Page 21 of The Good Girl

Chapter Twenty

Molly was jolted awake by the shrill buzz of her phone vibrating against the polished wood of the nightstand.

She blinked, disoriented, the room swimming in a grey half-light.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was.

Then her eyes adjusted and the hotel room came into focus.

Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in pale curtains, cheap underwear on the floor by the bed, a scattering of designer shopping bags near the dresser, and beside her, the shape of Shane, deeply asleep, sheets tangled around his naked body.

The phone stopped vibrating.

She exhaled, sinking back into the mattress, her limbs heavy with the ache of exhaustion.

The night had been a blur of heat and whispered words, of tangled limbs and breathless laughter when she’d paraded in tacky lingerie he’d loved even more than she’d expected.

They had talked for hours after, the way lovers do when the end is near.

He had touched her hair like it was fragile and fascinating, said things she would remember always.

It was all coming into focus now. The heat. The words. The way he’d held her.

The phone lit up again.

She frowned and reached for it. A number she didn’t recognise. Her heart quickened as she answered. ‘Hello?’

A pause.

‘Yes. I’m Molly Lassiter.’

Silence, except for the sound of Shane’s sleepy breathing. Then her heart plummeted and she felt blood drain from her face. Her body went rigid.

‘What? No, no…’

Shane stirred beside her, his brow furrowed, still half-asleep.

‘Are you sure?’ Her voice cracked on the last syllable and then dropped to a whisper.

‘Yes… yes, I understand. I’ll be there as soon as possible.’

She ended the call and sat frozen, the phone still in her hand, staring it like it had just told her a terrible lie. Her breath was shallow, chest barely rising. Everything around her was still but her heart was beating violently in her ears, a bass drum solo.

Shane turned to her, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘Who was it? What’s wrong?’

Molly looked at him with wide, blank eyes. ‘It was the police,’ she said slowly. ‘They said Mum’s dead.’

The words hung in the air. For a second, Shane didn’t move. Then he sat up, the sheets falling away. ‘What do you mean, dead?’

‘They said there was an accident. I have to go home. We need to go home.’

The silence that followed left too much space for thoughts and images that Molly couldn’t process. Shane just stared at her, and for the first time since she had known him, he looked unsure of what to say.

The journey back was a blur. The drive felt like a fever dream.

She didn’t remember the traffic, the route, the road signs.

Just her hands gripping the wheel and the sound of her breathing, fast, shallow.

She stared out of the window, willing herself not to scream, not to vomit, to believe what she was too terrified to contemplate. A world without her mum.

Her legs trembled as she climbed from the car.

Her little Mini dwarfed amongst the other vehicles in the drive.

Flashing blue lights lit the front of the house like Christmas decorations from hell.

Her mum’s blue Audi. Two police cars. An ambulance.

A uniformed officer standing like a statue by the front door.

She gave her name. He nodded and stepped aside. The door opened. Molly ran.

The hallway was filled with hushed voices.

She heard her name somewhere in the background, but she didn’t stop.

She needed to see Dee. Needed to know she was all right.

She found her in the lounge. Magda was seated beside her on the sofa, both cocooned in blankets, their faces drained of all colour.

A female officer was murmuring something to them.

Dee was sobbing, her hands curled into fists.

Her hair was tangled. She looked tiny and frail.

Molly rushed to her and dropped to her knees.

‘Dee, I’m here,’ she said, trying to take her hand, but Dee flinched away like she hadn’t heard her.

Magda looked up, tears sliding down her face.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ said the officer gently. ‘Give you all a moment.’

Magda reached for Molly’s hand, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed.

‘Tell me,’ Molly whispered. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Magda looked like she’d aged ten years since yesterday.

Her voice shook. ‘I got here this morning, like always. I saw her car in the drive. Thought maybe she was having a lie-in. But as soon as I came in, something felt wrong. The kitchen lights were on and the back door wasn’t locked.

I went to open it to let some fresh air in.

There was a mess, uncovered food and chocolate powder stains on the counter and I know Julia never leaves the kitchen that way and had taught you girls the same. ’ She swallowed hard.

‘I made your mum a pot of coffee and tidied up while I waited for the kettle. Thought I’d take it up. Just in case she was feeling off after last night. When I got to the door to her suite and opened it, she was there, on the stairs…’

Her voice broke. Magda pressed her trembling hands together. Molly could see the housekeeper was shaking, and waited, her heart threatening to tear through her chest.

‘She was at the bottom,’ Magda said, her face twisted with horror. ‘Crumpled. Like a rag doll. Her face… legs, arms… there was blood… I knew she was gone. Straight away, I knew it.’

Molly stared at her. ‘How? What happened?’

‘They said she must have fallen. Maybe slipped. But… she must have been there all night. All alone.’

The idea of her mother, bleeding and broken in the dark, cold, needing help, was unbearable. ‘Where is she? She’s still here, isn’t she? They haven’t taken her away… I need to see her.’

The officer reappeared and as she waited, holding a tray of tea, the expression on her face was sombre. ‘Miss, please stay here. You really don’t want to see her like that.’

Molly stood. Her legs barely held her. ‘I have to.’ She didn’t wait for permission.

She ran. Up the first flight, her feet pounding the glass stairs. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart worked overtime. She turned right, flew down the corridor. Saw the two examiners in white paper overalls. They turned, surprised.

‘Miss, please don’t–’

But she was already past them. There, exactly as Magda had described, lay her beautiful broken mother.

Julia Lassiter. Now unrecognisable. Blood streaked the floor tiles and glass stairs.

Her left eye socket was smashed, the eyeball grotesquely positioned.

Her cheekbone crushed. Face covered in blood, swollen and bruised, her perfect skin the most awful shade of grey.

Lips that had kissed Molly goodnight a thousand times, tinged blue.

Her cream silk nightdress ruched and torn, tie-dyed with red.

It was a sight that nightmares and horror films were made of and in the second before she passed out, it seared itself on Molly’s memory where it would remain for the rest of her life.