The Girl in the Mirror(43)

I can hardly argue with Adam. I have to focus on the here and now. What is he trying to tell me about the police? I had begun to think Inspector Barbé’s hostility toward me was all in my guilty head—despite his myriad questions, he treated me kindly—but maybe not.

“So, what’s the bad news?” I ask.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Adam says.

His eyes are black pools, inscrutable. I lean in toward him, tilt my lips up toward his face. Love me, Adam. Protect me.

“This is a small country,” says Adam. “They don’t have a proper coast guard, the police force is basic, and it’s been twelve days, Summer.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m just going to come out and say this. There’s not going to be a search. They don’t have the resources.”

Is he serious? Of course there’s not going to be a search. My sister died twelve days ago, over a thousand miles away. Her body is at the bottom of the sea.

I can’t be bothered acting shocked or surprised. “Adam, I know,” I say. “I searched for her beyond the point of reason. I know she’s gone.”

Adam gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “So, you woke to find her missing,” he says. “Any clues as to how she fell?”

I have to feign ignorance. “All I know is that she was there when I went to bed, and when I woke up, she was gone. I don’t really want to imagine the details.”

“I hoped there might be a way of getting some answers,” says Adam, “but it was a dead end. I didn’t want to get your hopes up, so I came back to the yacht while you were with Daniel to check the CCTV that your dad installed. Unfortunately, it’s an old system that only keeps the last week of footage, so it was too late.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve had time to come to terms with the thought that I’ll never know exactly what happened. Maybe it’s better this way.”

“I understand,” says Adam. “No point driving yourself mad wondering. Knowing what caused Iris to fall wouldn’t change anything.”

Adam holds me close for a long time. His neck is just the right height for my face to nestle into. Then he settles me in the pilothouse with a glass of apple juice, as though I’m an invalid, and fetches a bucket of soapy water—it seems the yachties have replenished our tanks. He washes the cockpit clean of blood. Every last trace.

He didn’t even ask his wife where the blood came from. He suggested a couple of ideas but didn’t wait for her to say which was correct. He didn’t cross-examine her about her sister’s disappearance. He trusts her absolutely. And he doesn’t trust the Seychellois police. I’m too scared to ask what he means about the police being different from those in Australia, but his decision to clean up the blood sends an eloquent message.

I’m sure I smell good after my shower at La Belle Romance, but now, while Adam is cleaning, I duck into the bathroom to use some of that apple perfume. I spray it into the air and walk into the mist, breathing in the sweet fragrance.

The girl in the mirror looks much better than she did this morning. Her face will change as the years pass, but it won’t matter because no one will be comparing. No one will ask her which twin she is.

Adam fries steak and throws together a salad. We eat in the cockpit. Masts clink and balmy breezes carry the scent of night flowers. Our conversation is intermittent and repetitive, but that’s to be expected. Nobody knows what to say to the bereaved.

My new life is falling into place, but the best is yet to come. After dinner, I hurry below to strip the foul, salty sheets off the bed and lay down fresh white linen. I dig through drawers and find a set of clean lingerie. Soft pink satin, never worn; I have to pull off the price tags.

Adam’s expecting me back outside, but instead, I slip into bed and wait. My heart beats so fast, I’m sure it’s visible through my rib cage.

All day, he’s been stroking my hair, clasping my hand, pressing my body to his, but the sexiest thing of all was when he got down on his hands and knees and washed that blood away. Adam is my husband. He loves me.

He saunters into the room, strips down to his boxers, and drops into bed beside me. His warm, firm arms slide around me, and my skin tingles as he draws me close. He nuzzles his face into my hair. “Summer, my sweet sunshine,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry about everything. Sleep now. Let me hold you and keep you safe. You and our baby.”

He smells like heaven. My whole body pulses with need. His warm skin presses against my back, and his muscled legs curve in against the backs of my thighs.

I wait, breathless, for him to make the first move, but there’s no pressure against my hips. Adam is not aroused. This is a comforting hug, a platonic hug for a grieving woman.

Play along, sister. Be patient.

I try to calculate dates, but the numbers jump around in my head. All I know is, they won’t fit. Everything is perfect, except for one thing. There is no baby.





12

The Washing Machine




Of course I know who I am. I haven’t forgotten. I can’t forget. But I can’t let myself think it, not for one moment, not with these relatives circling and Adam, Adam, Adam everywhere.

I know who I am because, although Adam’s family is kind, I want, need, to get away from them. Summer would have slept at La Belle Romance, surrounded by Romains, each of them her newest, dearest friend. She would have slept with Tarquin curled up in her arms.