“Something’s wrong, I can feel it. I was over there on the weekend and she was really weird. She spent most of the time in the studio – she had a real bug up her ass about something, she wouldn’t say what. I went in there to check it out – have you seen the state of that room? It’s like someone stirred it with a stick, there’s crap everywhere – a hell of a lot worse than usual.”
“I noticed that too. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t worry me, but you know how she gets sometimes. Maybe she’s just taking a few days to work it out of her system.”
“It’s been going on for longer than just a few days,” Callum snapped. “She hasn’t been herself for a few months now. I knew the anniversary would be tough but she seemed okay, y’know? But she’s not okay now. Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”
“Do you think it’s got something to do with the appointment with Pavlovic? What happened on Monday, at the check-up?”
Callum frowned. “What check-up? She hasn’t had it yet, she’s still waiting on the appointment coming through.”
“Well when we had coffee last week, she said the appointment came through and it was for Monday.”
“Monday this week? Are you sure? That doesn’t make any sense – why the hell didn’t she tell me?”
“The more pressing question is why did she lie to me about it?”
“What?”
“I asked her if she wanted me to go with her but she told me there was no need because you were taking her.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know, but I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I’m going over there.”
“Good idea. I’ll meet you there, and I’ll bring the spare key. Maybe between us we can get the truth out of her.”
Callum shoved his cell phone in his jacket pocket, snatched his car keys from the counter top and headed for the door.
Ally dreaded the appointments with her neurologist, that’s why he went with her, for moral support. She said it was like sitting an exam she had never studied for. Her behaviour over the past few weeks made more sense now. She had been withdrawn, almost introverted, recently. When he saw her on the weekend, her emotions seemed to see-saw from one extreme to the other. One minute it was like she was going to burst into tears, the next she was smiling and fobbing him off. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. He should have known something was wrong.
The drive to Ally’s house took a lot less than the ten minutes it should have. He pulled into her driveway and parked behind her car, jumping out as soon as he cut the engine. He gave her car a cursory glance as he jogged up to the front door, taking the steps in two long strides. Pounding on her door, he called out her name, but there was no response.
“Ally!” he tried again, pounding harder. “Ally, if you’re in there, open the door!”
He stopped to listen, his ears straining for any kind of sound within. He thought he could hear music, but he wasn’t sure. He pounded again, more desperately.
“Ally! You open this damn door, you hear me? I’m not kidding!”
Nothing.
“If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down, I swear to God!”
Silence.
Anxiety grabbed him by the throat and he pounded on the door even harder. Frustrated at the lack of response, he started to think outside the square. He peered in the window into the living room but could see nothing. He tried to budge it but it was locked tight. Tom was taking far too long.
He struggled out of his jacket, wrapping it tightly around his fist. Angling his body away, he punched through the living room window, stepping back to avoid the falling glass.
“Ally!” he called through the window, clearing a space to climb through.
There was no response. He climbed in and the first thing that hit him was the smell – paint. Pearl Jam was playing on her iPod, which was docked in the living room, but she was nowhere to be seen. He strode through the house, calling out to her as he headed for the studio. The room was a mess, and in the middle of it all, a canvas lay on the floor, surrounded by tubes of paint – some open, which accounted for the smell – along with brushes and rags. He wrinkled his nose and closed the door behind him, his concern mounting.
“Ally!”
He headed to her bedroom next, pushing the door open, anxiety forcing every other emotion aside. The curtains were still drawn and the room was dark, but he saw her lying on her bed. Her wheelchair was beside the bed and everything looked normal. Despite appearances, his heart was racing. Why did she have music playing in the living room if she was in bed? And why hadn’t she woken up when he had pounded on the door? Or smashed the window? Or called her name?
“Ally?”
He squinted into the gloom, walking over to take a closer look. Panic choked him. The bed was littered with photographs. A bottle of pills, cap off, lay on the bed beside her.
His heart stopped. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He reached for the bottle. It was empty. He scrambled over the bed on his knees towards her.
“Ally! Wake up!”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her but she didn’t respond. His hands trembled uncontrollably, adrenaline coursing through his body as he checked her neck. Her pulse throbbed lethargically beneath his fingers.
“Oh Jesus… what have you done?” he breathed.