The Wife Before Me(95)

Could I have interceded when she stared at him across the width of her mother’s grave and fell into his eyes? To do so would have made sense. Why else was I forced to witness such an encounter and others over which I had no control?

I never believed in psychics. Never had my palm read, tea leaves studied, tarot cards analysed. Never wondered if those who claimed to have visions were the chosen ones or simply charlatans, experts only at reading the runes of the body, hearing the unspoken words, tracking the unshed tears. I had to die to discover that to be so gifted is to accept a wound that will never stop bleeding.





Fifty-Nine





Night settles over Mag’s Head. The cottage blends into the rocky bluffs and windswept trees, the blue shutters on the windows securely closed, the door of the studio locked. The only noise to penetrate the restless swish of the ocean is the growl of a BMW as it negotiates the steep bends in the road. Sheep stir, eyes glazed with sleep as they are caught in the headlights.

Amelia lifts her head, suddenly alert. Accustomed to the reverberations of the headland, she recognises this alien sound for what it is. Her scalp bristles. The moment she has always feared is upon her. Elena, who has been talking about Grace and Joel, tenses when she sees her expression change. It’s audible now, the gears straining against the upward slant, then easing down when he reaches the plateau where Clearwater sits. They have planned each detail of this confrontation yet, suddenly, there is a void where moments before there was a strategy.

They hold hands, squeeze hard. This is their first physical contact, though they have poured their hearts out to each other, drinking black coffee to keep them awake, knowing he will come at a time when he believes they’ll be unprepared.

In the living room, Amelia slides the hidden door across and enters her refuge. The BMW is silent. The gate bangs. He strides across the gravel, making no effort to disguise his arrival. He knocks on the door, an assertive sound that he quickly repeats.

‘Hello, Nicholas.’ Elena swings the door open. ‘What took you so long?’ Her life depends on remaining composed, yet the urge to cower away from him is as strong as ever. She holds her head erect, conscious that Amelia, who found the courage to face her greatest fear and escape from his brutality is close by.

‘I’m relieved to know you’re safe.’ His forehead furrows with concern and he speaks quietly, as he often did before he struck her. ‘What on earth brought you to this godforsaken hole?’

Elena stands aside and gestures for him to enter. ‘Come in and I’ll explain everything.’

‘Thank you.’ He does not hesitate as he walks past her and enters the living room. His confidence is threatening, as he intends it to be. ‘Nice décor.’ He stares around him, slowly turning to take in every detail. ‘It reminds me of somewhere. Can you enlighten me as to where that could be, Elena?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She will play his cat and mouse game, if that’s what he wants. ‘This cottage belongs to Annie Ross. I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s in New York.’

Ignoring her, he rests his hand on the mantlepiece. ‘No photographs? I would have thought this was the ideal place to display them.’

‘There’s no accounting for taste, Nicholas.’

‘I agree. I must say you’re looking well for someone who has just jumped bail.’

‘I’m still in one piece, as you can see. Not a single bruise. How amazing is that?’

‘Don’t get too used to it. Your luck won’t last long when you’re sent down. Are you looking forward to your first night on remand? Women prisoners are more vicious than men, I’m told, and they enjoy the taste of fresh meat.’

‘After living with you, jail will be a walk in the park.’

‘You do realise there’s a warrant out for your arrest?’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, the gardai are searching in the wrong direction. Not for long, though. They were afraid you might have taken your own life rather than serve a long jail sentence. They’ll be relieved to know it’s the latter.’

‘If anyone is going to jail, it’s you.’

‘A sense of humour was never your strong point, Elena. Where is this so-called Annie Ross?’

‘I told you.’

He lifts an eyebrow, smiles his disbelief. ‘You could never lie, Elena. Another one of your weak points.’

‘You were good at pointing them out,’ she retorts. ‘How come you never looked at your own failings?’

‘What would they be?’ He spreads his fingers and taps on them. ‘Helping you through your depressions? Loving you, even though you did your utmost to make that impossible? Dealing with your obsessive jealousy? Your pathetic whining? Your constant demands? Would you like me to continue?’

‘Why not? You’re on a roll.’

‘I came here to talk about her, not you. Where is Leanne Rossiter?’

‘I don’t know anyone―’

‘Don’t play games with me. Annie Ross, Leanne Rossiter… it did take some figuring out but then Leanne always had a problem with her identity.’

‘You won’t find her here, Nicholas. I told you, she’s in―’

‘Yeah… yeah. I know. The Big Apple. Is her charming daughter with her?’