"She told him everything, her therapist, that little dead girl. She couldn't stop talking. She told him about all the people she knew secrets about. She told him about *you*. Who will *he* tell her secrets to? Who is going to know all about you?"
I don't think I knew the girl. I mean, I knew who she was, of course, and it's even possible I may have spoken to her once or twice, but if I did I don't recall. I'm sure I never knew her name, I would have remembered it if I did. It's the same as mine.
Although we share the same uncommon surname, we're not related. At least, I don't think we are. The line from my grandfather's first marriage has never been fully explored, and there was another (a black sheep, I was always told) who was part of the Welsh exodus to Patagonia a couple of generations earlier. My grandmother was never very forthcoming on our ancestry and I don't think it's too fanciful to say that her uneasiness when the subject came up betrayed a hint of long-suppressed scandal.
The sudden death of a young person always shocks and scares. Underneath all the anger and the grief, when it's clear the agent of death is another human hand there's always a nagging sense of guilt and failure among those still around. Within such a small community the death of anyone in such circumstances diminishes us all in the fullest sense. I didn't know her and I hope I don't know the person or persons associated with her death, but we lived in the same place, we must have used the same stores and other facilities, and I'm sure we knew many of the same people. I don't mind admitting it's shaken me. I'm frightened, but I'm not sure what of.
And now, after her death, we have moved closer still. An anonymous note was passed under my door. I have no idea who by even though I was at home when it happened. It had no name or address and could possibly have been delivered to the wrong address, but somehow I know that isn't the case. I know it was for me.
I have no idea who wrote it. It contains references to a therapist and is neatly punctuated, which suggests an educated hand. The only therapist I can think of in town is Dr. Balut, who is most definitely not a *he*. As it's the only real clue I have, I may have to start by making a few discreet enquiries at the hospital.
Discretion will have to be my watchword. The reference to secrets is a clear statement of intent from the writer, the threat of revelation all too clear. But what secrets? What could that poor girl possibly have known about me, and -(with a chill of sudden realisation at the thought)- did whatever she know about me have anything to do with her death? Was the writer of the note more than just her therapist in this story, and what does he now want from me?
I know I won't be able to do this alone, but who can I turn to? Who can I trust, knowing that one small slip of judgement could be enough to jeopardise my own position in this town and even put my life, and those of others, in danger? The local newspaper editor, Dita, is keen, maybe too much so. I'm not sure I want her digging into my past, and there's something about her that makes me feel.... er, well, it's probably best not to go into that right now.
There are one or two other names that spring to mind, but can I really justify dragging them into this, possibly even putting their lives at risk too? There is one I'm sure I can trust, but with others I may have to be more circumspect about how much I divulge. I don't like to think of myself as using people, but this may really be a case of the less they know, the better all round.
One thing is clear. I shall have to find out more before I become trapped in - what?
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