Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

“Billie?” I called. “It’s Inspector Thatcher. Are you in there?”

I pressed my ear to the door, and over the whirring sound of the heavy cooling machinery, I heard a muffled, “Yes.”

I let out a sigh of relief and pulled at the handle. It didn’t budge. It was locked. I swore, if Freya had locked her in—

The lock scraped, and then the door was pushed towards us with a wheeze and a sigh as the cold air rushed out. Billie was half behind the door, her panicked green eyes staring out at us, her skin pale, lips almost blue. She let out a sob as she saw us, and I took the door from her, offering her my hand. She gripped it with tight, shaking hands, freezing hands, and I guided her out. Crying, she walked into me, gripping me tightly, and I returned her hug, trying to get her warm, trying to get her to stop shaking as Mills peered inside.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said gently, leading her through the kitchen and out into the café. She looked around when we walked out, horror on her face, her hand coming to cover her mouth.

“Agnes will be so sad,” she said, staring at the ruin.

“Agnes will be glad to know you’re alright,” I corrected her, picking up a chair and sitting her down on it. She looked around, shivering violently, and Mills quickly ran into the back room, returning a moment later with a blanket that he draped around her shoulders.

“What happened?” I asked her, sitting down so that we were face-to-face. Billie swallowed, twitching like a bird.

“I don’t— Freya was here,” she said, looking around. “She was talking about Edward. Said that she should have believed us. And that she was fixing it for me and Stella.”

“Fixing what?” I asked.

Billie’s green eyes, red from tears, turned to look at me. “Fixing it. Edward, me. For what happened.”

Mills sat down beside me, his eyes homing in on her blueish fingers that gripped the blanket tightly. “Did she attack you?”

Billie shook her head, opening and closing her mouth a few times. “I told her she needed to leave so that I could clean up. But she said she couldn’t, that she had to finish and it just—” She broke off with a heavy breath.

“You know when something’s wrong? When you feel like you should run and hide?” she asked, looking worriedly from me to Mills.

“Yes,” Mills assured her quietly.

Billie nodded. “I just ran, thought I needed to get away from her until you came. She followed me,” she said, voice breaking. “So, I went into the kitchen, and I didn’t think. I just went straight to the fridge.” She was toying with the key in one of her hands.

“It locks from the inside?” I asked.

She nodded. “Bit weird for a fridge, but I’m not going to criticise it anymore,” she said with a weak laugh.

There came the sound of sirens outside, then three police cars pulled up outside, lights blaring, and the three of us all turned to look.

“We’ll let them handle this, but I don’t think you should stay here, Billie,” I told her, glancing up at the ceiling. “Is there someone you can call?”

“Agnes,” she said quickly. “She’s offered a room before. But she has this—” She waved a hand at the room.

“We can take you to the station whilst this gets all sorted, get your statement as well. Once it’s all done, you and Agnes will be okay to leave.”

Billie nodded. “Can I get some of my things?” she asked.

I looked to Mills, who nodded. “I’ll stay with this lot,” he said, looking to the uniformed officers that walked carefully inside.

“Come on then, Billie,” I said, rising from the chair. She stood up, keeping the blanket firmly around her shoulders, and followed me outside, down the alley to her flat. It looked safe, but I wasn’t taking any chances, and she handed me the keys to go in first, sticking close to my back, her short, shaking breaths loud behind me.

“All clear,” I told her, stepping aside. “Just grab what you need. We can always have someone come for anything else.” She nodded and moved off towards the little hallway, flicking on lights as she went.

I took a look around, blown away by the difference between this place and her father’s. It was bright, colourful, and messy, in a lovely lived-in way. I walked around the living room, looking at some of the photographs of her and Stella, bright-eyed and laughing. There were books on the shelves, unorganised but well-read. A stack of DVDs by the small television, a few potted plants, a bit wilted, propped on any random surface. It was a nice place; I was sure it had been a good home for her and Stella.

Down on the sofa, an orange cat stared up at me. I scratched its head and walked over to the small kitchen where dishes were in the sink, though not many of them. I looked in the fridge and the cupboard quickly, frowning at the lack of food inside. Nothing matched, I realised, and the cupboards had been hand-painted with leaves and flowers, the fridge covered in alphabet magnets.

Stella loves Billie.

My chest clenched, and I wondered if Stella had left that there for her, if it had been her note. I didn’t touch a single magnet, making sure I didn’t knock into the fridge as I walked past, back into the living room.

Billie appeared from down the hall, a coat now wrapped around her, having changed into warmer clothes, a rucksack hauled over her shoulder. She looked around longingly at everything. Then her eyes landed on the cat before coming to me.

“Bring it,” I said. “Can’t leave it here on its own.” Billie looked relieved and scooped the cat up.

“Her,” she corrected me, walking towards the door. She waited outside as I locked up.

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

“Just Cat,” she told me. “Stella was a big Audrey