The Truth Hurts
Page 27
It didn’t matter how much Poppy punished herself. None of it changed anything. Jim was dead. And, in her darkest moments, she knew that Caroline had been right.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Drew, looking through her eyes and inside her.
“Poppy, let’s go.” Where did Gina think they were going to go? Was she expecting Poppy to put a hotel on her credit card? Drew’s credit card.
“Please,” said Drew. “Stay. We’ll talk. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Don’t leave me.”
She looked between them both. Drew’s face hollow and sad, a gray tinge to his skin. She had never seen him look scared before.
Gina’s jaw set hard, her eyes tight. “She’s leaving,” she said, crossing the hall and taking the stairs three at a time until she stood just below them.
“I don’t know, Gee,” Poppy said. “I—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Gina shouted. “He’s doing it again, he’s got this hold over you. You’re not like him, OK? What happened to you is nothing like what he did. He killed a child—he’s dangerous.”
Poppy shook her head. “Gina, I—”
Gina reached out her arm and pulled at Poppy’s wrist. “Come with me. I need to get you out of here.”
“Gina,” Poppy said, a little sharper this time. “I want to stay. I want to talk it through.”
Drew sat down on the stairs, his head in his hands. His sinewy forearms were shaking.
“What?” Gina snapped.
“I need to talk to Drew. I need to understand what happened. I’m not saying that I’m going to stay forever, but—”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“I’m OK.”
“Poppy, he killed a kid.”
“Gina, please.”
“I’ll tell.”
“What?”
“If you don’t come with me now, I’ll tell everyone what he did. Who he is. All them lot in the village. His office. The papers. Everyone.”
Poppy shook her head.
Gina pulled her phone out. “I mean it. I’ll post it online. Who he is, who you are. About how he paid me, about what he did.”
“You—what?” Poppy couldn’t follow Gina’s words.
“I don’t want to do this, Poppy, but you’re not safe here. You can’t stay here with him. I know you think you’re happy, but you’re just distracted by all the clothes and the big house. He’s a killer. How can you know he won’t do it again? I love you and if it takes telling everyone what you did, what you both did, to get you to come with me then I’ll do it.”
Gina meant it. Poppy knew that. She never said anything she didn’t mean. Never stopped, never thought about the consequences of her actions. Just charged forward.
“Gina, please, I just want to talk to him. Give me one night.”
“I can’t,” she said, her eyes huge with concern.
“Give me an hour then.”
Gina shook her head. “If I do that you’ll stay. I know you.” She took another step up, reaching for Poppy. “I know what you’re like. You think the money makes it safe to be here, but it doesn’t.” She held her phone up, showing her the screen. But it was too close for Poppy to see the display. “Come with me now, or I’m doing it.”
A rage, sudden and pure, shot through Poppy.
She watched as her arms lifted, her palms flattened against Gina’s chest and pushed, her whole weight behind it, surging forward and shoving Gina as hard as she could. She watched as Gina’s long, limby body tumbled down the stairs. She watched as Gina hit the bottom, the beautiful blue tiled floor, with a sickening crack, and then silence.
She looked up at Drew, whose face was blank. Then she stepped slowly down the stairs.
Gina’s eyes were moving underneath her lids and her chest was rising and falling.
Not dead.
Drew walked down the stairs. She listened to the sole of his work shoes click on the stone. When Drew reached the bottom, he wound his arms around Poppy’s torso and kissed the top of her head. “What shall we do?” he asked into her hair.
“We don’t have a choice,” she whispered. Why were they whispering? There wasn’t another house for half a mile.
Drew nodded. “Go upstairs,” he said. He searched the hall with his eyes and picked up a marble-based clock from the hall table. It was a mottled yellow-pink with sharp edges.
“No,” said Poppy, watching his hand wrap around it.
“I don’t want you to see this.” His voice was kind.
She kissed him, full on the mouth and, looking up into his face, she smiled. It was easy to see how things would be different from now on. “I’m staying,” she said. “No more secrets.”
Six Months Later
Spring had finally arrived. The sky was a kind of blue that Poppy had begun to doubt would ever come back and all around her she could see daffodils. It was going to stay like this, the newspaper said. A long, warm spring sliding into another endlessly hot summer. They’d be able to use the pool before long.
She’d left Drew back at the house, building the crib in the baby’s primrose-yellow bedroom. He’d told her off for fussing, sent her into the village for dinner supplies.
She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the reassuring flicker of life beneath her skin. She added a bottle of water to her shopping basket and waited her turn at the register. It was a lovely place. All cream wood and bright, fresh fruits and vegetables in neat rows.
“Is it your first?” asked the woman behind the counter, gesturing to Poppy’s bump as she counted Sicilian lemons.
“Yes.” Poppy nodded. “Not much longer now.”
“I like your accent.” The woman smiled. She was pretty. Her dark hair was piled up on top of her head and a gold stud punctured her nose. She wore overalls and a pale pink T-shirt. Poppy wondered if this was her shop. Perhaps they would become friends. People were so much nicer here than they had been in Linfield.
The playground where Thursday House once stood would be finished now. All traces of the house gone, covered over with pavement and wood chips and brightly colored metal. The people who had refused to help her with decorating or plumbing would bring their children there to play. They’d say it was the only decent thing to do with that house. They’d sit on the wooden benches, watching their children run around, pleased. Feeling like they had won. With no idea what lay beneath the pavement.
“Thank you,” said Poppy.
“Are you here on holiday?” the woman asked.
“No,” said Poppy. “We’ve just moved here. Me and my husband.”
The woman smiled. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” said Poppy. “It’s all a bit of a change. We don’t know anyone yet.”
Sticking her hand out, the woman said, “I’m Lily. So now you know me.”
Poppy returned her smile. “Nice to meet you, Lily. I’m Alice.”
She relished the feeling of her new name on her lips. Things were going to be different from now on. She and Drew and their baby would be happy here.
Acknowledgments
When I wrote the acknowledgments for my first book, Perfect Liars, I felt as if I needed to thank everyone I had ever known. Which was probably fair enough, given how much all of those people contributed to the story. They say that your first book takes your entire life up until that point to write, so all those friends and teachers and people I drunkenly met at parties really did have a part in it.
A second book, as I learned quickly, is a very different thing. The first person to thank must be Darcy Nicholson, the best editor a girl could ask for. Not only did she give me the chance to write this book, she helped make it what it is today, and she’s keen on ordering wine with lunch. Similarly, the entire team at Transworld, not least my publicist, Becky Short, and marketer Ella Horne, who have both been a dream to work with.
My agent, Eve White, has always been a rock of calm, something I need given that the business side of writing books makes me utterly loopy. She and
Ludo Cinelli are both stars.
Friends too have been an enormous part of this process. Liv, Mel, Emily, Grace, Kathy, Chloe, Emma, Jon, Ian, Aimee, Georgie, Carol, Madeleine (whose name I spelled wrong in the acknowledgments for Perfect Liars), Becka, Tiss, all the Amsterglam girls, Tristan, Natasha, Hannah, all the Metro.co.uk Lifestyle team (especially Ellen, Jess, Miranda and Faima). You’ve all kept me sane.
Family too. Lucy, George, Tim and Charlotte remain the best people in the world to tell good news to, and the most supportive when things aren’t going your way.
Last but not least, my husband, Marcus, whose reticence to talk about The Past was the inspiration for this book. Steady, patient, kind and always there to remind me that no, the first book was not “piss easy” to write. Thank you for forgiving me this ultimate act of passive aggression.
About the Author
REBECCA REID is a freelance journalist and the author of Perfect Liars.
Rebecca lives in north London with her husband.
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Also by Rebecca Reid
PERFECT LIARS
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE TRUTH HURTS. Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Reid. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Corgi Books, an imprint of Transworld Publishers.
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover photograph © MariyaL/iStock/Getty Images
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Digital Edition JULY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-299759-3
Version 06082020
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-299758-6
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