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  He sensed the urgency in her voice and dropped the playful tone. ‘Okay, press Control R or Command R and wait for it to reboot in recovery mode.’

  She watched the screen go grey and a loading bar appear. ‘Okay, now what?’

  ‘Go into Utilities, select Terminal and then type in “resetpassword” – all one word. Got that?’

  Rachel’s fingers felt thick and sausage-like as she typed incorrectly then tried again. ‘Now?’

  ‘That should pull up a password reset box. Yes?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Okay, you just need to select the user account you want to get into, then the “Enter new password” option. Leave it blank and press enter, and you should be in.’

  There was only one user account, helpfully called HRowe. Rachel did as instructed, and there she was on Harland’s desktop.

  ‘Did that work?’ Perez was asking her.

  ‘Yes, it did. Thanks, I really owe you one.’

  ‘I think we’re up to at least three now… what’s the address there, so I can—’

  ‘Gotta go.’ Rachel hung up and shoved her phone back in her pocket, already pulling up Harland’s browser history on the laptop. The most recent hit was some online shopping, then Facebook and Instagram hits. Lots of them. She scanned further down the list. There it was. CasaMia.com.

  Rachel went straight to account avatar in the top right-hand corner.

  Welcome, Linda!

  Harland was currently logged on to the site as someone called Linda Ruffner. The account profile photo was of a girl who was young and pretty. A girl who was not Harland, and whose image was undoubtedly pilfered from her cloud storage. Linda Ruffner had not been on any trips yet, but she had saved several properties as favourites, accessed by clicking on a red heart icon. Rachel paused, and listened. It felt as though hours had passed, but it was still only ten o’clock. While the list was loading, she used the guest cloakroom, being careful not to disturb anything. Then she returned to Harland’s laptop to scrutinise her choices, although she already knew what she would find.

  There was a shabby chic apartment in Austin, Texas, belonging to Jacqui Garcia. Jacqui looked a lot like Melissa Downey, and listed her hobbies as ‘Horseback riding, yoga and hanging out with my awesome bf’. Rachel stared, breathing deeply, before moving on to the next favourite. Laine Zabreski had a charming Victorian conversion in Charleston, South Carolina and if you squinted slightly could have been the girl in the Lovely Locks commercial. Then there was Amy Burns, a former high-school track star in Duluth, Minnesota and Kristin Coley, who had a beachside condo in Long Beach, California and was ‘a self-confessed surf freak’. All conforming to the favoured personality profile. Rachel felt sick. There was still no reply from Rob’s number. She took screengrabs of all the saved favourites, plus Linda’s profile, then clicked the message inbox icon.

  Four messages from the CasaMia customer service department. They all contained identical wording.

  Your booking request for apartment in Austin, Texas cannot be processed at this time. Reason code: Host account suspended.

  Your booking request for apartment in Charleston, South Carolina cannot be processed at this time. Reason code: Host account suspended.

  And so on. So the CasaMia security firewall on the potential targets was working, which was reassuring. Rachel used her phone to forward the screen grabs to Paulie anyway, under the subject ‘Suspect still active’, then returned to Harland’s browser history.

  The social media pages searched through belonged to the hosts on CasaMia: Jacqui Garcia, Laine Zabreski, Amy Burns and Kristin Coley. Rachel found what she expected to find; the curated evidence of happy, privileged lives. Parties, family occasions, handsome boyfriends, laughing friends. Her mind went back to the conversation she had had with Rob when they were in North Carolina.

  What are the characteristics that define the targeted group?

  Pretty. Spoilt. Popular. Self-absorbed. Entitled.

  And there it was: the abundant evidence of those qualities, displayed in their online lives for the world to see. Curated and edited to seem aspirational. These women had not done anything to Harland and her accomplice, they just were a certain way.

  Rachel logged out and shut down the laptop. It was time to move. Now. She would drive straight to Rob’s office and lay out the evidence for him. They had the brains of the operation in Harland Rowe, all they need was to crack the identity of whoever was assisting her. The lookalike who was entering the homes of the victims she selected and killing them for her. The occupant of bedroom number two.

  Rachel went back in there now for one last look around and to take the P keyring as corroborating evidence. As she slipped it into her back pocket, her heart leapt against her sternum and she darted into the hallway and shut the bedroom door.

  The sound was unmistakeable. A key turning in the apartment’s front door.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  Harland looked displeased to see Rachel, but not surprised.

  ‘The advantages of having a warrant card,’ Rachel bluffed. She could feel sweat beading on her back and in her armpits, and her face growing pink. Garnering all her focus, she forced herself to stay calm. ‘The doorman let me in.’

  Harland smiled sourly. ‘No he did not. Wesley would have told me about that. He saw me just now, and didn’t say a word.’

  Rachel shrugged with a Whaddya know? expression. Keep your cool, she told herself, and whatever you do, don’t let her know it’s her you’re after. Make her think this is all about Kaydance.

  ‘So then you probably know I still have some questions about your sister. I came here to try and talk last night, but you wouldn’t answer the door.’

  ‘And that gives you the right to break into my home?’ Harland put down the bag of groceries she was carrying and hung up her jacket on the hall stand.

  ‘I explained,’ said Rachel, keeping her tone as calm as she could, ‘I’m following up an FBI investigation.’

  ‘Well, let’s see now.’ Harland went into the living room with her odd shuffling gait. ‘I’m sure I can find a number for the local office of the FBI. Why don’t I ask them about it?’

  Rachel followed her. ‘Really, Harland, there’s no need. A couple of questions and I’ll leave you in peace, I promise. Five minutes.’

  ‘Well. All right then.’ Harland’s shoulder’s dropped a little, and she managed a wary smile. ‘I guess you may as well sit down. Coffee?’

  Rachel held up a hand. ‘No, I’m fine, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m going to make some for myself, so it’s no problem.’

  As soon as Harland had gone into the kitchen, Rachel grabbed her phone and checked it. Rob hadn’t called her back. She started composing a text, but hadn’t got past ‘Code 3. You need to’, before Harland limped back with the tray. She pressed ‘Send’ anyway, and pushed her phone back into her trouser pocket with what she hoped was a casual movement.

  Harland glanced in her direction, then poured coffee and offered carrot cake. Rachel refused the cake, adding as much milk as possible to her coffee to cool it down. She needed to drink it down quickly and get out of there as soon as she could, without raising Harland’s suspicions further.

  ‘So why did you tell me that Kaydance is in Florida when she’s here, in Baltimore?’

  Harland stirred her coffee, apparently quite unconcerned at being caught out lying to a police officer. But Rachel now knew exactly what this woman was capable of. ‘She was only just out on parole; I didn’t want to see her going straight back to prison. Just being a protective older sister.’ Once again there was that chilly smile.

  ‘So if you knew she was here in Baltimore, you could have saved us a lot of wasted time, effort and expense. You do realise wasting police time is an offence?’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ Harland remained unruffled, pointing to Rachel’s cup. ‘Coffee okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’ Rachel swallowed d
own a large gulp, eager to finish it and be gone.

  ‘So this investigation, this reason you needed to speak with Kaydance… is it about stuff she’s gotten into with the House of Spirits?’ Harland pursed her lips in distaste. ‘They’re a very troubled bunch of people.’

  ‘Yes, that is part of it,’ Rachel said vaguely, draining her coffee. ‘And of course we are looking into other people too, not just Kaydance.’ This much was true at least. An idea occurred to her. ‘Did you ever meet any of them? Ever get involved yourself?’

  Harland gave a dry laugh. ‘I work at the most prestigious medical centre in the world. How do you imagine that would sit with my employers?’

  ‘And what is it you do there?’

  ‘I’m a lab tech.’ She smiled smugly and poured herself more coffee.

  The damp patches of sweat on Rachel’s back had started to go from cold to hot – too hot – and her fingertips were suddenly numb. She pressed her hand to her forehead, which had started to sweat profusely. Harland was looking at her face, the unsettling green eyes fish-like behind the bottle-top lenses.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a little warm in here,’ admitted Rachel. As she inhaled, it felt as though the blood was rushing away from her head. She was dizzy. Another wave of heat swept over her. She tried to think back to what she had eaten for breakfast. She had only taken yoghurt and some fresh fruit from the motel’s continental buffet…

  ‘Let me cool you off a little.’ Harland limped over to the window and opened it. ‘May I fetch you some water?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rachel slumped in her chair, trying to shake the sensation of travelling backwards, fast, on a funfair ride. She accepted the water and sipped it, then pressed her hand to her mouth, afraid she would vomit. If she could just get out of the apartment, get some fresh air, she would surely start to feel a little better.

  ‘I think I should leave.’ Rachel hauled herself out of the chair and stumbled towards the front door. Just beyond the ringing in her ears, she could hear Harland’s uneven gait, following her. She reached for the door, but bile surged into her throat, forcing her to cover her nose and mouth with a snorting sound.

  ‘I think you need to use the bathroom,’ Harland said in a low, firm voice. Rachel felt a hand in the small of her back, propelling her to the opposite end of the hall. The light was switched on and the door closed behind her. She knelt on the floor and vomited in the direction of the toilet bowl, splashing the floor. As the nausea briefly receded, a flash of acuity rose in her and she heaved herself up using the rim of the hand basin, closed the lid of the toilet and managed to sit down. The coffee. Harland had to have put something in the bloody coffee. With what little energy she had left, she berated herself for being so stupid.

  She pulled out her phone with a shaking hand and opened the call log, looking for Rob’s name. Another wave of violent nausea surged up from her core, and her vision started to blur. She couldn’t read the names but her thumb hit the touch pad and dialled anyway. A call rang out a few times, then somebody must have answered but she couldn’t hear through the noise in her head. She tried to speak, but no sound came out, and she collapsed to the floor, her phone smashing on the tiles beside her.

  The ringing in her ears reached a crescendo, then faded to silence.

  Part IV

  ‘I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.’

  Anaïs Nin

  Chapter Fifty-One

  It took her a while to realise that she was awake.

  Her head pounded, her throat was arid and her vision swam in and out of focus. Gradually, second by second, consciousness set in.

  Rachel’s first instinct was to sit up. She couldn’t. She was lying on her left side, and managed with great effort to roll over onto her back, realising as she did so that her left hand was tethered. She had no idea where she was, or why. She only knew that she felt sick, and thirsty, and that her bladder was full.

  A door opened and a woman came in. Rachel stared at her, and her heart began to pound as recollection came crashing in. It was Harland Rowe. She was in Harland’s apartment. She had felt ill and passed out.

  Harland looked her up and down, but said nothing. She offered a glass of water with a straw in it and Rachel took it with her free right hand and sucked on it desperately. After only a couple of mouthfuls, Harland snatched the glass away.

  ‘Not too much; you already wet yourself once.’

  Rachel looked down at her legs. She was wearing a pair of checked flannel pyjama bottoms. ‘Where are my clothes?’

  ‘I had to put them in the laundry basket.’

  ‘But my phone—’

  ‘Broken. It smashed when you passed out.’

  They were in the second bedroom. Her legs slithered helplessly across the crimson satin of the bedspread; her left wrist was attached to the metal frame with a stout plastic cable tie. It was fastened tightly, and there were already red wheals on her wrist.

  ‘Please let me up – I need to use the toilet.’

  Harland looked at her steadily, then left the room and reappeared with a disposable cardboard bed pan. She put it into Rachel’s free hand and stood there watching, arms folded, as Rachel awkwardly lowered the pyjamas and pushed it under her hips, silently willing away the sense of furious shame. Feelings like that would only cloud her judgement, and she needed all her focus. Pretend you’re in hospital, she told herself. And this is just a nurse.

  When she had finished, Harland removed the bed pan silently and took it away. She did not come back for what felt like a long time, during which Rachel tugged helplessly on her left wrist, searing the skin. If she shouted, perhaps someone would hear.

  ‘Help!’ Her throat was so dry and sore the sound was no more than a croak. But it did bring Harland back.

  ‘Nobody’s going to hear you, so don’t waste your energy.’

  ‘What time is it?’ The watch normally on Rachel’s left wrist had been removed.

  ‘Nine thirty-five.’

  ‘In the evening?’ Rachel turned to the window. It was light outside.

  ‘Morning. It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I need to get to the airport. I’m supposed to be catching a flight to London this evening. I have to get back by Tuesday.’

  Harland shook her head, pouting with mock sadness. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to miss your flight.’

  Rachel pushed herself backwards with her free right hand, sliding her buttocks towards the head of the bed so that she was more or less sitting.

  ‘Look, Harland… I’m not going to report you for wasting police time. It’s not such a big deal, and it’s Kaydance we were really interested in.’ She hoped she could still lie convincingly, despite her throbbing head and racing pulse. ‘Just let me go, and I’ll drive away and we’ll forget this ever happened.’

  Harland sat down on the end of the bed. Her calm – nonchalance even – was more disturbing than any aggression. ‘You know why I can’t do that. You know exactly why.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Then let me show you.’ Harland reached into a wicker laundry bin in the corner of the room and pulled out Rachel’s damp jeans. From the left pocket she pulled out a metal P.

  Phoebe’s keyring.

  She held it up between finger and thumb so that Rachel could see clearly.

  ‘You see? I know that you know.’

  * * *

  At some point Rachel must have slept, because when she opened her eyes, light was fading behind the slatted blind. She was lying awkwardly on her right side, and burning pain shot up and down her manacled left arm. Harland limped in with a tray laid with a pot of fruit yoghurt, a spoon and the water and straw. ‘Nothing too heavy for now, your stomach’s probably still sore.’ With brisk efficiency, she spooned the yoghurt into Rachel’s mouth, then let her drink more water. After the
tray was removed, the bed pan routine was repeated.

  ‘Harland, you know this isn’t going to work. You can’t keep me here like this, someone’s going to come looking for me eventually.’

  The green eyes stared back. ‘Really? Are you sure of that?’

  She held up something shiny, which Rachel realised was her phone. Then she started hitting buttons and brought up the text messages page, and held it near to Rachel’s face so that she could read it. The most recent message was to Rob – not the ‘Code 3’ that she had sent before being drugged (via the coffee, presumably) but another one. Sent by Harland.

  Ignore my last, sent in error. All fine.

  ‘You said it was broken!’ Rachel twisted her body and tried to grab it with her right hand, but Harland was too quick.

  ‘It is now. Oops.’

  She held the phone aloft, then brought it smashing down against the metal rail of the bedstead, shattering the screen. For good measure, she dropped it on to the floor, then stamped on it.

  ‘You can’t hold me here for ever.’ Despite her rising panic, Rachel kept her tone neutral. ‘Someone will work it out and come here.’

  ‘Oh, I know I can’t.’ There was that cold smile again. ‘But first we need to talk. You want to know how I did this, and I want to tell you.’

  ‘It’s obvious you can’t have done this alone. So who else was part of it? That’s what I want to know: whose room is this?’

  Harland gave her a disdainful look. ‘It’s mine. Who else’s would it be?’

  ‘But who helped you? There was someone – we have photographic images to prove it. Someone who looked like –’ Rachel decided against using the word ‘victims’ – ‘the girls.’

  ‘You’re a very good cop. Smart. You must be to have gotten this far. But you’re just not quite smart enough.’ She held up a hand to indicate that Rachel should not speak. ‘It’s okay, we’re going to have a little show and tell.’