I repositioned a pretty pink plate into the frame. ‘You have some lovely pieces. They don’t make tableware like this anymore.’
It turned out that the plates had been a wedding gift to Mrs Wheeler and her late husband, and the green glasses had been part of a set that her father had brought back from Italy after the war. It seemed that everything in the cottage told a story and Mrs Wheeler could remember the history of each item, fixture, and detail of the home she had lived in as a newlywed.
I asked her about the things I loved most – the honeysuckle growing around the door, the original glass in the windows, and the ornate tiles in the hearth of the tiny upstairs fireplace. She delighted in sharing the origins of it all and with every story she shared, I fell deeper in love with Puffin Cottage.
Mrs Wheeler’s company was a great distraction, and I understood why my sister had enjoyed spending so much time with her. But within minutes of her leaving, I was back to stressing about Amy’s phone. Just follow the trail.
The sugar rush had left Betsy in a chatty mood. I loved her but there was only so much eight-year-old conversation I could take, and I had to call for twenty minutes of quiet. She skulked back to her spot on the floor, her bottom lip in a pout. At least now I could focus.
‘Auntie Izzy, what’s your Instagram?’ Betsy asked, her sulk seemingly forgotten.
‘You’re a bit young to be thinking about things like that.’
‘Obviously, I’m not on Instagram.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Like, I’m not allowed to post anything, but Mummy lets me look at hers.’
‘Wait – what? Your mum was on Instagram?’
‘She doesn’t post anything, it’s just so she can look up other people.’ Betsy giggled. ‘And she lets me look up people, too. I love Ariana Grande.’
I looked down at my phone, wondering if Amy had ever looked up my profile too. ‘Do you know her password?’
‘Yeah, of course. She keeps the same password for everything. Which you’re not supposed to do, by the way.’
‘Do you want to log into your mum’s Instagram on my phone?’ I tried to keep the urgency out my voice.
Betsy enthusiastically grabbed the device from me, giving me just enough time to watch over her shoulder as she carefully punched in the password – 150694. The date Dad died.
I was itching to get into Amy’s emails. I told Betsy she had ten minutes of Instagram time before she had to get back to work. Once she was safely distracted, I sat at the table and opened my laptop.
The password worked for Amy’s email account. My pulse fluttered as I pulled up her inbox. There were dozens of new messages, and none of them had been read since the Friday she had died, which had to be a good sign – it suggested nobody had accessed her mailbox.
A quick scroll revealed nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it seemed to be that with Amy, what you saw was what you got. Almost all of her emails related to the kids, their school stuff and activities, the community groups she was involved with, as well as the usual marketing promotions. There were a few messages that she’d exchanged with friends, longer catch-up emails, but nothing in them suggested she had any worries at home. I combed carefully through each email, making sure I wasn’t missing something.
What else? I looked at my own phone for inspiration. Facebook!
The password worked. Amy’s page was full of condolence messages that people had posted, and I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then I noticed she had several unread messages.
Three of them were from Phil Turner – Rachel’s husband.
A chill shivered through me. My hand shook as I opened the first message:
Dear Amy
I can’t go on like this, my heart is broken. Every time I see you with him, I have to bury my feelings. I can’t pretend any longer. I need to be with you. I want us to be together. Please, leave him and come to me. I can make you happier than you know.
What. The. Actual…? I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.
Are you there? Sorry I haven’t seen you for a few days. I’ve missed you so much. I know you said you wanted to break things off, but I can’t. I don’t want to lose you. Please, let’s find a way to make this work.
I felt sick. I opened the third:
I love you, Amy, I love you so much and I can’t go on like this. I have to have you. We have to be together. Please, I am a desperate man.
My heart pounded.
I slowly closed the lid of the laptop. It took all my concentration to stand up and walk into the living room. The walls were squeezing in towards me and the ceiling was a crushing weight above my head. My stomach was a pit of caustic bile and I had to get to the bathroom before I threw up, but my legs were numb and everything was slowly spinning…
‘Auntie Izzy, are you OK?’
Betsy’s voice was faint. Where was she? She sounded so far away, but no, there she was, on the floor, getting up, moving towards me with her arms out as everything went blurry, then dark.
When I came around again, Auntie Sue was crouched over me, mopping my brow with a flannel. Betsy was sobbing, snuggled up on Mum’s knee in the armchair.
‘You fainted and hit your head,’ Auntie Sue said, very matter-of-fact. ‘Not too hard, it seems – thanks to Betsy, who managed to help you fall mostly onto the sofa. Her lightning-quick reflexes probably saved you from a concussion.’
I smiled at Betsy. Poor thing, I must have given her quite a scare.
‘We’ll take over here, and you’re getting yourself off to bed.’
‘Honestly, there’s no need…’ I started to say.
I would have to tell the police that there had been something going on between Amy and Phil Turner. It either gave another motive for Mike to want to hurt her – or gave them a new suspect.
And poor Rachel! When she had said she thought Amy wanted more, had she ever have imagined it was this? Her husband cheating with her best friend?
How could Amy have done this? The dizziness was back, my head spinning with what this potentially meant.
‘Not another word, young lady. Get up those stairs and get into your pyjamas. I don’t want a discussion.’
Auntie Sue always did have a way of speaking to me that made me do exactly as I was told.
I lay back in bed. The sheets were crisp and cool, and the weight of the blankets was reassuring. Even though I’d insisted I wasn’t tired, Auntie Sue had taken my phone from me and tucked me in, promising to wake me up in forty-five minutes. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep – I was picturing Amy and Phil together, and couldn’t get the image out of my mind. How could she? And what consequences had it led to?
But the next thing I knew, Auntie Sue was sitting on the bed with a freshly-brewed tea.
‘There, you’ve got your colour back. I told you a nap would do you good. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
I couldn’t bear to tell her that Mike was having financial difficulties, or that Amy had been having an affair, so I just told her what I’d learned from Jake: that Amy was under the influence of some strong medication and there’d been some damage to the car before the crash.
‘But it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Her face was pale.
‘It’s suspicious. But the police look for motive first and foremost. That’s what I’m trying to work out. Who, if anyone, would want to hurt her?’
Mike called in to collect Betsy on his way home. Did he look like a man who’d murdered his wife after finding out she was cheating on him? I wanted to push the thought away, but I couldn’t unthink it. I tried to read him, but he just looked so weary. This whole situation with Betsy was spectacularly bad timing.
I wasn’t going to give away what I knew. I’d been too quick to reveal that I’d found out about his financial troubles. If he knew Amy had been cheating on him, he didn’t need to know that I’d found out. One way or the other, things would become clear sooner or later.
Was Mike capable of killing Amy? If he had known tha
t his wife was having an affair with his friend, that was certainly a motive to hurt her. But why go after Amy and not Phil? Yes, there was the money to factor in, but setting up a car crash and making it look like a horrible accident seemed quite complicated for a crime of passion.
I logged on to Amy’s Facebook from my phone and read the messages from Phil again. Had he wanted to hurt Amy, after she broke things off with him? I’d only met Phil a couple of times and he hadn’t made any real impression on me. He was quite good-looking, in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way, and it was hard to say if he had a winning personality – whenever I’d seen him he had been on the verge of tears.
Come to think of it, he had been particularly upset by Amy’s accident. I could picture him now, standing with us at the grave. He had been as upset as the rest of us. Was that because she was his wife’s best friend and a mother of three whose death was an absolute tragedy, or because he’d had a hand in it?
I couldn’t imagine Amy with him. But then again, how well had I really known my sister lately? If I’d learned anything in these past few weeks, it was that Amy and I had become complete strangers to each other.
Tormented, I knew that only a glass of wine would help. And mid-way through my second glass, I had a moment of clarity; I needed help to process this information, and there was only one person I could talk to.
Jake answered on the third ring and agreed to come over when I told him I’d stumbled onto valuable new evidence. He still hadn’t arrived by the time I poured my third glass so I opened a second bottle.
It was raining when I opened the door. Jake’s glasses misted up, and when he took them off I saw that he had droplets of water in his eyelashes. Up close, I could see a smattering of very light freckles on his nose that I hadn’t noticed before. His hair was slick and black, wet from the rain. I vaguely thought of the roses I’d received with an anonymous note, and wondered again if he’d sent them.
The wine had left me way buzzier than I thought, and it wasn’t until I started to speak that I realised I was more than just a little tipsy.
Jake clocked the open bottle and the glass I’d poured myself. ‘Are you feeling OK?’ He asked.
‘Long day. Make that a long week – or month.’
I poured him a glass and led him through to the living room. We sat at either end of the sofa, an awkward gap between us. I tried to find the words to start explaining what I’d discovered. When I’d invited Jake over it had felt quite urgent, but here I was losing focus again. And his eyes - at first, I’d thought they were brown but now they looked green. Or was it the firelight?
‘You wanted to tell me something?’
‘Erm, yes, right. Sorry, I’m just… it’s a little hard for me to focus these days.’
Nice one, Izzy – use your sister’s death as an excuse for your propensity for binge drinking. I cleared my throat and concentrated really hard on not sounding too pissed.
‘I think Amy was having an affair,’ I said, fixing my eyes on the carpet. ‘I got into her messages, and there were several from a man that she seems to have recently broken up with. A man who just happens to be her best friend’s husband.’ I choked on the last few words.
‘Are you sure?’ Jake’s eyes grew wide.
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling the tears start. ‘She was cheating on Mike because she wasn’t happy, because she wanted more from life. And I didn’t know about it, and I wasn’t there for her when she needed me…’
The grief hit me again: a surging swell of sorrow for having lost my sister – first to time and distance, and then to eternity. It swept over my head like a tidal wave, a tsunami I hadn’t seen coming, and I was drowning before I realised what was going on.
‘There, there,’ Jake shuffled along the sofa and gently put one arm around my shoulder.
I flopped my head against his chest. The warmth of him was real and solid and comforting. He smelled like juniper and leather and rain.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. His voice was a whisper, and he wrapped his other arm around me, folding me into him.
He leaned across and grabbed the box of tissues from the side table. I took one from him and sat back, trying to take deep, calming breaths. The air came in shallow gasps.
Jake sat there, contemplating me, waiting for me to finish – and probably unsure what to do next. This was not, I was quite certain, what he had imagined when I had invited him over.
What had he imagined?
The thought distracted me long enough to catch my breath. I came back to the surface. Treading water. Yes, this was better. And Jake was still sitting there, his face close to mine, gazing at me with those brown eyes that looked green by firelight. His lips were parted, just a tiny bit, but enough that I knew exactly what he was thinking.
I slowly leaned in towards him.
‘No, Izzy…’ He clamped my shoulders in both hands and my head was jerked back upright. ‘This is not… I mean, that’s not what… You don’t want…’
‘Oh, god.’ I cringed, closing my eyes so I didn’t have to see his embarrassment.
Perhaps the roses hadn’t been from him after all. But how badly had I misread the situation?
‘I’m sorry, I just…’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m flattered, but this is…’ He patted my knee in a matey, not-here-to-take-advantage type way. ‘This wouldn’t be right.’
‘Jake, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘No need to apologise,’ he chuckled, maintaining a safe distance. ‘Tell you what: let’s agree to never mention it again.’
That sounded like a good deal. I smiled sheepishly.
‘There you go!’ He gave me a chummy pat on the arm as he smiled back at me. ‘Listen, it’s probably best that I go now. We can pick up again on this discussion tomorrow,’ he said, putting way too much emphasis on ‘discussion’.
‘No, you don’t have to leave!’ I said. ‘Stay! I want to talk about Amy.’
My words were slightly slurred, and I wondered if he noticed.
‘I do, too, but I think you need to rest first.’
He was making me sound like a crazy lady and the worst part was, he was looking at me with pity.
Jake got up to leave. ‘Goodnight, Izzy. I’ll let myself out. Get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow.’ He stepped out into the rain, pulling the door shut behind him.
My rage flared – at myself, for throwing myself at him, but also at Jake for knocking me back. He had been giving me all the signals, hadn’t he? Maybe I’d got him completely wrong. But did he have to be such a nice guy about it? And the pity? That just made me feel even worse.
And Amy. I was mad at Amy. She had ripped up my life with her insane last wishes, dumping a whole load of her shit on my shoulders and expecting me to give up everything that mattered so that I could clear up her mess. It wasn’t fair. Hot, angry tears rolled down my cheeks. I threw the empty wine glass against the closed door and watched it shatter.
Adam answered my FaceTime on the third ring. It was 3 a.m. in Hong Kong and he was out with Thierry and Mathilde and a group of friends, who all waved at me through the tiny screen. That’s where I should have been – that was my life. Fun and glamour and money, working hard to play hard. Not this – pain and grief and responsibility, and confronting truth that only hurt more the deeper I went. Between sobs, I tried to tell Adam what had happened, but the music was loud – even from out in the street where he’d gone to hear me better – and I knew I was keeping him away from the party. We said goodbye and I went back to my self-pity.
I was bored with wine and needed something a little harder, so I poured myself a scotch. The fire was getting low, the embers glowing a livid red. I piled another log on and pulled the throw over my legs. I had find out what happened to Amy so I could get out of here, soon. Between my mum, the kids and the mess Amy had left, I was going certifiably mad.
Chapter Twelve
I rolled over and the room was suddenly full of light, shockin
g me awake. It took me a moment to realise I was still on the sofa. The cushion I’d been sleeping on bore the imprint of my face with two mascara-blurs for eyes and a little wet patch where the lips should be. My mouth was dry and everything was blurry, and I realised I’d slept in my contact lenses. For god’s sake, Izzy. It was only mid-week.
I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. The fire had gone out at some point and I’d pulled a second throw onto the sofa rather than dragging myself upstairs to bed. The empty whisky glass sat on the side table like evidence. I’d refilled it several times before finally crashing out, and the rim was smudged with tell-tale lip marks. I padded into the kitchen to fill it with water. There were sparkles of broken glass all over the floor, and it took me a second to remember –
Oh god. Jake. The shame burned in my throat.
With the small dustpan and brush, I swept up the broken glass. It had been one of the pretty green glasses, and I felt awful that my drunken rage had got the better of me. Every movement hurt my head.
Maybe it would be better if I went to Amy’s and watched Betsy there. The last thing I needed was a bored, angry eight-year-old cooped up in this tiny place with me. What time was it anyway? I glanced at my phone – it was already after ten. Why hadn’t my alarm gone off?
I had three missed calls from Mike. I called him back, and he answered on the third ring.
‘Izzy, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I mumbled. ‘Just a bit… under the weather. Where’s Betsy?’
‘She’s over at your mum’s. We were knocking for ages at your door, but there was no answer.’
His voice was so loud, every word made my head pound.
‘Look, just take a day off if you’re not well. There’s no need for you to be watching her all the time. Let’s share the work.’
Just a couple of weeks into my role as a co-guardian and I was too hungover to perform my duties. I really was not up to this. Amy had way overestimated me, and she would never have left me in charge if she knew what I was really like. I was just starting, and I was already failing.
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