The Death of Mrs. Westaway(104)

No sign of anyone at first, and then something moved—a dark shape in the doorway, and he stepped forwards into the little room.

The snow had stopped, she realized with a sense of detached wonderment, and the moon had come out, sending a thin white light slanting across the bare boards between them.

“Hal, what are you doing?” There was no censure in his deep voice, just a kind of concerned curiosity.

“E-Ezra,” she stammered. “I was—I was looking for—for Mrs. Warren.”

It was true, after all.

“Why? Is something wrong”

“I’m fine,” she managed. But it was not true. Her heart was beating so hard and fast it made a hissing in her ears, a roar she could barely silence enough to hear her own thoughts.

He stepped forwards into the moonlight, one hand stretched out as if to take hers, lead her back to safety.

“Hal, are you sure you’re all right? You look very strange. And what’s that you’ve got there—is it . . . is it a book?”

She looked down at her hands, in which she was still holding the yellow album, and then up at Ezra, at her father.

She met his eyes, and it was like falling into dark, leaf-strewn water, like falling into her own past.

Because suddenly, in a single, crystallizing instant, she understood.

Once, at school, Hal’s teacher had had them conduct an experiment, where they cooled a bottle of water to below freezing, and then tapped it sharply on a table. When they did, the water froze all in an instant, the ice spreading with impossible swiftness, like some kind of magic spell.

As she stood there, gazing into Ezra’s dark, liquid eyes, Hal felt as if the same process were taking place inside her—a painful chill spreading out from her core, turning the blood in her veins to ice, and her limbs stiff and frozen. Because she understood—finally—and without needing to know what had happened to Mrs. Warren.

She understood Mrs. Warren’s odd expression that first day, Mrs. Westaway’s will, and her strange, cryptic message to Harding.

She understood the wording of the bequest, and the “mistake” that had occurred—not Mr. Treswick’s fault at all—how could she have ever thought that dry, careful little man would make such a catastrophic error?

She understood why Abel had denied Edward’s presence at the lake that day, and why Ezra had refused to challenge the will or pursue the deed of variation, and that odd, throwaway line that had niggled and niggled and niggled at her subconscious.

And most of all she understood why her mother had cut herself off from her past, and Hal with her.

Get out—if you know what’s good for you.

Not a threat, but a warning.

And she had understood it too late.

CHAPTER 47


* * *

Time seemed to slow as they stood, staring at each other. Hal’s throat was dry, and her voice croaked when she finally spoke.

“It’s an album. But—but maybe you knew that.”

She tried to say the words lightly, but they sounded strange in her own mouth, and she realized she was hugging herself defensively, as though to protect herself from some unknown attacker. Think about how you hold yourself, Hal, it’s not just what we read in others—it’s what they read in us.

Her face was stiff, and she forced a smile, widening the corners of her mouth in what felt like a death-mask grimace.

“Well . . . I’m very tired . . .”

Ezra took the album from her hand, but he didn’t move to leave. Instead he put his hand on the wall, leaning casually, blocking Hal’s route to the exit, and he cocked his head and smiled at her as he leafed through the pages.

“Oh . . . this old thing. Gosh, I had no idea Mother had kept hold of so many pictures.”

Hal said nothing, only watched as he turned the pages.

“How did you stumble across this old thing?”

“I—” Hal swallowed, hard. She forced her arms to drop to her sides, making her body language open, trying to look relaxed. “I couldn’t sleep. I was looking for a book to read. I went to the study.”

“I see. And . . . did you . . . look at the photographs, by the way?”

His voice was casual, careless even. But as he said the words, Hal knew—he knew.

She had seen something in him, some change in the way he held himself, some imperceptible difference in his stance. She had seen that flicker of recognition when she hit a nerve too often in her booth to be mistaken.

She saw it now.

“J-just the first ones,” Hal said. She made her breathing slow, steady, listening detachedly to the tremor in her own voice, trying to quiet it, make her voice calm, soothing. “Why?”

“No reason,” he said. But there was no pretense now. He was not smiling any longer, and Hal felt her heart quicken.

Get out—while you still can.

“Well . . . I think I’ll go back to bed now, if you don’t mind. . . .” She said the words slowly and carefully, keeping very calm, waiting for him to move aside. But he only shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I think you did look at that album.”

There was a long, long silence. Hal felt her heart beating inside her. And then it was as if something inside her broke open, and the words came tumbling out, full of bitterness.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew. You knew. You were Ed. Why did you pretend it was poor Edward?”