Forget Her Name(33)

‘But why would someone do that? Send her a fake postcard from . . . from my sister?’

I can’t bring myself to say her name out loud. Even thinking it is hard. As if naming my dead sister might give her the power to be alive again.

Which is ridiculous.

Rachel.

Her name has been a secret darkness at the heart of our honeymoon. I don’t want that darkness to persist into our marriage, too. I’d rather spend a peaceful last evening here with my husband. Maybe play some Scrabble or a game of chess. Or watch another film. Or perhaps make love again.

I have to exorcise her though, whatever the cost.

‘Some people are like that,’ he says. ‘They thrive on hurting other people. On sowing the seeds of unhappiness in relationships. Especially marriages.’

‘You think someone is trying to break up our marriage?’

He shrugs.

‘Someone who doesn’t want the two of us to be together,’ I say slowly, trying to work it out. ‘And who knows exactly which buttons to press. So it has to be someone who knows me well. And who knows about Rachel. Maybe someone who knows more than I do about her death.’ I stare at the flickering fire, half mesmerised by the flames. ‘After all, I was a kid when it happened, and my parents wanted to protect me. That’s why they never discussed it afterwards, I guess.’

I frown, thinking about the eyeball in the snow globe, and my ruined wedding dress, and now Jasmine’s postcard. There’s a pattern here. A vile, twisted pattern of hostility and attack. But I can’t see what it means.

‘Well, it’s a nice theory,’ I continue, a little unnerved by Dominic’s silence. ‘But who the hell ticks all those boxes? I don’t know anyone who’s so bothered about us getting married that they’d go to all this bloody trouble.’ I pause in my little rant, looking up at him. ‘Do you?’

Dominic’s expression is grim, yet he says nothing. He stands and opens a wooden chest, taking out a soft tartan blanket, which he shakes and drapes around my shoulders. Physical comfort instead of words. Perhaps I prefer it. Right now, the fact that he’s here for me should matter more than what he says. Or doesn’t say.

‘Thanks.’ My voice is husky. I pat the sofa, which suddenly feels very big. ‘Join me?’

Dominic hesitates, then sits next to me. The sofa gives slightly under his weight and I slump towards him, not very gracefully. The T-shirt rides up, revealing my bare thighs. I see his gaze flicker across them, slowly moving higher. His hand finds my shoulder, then caresses my collarbone, the curve of my throat, his fingers trailing across my cheek.

‘You think too much,’ he tells me softly.

‘Better than too little.’

‘Not when you’re on your honeymoon.’

‘Shit, sorry.’ I bite my lip at the quiet accusation in his voice. I’m not sure how I got there, but I’m on the verge of tears. ‘I’m ruining our honeymoon, aren’t I? We were having such a peaceful time up here, hiding away from everything, and now . . .’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘Rachel always finds a way to spoil things.’

‘Forget Rachel,’ he says, almost angry.

Shaken, I meet his gaze.

‘I don’t want you to think about her again, you hear me?’ he continues. ‘Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.’

God, I want to believe him. To forget about my sister. To dismiss all the things that have been happening lately. It would make everything so much easier if I could just shut her out of my head.

I close my eyes as he kisses me.

Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.

So who sent that postcard?





Chapter Nineteen Sharon calls me into her office just after nine o’clock on my first day back at work after the honeymoon. She has changed her hair, I realise, as I follow her into the warm room. She used to wear it loose over her shoulders, all bouncy, honey-blonde, dyed curls. Now it looks stricter, coiled up in a bun at the back of her head. She has toned down her lipstick, too. Usually scarlet, it’s a darker red today, and less glossy. As if she means business.

‘How was the Lake District?’ she asks, indicating that I should close the door.

‘Fantastic, thank you. The scenery was breathtaking.’

‘Sounds lovely. Did you do much walking?’

I smile, though I’m still puzzled by this unexpected summons. If Sharon has something to say, normally she would do so in front of everyone else. Is this just about the honeymoon?

‘We went out a couple of times. It was a bit cold for anything major.’

‘Snowed, did it?’

I nod, and Sharon makes a wry face.

‘That’s the Lake District in December, love,’ she says. ‘I did say you should have gone to Benidorm.’

‘And you were right. I hate flying though, so . . .’ I shrug. ‘By the way, we both absolutely love the cruet set. Thank you so much.’

‘No problem.’ Sharon looks uncomfortable again, but manages a thin smile. ‘You’d better sit down.’

I sit in one of the plastic chairs in front of her desk.

‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.

‘A problem?’ Sharon sits behind her desk, smiling at me in a perfunctory manner. ‘I’m not sure I would put it like that, no.’