The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

Outside, the sun shone brightly through a fine mist of drizzle. She could almost smell the damp grass and flower beds of the hospital grounds below. Spring suffused the world beyond the airless, seasonless confines of this room, and she listened to the sounds of the hospital: the bleeps of the machine next to her bed, the brisk clip-clop of a passing stranger’s shoes, the continual swish and thump of unseen swing doors.

She felt utterly, horribly alone—who would visit her? Who would even know that she was here? Did her parents know? Would they come? She was surprised how desperately she wanted to see them. She closed her eyes, trying to fight the waves of anxiety, and when she opened them, she found Mac standing at her door, his familiar face triggering such a rush of relief in Clara that she had to choke back a sob. He crossed the room in three quick strides and, when he reached her, took her hand in his. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I had no idea you were here. Anderson told me and I came straight over. I phoned Zoe—she’s on her way too.” He stared down at her, and she saw that he was dangerously close to tears. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you.”

“God, it’s so good to see you,” she told him. “I’m fine, I’m fine, and don’t be silly—this is hardly your fault. But what about you? I’ve been so worried. How’s your head?”

He grimaced and turned to show a large shaved area of scalp, the exposed white skin severed by an ugly scar. “Attractive, huh?”

Her eyes widened. “Jesus. What did the doctors—?”

“It’s just a scrape,” he said, waving her concern away. “I’m far more worried about you. Anderson said you’re going to be okay, but how do you feel?”

“I’m so scared, Mac. Who’d want to kill me, or hurt you? Who the fuck is doing this to us?”

He took the seat Anderson had just vacated and put his face in his hands, taking a long breath. “I wish I knew,” he said at last. Reaching over, he squeezed her hand. “Tell me about the fire. What happened exactly?”

So she described how she’d woken to billowing smoke, the sight of Alison looming over her. “Anderson said she saved me, but who on earth started it?” When he shrugged helplessly, she asked, “And how about you? Do you have any idea who hit you? Did you see who it was?”

“No. I was standing in the kitchen with my back to the door. It all happened so quickly. I had music playing; the kettle was boiling; whoever it was crept up behind me. . . .” Tiredly he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been back to my flat. It’s a right state.”

She leaned forward. “Was anything missing? I think whoever it was must have taken the key to my flat—that’s how they got in. It was in my bag in your spare room. Did it look like someone had been through it?”

“I don’t know. Everything was a complete mess, but I’ll check when I get back.”

“And nothing of yours was taken?”

“My Leica’s missing—you know the one I take everywhere with me? Why, out of everything, out of all the expensive kit I’ve got in my flat, they’d only take that, I’ve no idea.”

She hesitated. “Look, this is going to sound crazy, but I think it’s Tom. I think Tom did all this.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Tom? Why?”

Quickly she told him about Emily’s visit, the panic and fear she’d seen on her face when Tom had called to say he was on his way over. “She had the most awful scars on her back,” she said, shuddering as she remembered Emily’s disfigured skin. “She said it had happened before she left home all those years ago. Mac, I think Tom’s got something to do with why she’s too scared to go back to her family. The look on her face when she thought he was coming over—seriously, she was absolutely terrified. And before—when my flat got broken into—Tom turned up straight afterward out of the blue. Then he called me and said he’d been around to yours the morning you were attacked. He’s been in London every single time something weird or awful has happened. Surely that’s got to be more than a coincidence?”

Mac stared at her. “I’ve known him for years. I just . . . I mean, why would he . . . ?”

The door opened at that moment and Clara started in surprise. “Alison!”

Her neighbor stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. “I’ve been discharged, so I thought I’d come and . . .” She trailed off, her eyes shifting nervously from Clara’s face to Mac’s to the floor.

“Are you okay? Were you hurt?” Mac asked, breaking the surprised silence.

Alison shook her head. “No, not really.”

In the harsh brightness of this room she seemed even more wraithlike than ever, Clara thought, but her face, scrubbed clean now, looked far younger and prettier without its customary mask of makeup. Clara stared at her wordlessly, not knowing what to say to this woman who had saved her life yet had always been so prickly and antagonistic toward her. “The police told me what you did,” she said at last. “I don’t know what to say. . . .”

Alison shrugged. “It was the people downstairs who found you. It was them, really, not me.”

Clara nodded. “Still . . . I mean, thank you—it doesn’t seem enough somehow, but thank you.”

No one said anything for a moment or two, until Alison mumbled, “Well, anyway . . .” She moved as if to leave, and Clara and Mac exchanged a glance.

“Wait,” Clara said, then with effort pulled herself out of bed, wrapping her thin gown around her as she went to her. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

But instead of answering, Alison suddenly blurted, the words escaping from her mouth almost involuntarily, “Have they found