be on my own for
a while. I ring the school and check with the cover supervisor that he does not
need me to email any instructions for the lessons I’m missing. He doesn’t,
which is a relief. I chuck my sticky running gear in the bathroom wash basket, one
of those tall wicker baskets with a lid that look like they’re concealing a
snake, then take a leisurely fifteen minutes to shower and wash my hair.
    As
the warm water runs over me, I close my eyes. The darkness comes back and I push
it away with an effort. Ten, nine, eight,
seven …
    After
the shower, I drag a bath towel from the shelf and wrap it round myself, anchoring
it above my breasts. When I pad through barefoot into the bedroom, everything
is just as I left it this morning.
    I
pick up my phone from the crumpled bed. Several concerned voice messages from
the school, a text from Connor – We
love you, even if you do see dead people. Call us anytime – and a
monthly notification about my bill, which I don’t bother to open.
    Still
nothing from Denzil.
    I
root for matching bra and knickers in my drawer, then change into jeans and a
strappy gold top. My weekend wear. It feels odd on a work day, but then I am
hardly likely to be going into work today.
    Carefully,
I hang my work clothes back up in the wardrobe. A grey tracksuit with a pink
V-necked polo shirt underneath: typical PE teacher fare. My damp Mizuno trainers
are sitting on an old newspaper near the door. I study them a moment, then choose
a fresh pair from the box under the bed. Nike, with a pink stripe. A little
worn on the instep, but perfectly good for casual wear.
    I
towel-dry my hair for speed, then fix it up in a ponytail again. I don’t bother
with make-up. I rarely do these days, unless I’m going out for the night.

 
    There are two
vehicles parked in the turning area by the time I walk down the stairs after my
shower: a black Vauxhall Corsa, tinted windscreen glinting in the sunlight, and
a marked police transit van. A small group of men is standing beside the police
van, some in uniform, their heads bent together, deep in conversation.
    One
of the men is Carrick. Another is my father.
    I
stand in the hallway a moment, staring at them through the glass panel, then
open the front door. ‘Hello?’
    Dad stops speaking. I can’t decipher the look
on his face as he glances in my direction. Guilt? Suspicion?
    The
man in the light grey suit has turned as well, staring at me. His eyebrows rise
slowly.
    Suddenly I recognise him. DI Powell.
    My
stomach pitches, rolling horribly. It’s like I’ve stepped straight back into
the past, into a time when our world was falling apart around us and there was
nothing to cling onto, no safety rope.
    Just
when I thought things could get no worse, a vision right out of my childhood
nightmares has appeared to prove me