Page 15 of Dying Truth
‘All intact,’ he said, causing her to open her eyes and sit up.
‘But that makes no sense at—’
‘Back down,’ he instructed, as he put two X-rays onto the wall and switched on the light. He reached for a wand and came to stand beside her while pointing to the first X-ray. ‘That broken bone is in her other knee, and it has snapped inwards as though being trod on.’ He pointed to the spot on her own knee which wouldn’t have made any contact with the ground. ‘And the second broken bone is her right rib,’ he said, again using the wand to show her exactly where.
The rib was nowhere near the ground.
‘And lastly, how about right here?’ he asked touching the top of her head.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
He moved to the X-rays and replaced the one on the first light board.
‘Bloody hell,’ Bryant said, as she sat up.
Kim found herself touching her own head at the point where Sadie’s had quite clearly been injured.
The spot had been nowhere near the ground.
Kim climbed out of the tray and took a closer look.
‘This makes absolutely no sense,’ she said.
Keats nodded his agreement. ‘I suspect that some of the broken bones were inflicted after death, but the cause of death was most definitely the blow to the top of the head.’
‘Murder staged to look like a suicide,’ Bryant said.
Keats sighed heavily. ‘Indeed, Bryant. In my opinion, this poor girl was beaten to death.’
Kim’s brain had already digested that fact and was now processing other anomalies.
It explained many things that had been nibbling at her gut. The absence of the cigarette butt up on the roof, the location of the jump point, the lack of gravel rash and the fact that they hadn’t yet identified anyone who had seen Sadie Winters on the roof.
Because she’d never been up there in the first place.
Eleven
6January2018
Hey Diary, Sadie here. Remember me?
Back at school and first day has gone much as expected. Endless chatter and showing off new tablets, smartphones, laptops, for school work, obvs!!! My dorm room sparkles like a mummy’s tomb with new designer watches, bracelets, necklaces. The important stuff.
Christmas at home was perfect, as it always is.
Festivities straight out of a feel-good film. Midnight mass, early morning presents, Saffie having a strop because her new Gucci trousers were too tight. Christmas isn’t Christmas without a Saffie strop, mother excused cheerfully. Christmas dinner was perfect, as was Saffie’s piano playing after the Queen’s Speech.
Later, Saffie disappeared to her room, no doubt to FaceTime Eric. My parents snuggled up on the sofa together to watch a Christmas film.
They glanced across and asked me if I was okay.
I lied.
I said yes.
How could I tell them how I really felt? How could I tell them that a piece of me dies every time I come home? How could I try and penetrate the perfect bubble around them? How could I reveal what I do to stay calm? How can I share the darkness that shadows every thought I have; the rage that heats my blood.
How could I tell them that I’m the broken child?
