The Pact Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  A Conversation with Amy Heydenrych

  Reading group discussion points for The Pact

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Rhys

  It was supposed to be a prank, a stupid mistake that evaporated the next day. She never meant for her to die. Truth be told, she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. She hated herself while she did it and regretted it the second it was done. But later, beneath her begging and protestations, one fact remained: while she never meant for her to die, she did want to hurt her, just a little.

  Chapter 1

  What actually happened on the night Nicole died was vague as a rumor, caught through snippets of conversation behind closed doors. By the time the neighbors had guessed at what was really going on, it was too late.

  Who could blame them? It didn’t sound like death at first. A door creaked open. Her musical laugh suggested it was simply a friend stopping by. Nicole was well liked in the building, and always the first to offer a smile. Of course she would have friends over all the time! There were vague sounds – footsteps, clinking cutlery, the low hum of music through speakers. Nothing to cause alarm.

  The apartments were packed like sardines, so the neighbors did what they always do. They turned the television up, they spoke a little louder, they put on music of their own. It was the usual competing cacophony that never got too loud or lasted after midnight.

  But that night was different. The music got louder – the children in the building were unable to sleep. This was out of character for Nicole and inappropriate for a weeknight. The neighbors below her debated amongst themselves whether it was time to go upstairs and say something.

  Every sentence of her conversation was shouted, the laughter raucous. Some heard the high-pitched shriek of a woman, others the low growl of a man. The neighbors tried not to focus on it, not to let each word aggravate them further, but it was all they could think about. They should call someone, report it, it was far too loud.

  Suddenly, the laughter turned hysterical. It was out-of-control, hooting, belly-aching laughter, the kind that rips the breath out of your lungs.

  A voice. ‘What the hell?’ Then, a dull thud, like the sound of a bowling ball dropping to the ground. Something had shifted. It sounded strange, but not strange enough to investigate. The noise came to an abrupt end and all was silent. Palpable relief flooded the building. Soon, the neighbors forgot their irritation and the strange end to the evening, and drifted off to sleep, while the killer stepped out and paced past their doorways, while Nicole’s blood spread like a halo around her, while she gasped her last breath.

  Chapter 2

  Isla

  The morning after the murder

  ‘You know what is at the heart of so many suburban murders? Politeness,’ says Isla. She wrestles with her old Ford’s dodgy steering to parallel-park it in front of an apartment building that seems too stylish to be a murder scene. It’s one of those newly gentrified areas in San Francisco where every pedestrian looks ready to be snapped for a street style editorial. Isla barely misses the exposed shins of a hipster in rolled-up distressed denims and a thick, curly beard.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ says her best friend, Lizzie, on the other end of the phone. In the background she can hear the now-familiar sounds of early evening in London, the roar of motorcycles, the hooting of a bus, the buzz of commuters’ voices. They haven’t lived in the same city for years, but they speak on the phone every day when the time difference allows.

  Lizzie is a graphic designer, worlds apart from Isla’s extreme career choice.

  ‘Well,’ Isla says, leafing through her notebook while balancing the handset against her ear, ‘in these cases bystanders always say the same thing.

  “Murders just don’t happen in this part of town.”

  “We’re a very peaceful neighborhood.”

  “None of us saw this coming. The killer was an upstanding member of the community!”

  ‘Sure.’ Sarcasm burns fresh on her tongue.

  Lizzie laughs down the line. ‘You really are a ray of sunshine when you’ve just woken up.’

  ‘I’m serious!’

  If pressed for long enough, each neighbor can recall something. The night the abusive husband took it too far and the argument ended with smashing glass. The tall, burly men who kept lurking outside the door of the smartly dressed businessman in 12A who was rumored to have a gambling habit. Or maybe just a bad feeling that can’t be shrugged off.

  Isla fiddles with the buttons on the elevator, trying to recall the message that communicated which floor the crime scene is on. ‘Listen, I better go. Good luck with your presentation today!’

  ‘Good luck with your murder . . .’

  Without the crutch of distraction, a deeper anxiety crawls under Isla’s skin. The alert she received about today’s case made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. A thirty-one-year-old woman – t
he exact same age as her – has been found brutally murdered, potentially by someone she knew. The clipped police statement noted no signs of forced entry and the neighbors have insisted they didn’t hear anything other than loud music, animated conversation and laughing. It brings back a memory of her own, a liquor-stumbling, stale-cigarette-kissed scene that she quickly pushes to the back of her mind. She’s safe now, right here, on the other side of the police tape. As a reporter, she has the control to shape the story and take the power back. Yet the past is never too far away. This morning, it is on the other side of that door.

  Isla flashes a media access card and steps into the apartment. Technically, she shouldn’t be allowed near the crime scene until all the evidence has been collected, but in her time on this beat she has earned the trust of this division, especially Simon, the lead inspector on the case. Usually he allows her to slip in, undetected.

  It’s been ten years since Simon, then a rookie cop, called Isla and convinced her to reopen her sexual assault case. Nine years and six months since she looked into her ex-boyfriend’s jeering face as they led him away in handcuffs at the end of a grueling trial. That moment still twists in her gut like a knife, the pain never dulls, no matter how many years pass. In many ways, she feels like the same vulnerable young woman she was all those years ago.

  Simon, however, has been fortified by time – his limbs have thickened, and his stance strengthened. His dark hair is now shaved close to his head and today he’s shrouded in a forensic suit. Anyone would think he would have shed his idealism and repressed his tenderness by now. But every time Isla approaches him at a crime scene, she is sure she sees the gentleness flash across his eyes, fleeting as a shadow.

  She smiles at Simon briefly. The familiarity of him anchors her in the face of a new investigation. The body is in the bathroom – this is evident from the cluster of forensic suits outside – but there is also a feeling a place gets when something terrible happens. It’s the leaden smell of blood, the chaos and mess that hint at the moments before, but it is also something spiritual. No matter how many crime scenes Isla visits, it still chills her to the bone.

  She steers clear of the bathroom. To see the body first is too dehumanizing for the person inside. For many media accounts of a murder, it is about the gore. All empathy is stripped away before the story has even begun. She is more interested in the story behind the story, in who the person was before.

  The apartment is small but decorated in a sleek, minimalist Scandinavian style. Every object appears purposeful and of a high quality. Easy, self-assured wealth. Isla takes note of the recycling bins in the kitchen and the thriving potted herb garden on the windowsill. Nicole Whittington was a woman who had her shit together.

  Smaller details in the living room spark Isla’s interest. There is a half-eaten bowl of roasted vegetable pasta on the coffee table, a romantic comedy on pause and a Vogue magazine on the couch, still in its plastic wrapping. A woman after my own heart, she thinks; a woman who was planning an evening alone. A few books stand out on the shelf: Marie Kondo’s Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Roxane Gay’s Difficult Women, a frayed copy of Albert Camus’ L’étranger and an English – Japanese dictionary. In addition to the team spilling out the bathroom, she notices two people from forensics scanning the living room with a blue light. A picture starts sketching itself in Isla’s mind.

  She grits her teeth and pushes past the furniture and forensics to the bathroom in the corner of the apartment. The scene of the murder.

  Simon steps in front of her.

  ‘Sorry, Isla, this area is off limits. The forensics team is in the thick of gathering evidence.’

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Simon.’

  She’s seen this look before – cases like these are hard on the police, as well as reporters like her. They’re the kind that push you up close to the face of evil, and give you no option to look away. They set off a trauma that beats beneath your skin, long after the case is closed, the story is filed and the body is taken away.

  Simon won’t look her in the eye. ‘The victim was battered to death with a bronze sculpture, and then propped up in the shower, like a doll.’

  His gaze flits towards the bathroom door. Isla knows that Simon always struggles with cases where women are hurt. A few times, they have sat together in a coffee shop, Simon repeating the details of a case over and over, looping round the violence, processing it all. She always wonders, out of all the careers he could have followed, why he chose to be a cop? He turns back towards the scene, knocking over a perfectly nurtured orchid in the process. Clumps of soil scatter into the cream shag carpet. In the bulk of the forensic suit, his limbs have a mind of their own. Simon’s clumsiness, in contrast to the seriousness of the crime scene, makes her want to lean forward and hug him.

  ‘You need anything?’ Isla reaches into her canvas messenger bag. She rummages amidst the plasters, headache pills, lip balm, hand sanitizer and pens.

  ‘No thanks, unless you have a mini bottle of vodka in there and a pack of cigarettes. Listen, I’m going to need you to get out of here, right now. I’ll send you the summary of the case when we’re done.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now, Isla! Let’s try and follow procedure for once!’

  ‘Fine . . . sorry,’ she says, heat creeping up her cheeks.

  His eyes soften. ‘It’s nothing personal, OK? I promise we’ll chat as soon as I’m done. Take care of yourself.’

  It’s a long walk to the door and an even longer wait for the elevator to reach the seventh floor. Isla can’t help but feel a little disgraced, as if every official person buzzing about the scene knows that she is not meant to be there. She has stood at the frontlines alongside Simon reporting on gang violence, bank robberies and more. What about this case has made him wall it off so coldly?

  Best to just go back to the newsroom, where she can forget this morning and the dread it has stirred within her.

  She lurches the car into gear, eyes fiery with shame at the empty notebook on the passenger seat. Dammit! What a waste of a few hours. She’ll have to come back and interview Nicole Whittington’s neighbors later. Just as she accelerates, a young woman with thick brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, and a pale, haunted face darts in front of the car.

  ‘Jesus! Watch where you’re going! You could have got yourself killed!’ She wrestles with the gearstick of her car, and pushes her sunglasses on roughly, her eyes following the Lycra-clad figure as she sprints away.

  She chugs across town, battling the traffic and the endless, steep uphills that make her clutch burn ominously. Her sunglasses are too smudged to see clearly – chocolate, she presumes. She turns on the radio, but cannot settle. The entire morning feels off, from the murder and Simon’s reaction, to the strange expression of the woman who almost collided with her car.

  There is no story without a beginning, no murder without a moment that incites it. Yet no woman asks for this, not ever. Something deeply unjust happened last night; the urgent question is, what?

  Chapter 3

  Freya

  Three months before the murder

  Freya takes a deep breath before ringing the buzzer.

  ‘Play it cool,’ she whispers to herself. ‘This is only the biggest day of your life.’

  She makes idle conversation with the security guard as she signs the register.

  ‘You look happy,’ he says, mirroring her wide smile.

  ‘It’s a big day for me,’ she says. ‘Possibly my biggest day yet.’

  ‘Well, good luck! I’m sure you’ll be amazing.’

  She bounces from foot to foot in the lobby, waiting for the elevator to arrive. How many times had she dreamed of this moment? She worked hard, she tried her best, but never would she have believed that it would pay off one day. Who would expect that Freya, a foster child with a knack for computers, would end up working at the hottest tech company in San Francisco?

  Freya remembers standing outside the Atypi
cal offices one freezing January night, wrapped up in a thick coat and warming her hands on a takeaway coffee. She had been working punishing hours completing her Masters in software engineering while waitressing at an old Italian trattoria to pay for her final year of studies.

  That night had been tougher than usual – mean-spirited customers, meager tips and an assignment that was far from done – so she had taken a detour past the modernized heritage building that housed Atypical’s offices. It was the kind of startup that breathed life into the ideas that the rest of the world would be talking about in five years’ time. In the three years since they launched, they had grown like a wildfire, and captured the imagination of Silicon Valley.

  Back when Atypical was still working out of a garage, Elon Musk tried to buy the business, but the enigmatic founder and CEO, Julian Cox, flatly refused. Star computer science graduates from all the Ivy League colleges tried all manner of stunts to get hired, but the rumor on campus was that you had to be invited, usually after doing some time at one of the established tech giants. Freya spotted the lucky few who worked at Atypical sometimes, on the subway or at Whole Foods in the brief flash of a company hoodie bearing the now-familiar triangle logo. Yet she didn’t actually know anybody who had ever succeeded in getting hired to work there. That night, she was so ragged from being overworked, so humiliated by the way customers had treated her in the restaurant, it felt like she would never amount to anything, let alone end up there. Looking back, there was beauty in her brokenness. She had put everything on the line to reshape herself into someone new.

  It seemed impossible, but there was a fire that burned in her, even then. All she needed was one moment of grace, one foot in the door, and she would work the hardest of all. Sure, she had graduated with Summa Cum Laude, but when it came down to it, her real power was that she wanted it more than anybody else.

  Now, a whirlwind year later, her heart pounds with excitement as the heavy copper door of the elevator slides open and she steps inside the offices. Her whole life has led up to this.

  She sneaks a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror – minimal makeup, hair in a loose chignon and a slick of red lipstick to finish the look off – and runs her hands over the luxe finishings. Every detail thrills her. The past doesn’t matter anymore. From this moment forward, she can become the person she was always meant to be. Maybe one day she may even reach the mythical status of Julian Cox.