Behind Every Lie(17)
“Why would I do that? It’s—” I started to say it was a crime scene, then remembered that it wasn’t anymore, not according to Andrew.
“You need to trigger your memories somehow, right? Maybe going back will help you remember. And if you remember, you’ll get your answers.”
“I don’t know.…”
I wanted to open my head, to force the memories out. From the moment I’d woken in the hospital yesterday, I’d felt like I’d been snapped back to four years ago, the police shaking their heads, their dubious, sideways glances. But how do you feel guilty for something you don’t even remember?
“Well, look,” Melissa said. “It certainly can’t hurt to try. Just be careful if you do. Whoever killed your mom might come back.”
* * *
Back in the gallery, Melissa handed me a brown padded envelope that had come through while we were gone. “More mail for you.”
I took the package into my tiny studio at the back and set it on the desk where I painted. I rummaged around for a pair of scissors in the top drawer and carefully slit it open. Inside were broken pieces of ash-fired brown and pink pottery, which I slid carefully onto the desk.
“What is it?” Melissa asked. She was leaning against the doorway that separated the studio from the art gallery.
I read the accompanying note out loud:
“Dear Eva, You made this urn for me when my daughter passed away and this weekend my cat knocked it over. I know I’m asking you to perform a miracle, but can you fix it?
“Fiona Hudson.”
I paused. “I remember her. Her daughter died in a car accident. She stopped in here last summer and asked me to make an urn.” I tried to fit the pieces back together. “There’s a huge chunk missing here. How am I supposed to fix this?”
The bell above the door chimed. Melissa went to greet the customer and I set the pieces of the urn down, trailing behind her. I stopped abruptly when I saw who’d entered.
Detective Jackson.
And he was smiling in a way that made me very uncomfortable.
nine
kat
25 years before
“BLOODY POLICE,” SEBASTIAN GRUMBLED. The news story on the car radio had been detailing a crime squad convicted of fabricating evidence. “Always making shit up.”
He flicked the radio off as he parked outside the Regency-style house in Mayfair, London’s poshest neighborhood.
I did not reply—I knew when my husband required my input—but it was an extraordinary statement for Seb to make. Half the police in North London were in his back pocket. Seb’s shady dealings were no longer a big secret in our house. Be that as it may, it was necessary that I pretend I didn’t know.
I studied Rose’s house. The white stucco fa?ade gleamed in the clean spring sunshine. Fluted pillars, elegant wrought iron balconies, and bow windows decorated the exterior. Even the lacy strands of ivy climbing over the door looked posh. Butterflies shivered in my stomach.
“Cracking house, right, Katherine?”
I kissed Seb’s cheek, which was already dark and rough despite having shaved only a few hours before. I didn’t reply as I didn’t know what he was playing at. Was he tricking me? At any rate, silence was usually safest these days. Seb’s temper had been more volatile than usual of late, likely a result of his new restaurant not doing as well as expected. The restaurant he was in direct competition with had ini tiated a special buy-one-get-one-free promotion to ensure its customers did not visit Seb’s. He was furious and had been simmering for days.
I unbuckled my seat belt and pushed my door open, but Seb reached across the console and roughly grabbed my left breast, eyes glittering. I froze, my skin itchy with a sudden fear. He did this sometimes, not in a sexual way, in a proprietary way.
“These people are inconsequential,” I said smoothly. “They were born into their wealth. They have not earned it.”
Seb dropped his hand and smiled. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I knew my husband. He did not like to feel inferior.
I got out of the car and unbuckled Eva from the backseat. I tugged her out, but the seat belt had looped around her leg.
“Oww!” she howled.
“Christ, Katherine! Be careful!” Seb glared at me. He was not a large man, my husband, but he had this ability to seemingly inflate his body, like a peacock.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
I finally managed to wrestle Eva’s small body out of the car onto the pavement. We waved as Seb drove away. I dropped to my knees and smoothed Eva’s blond hair behind her ears. “Today you will get to play with Laura, but you mustn’t misbehave. Promise you’ll be on your very best behavior?”
“I promise, Mummy!” She nodded, her blue eyes earnest as she clutched her teddy bear tightly to her chest. “And Barnaby does too.”
I rang the doorbell, and after a minute Rose answered. She had made rather less of an effort today than she had at the park: no makeup, bare feet, jeans and T-shirt, but still lovely.
“Katherine! I’m so happy to see you!” she exclaimed. Her cheek was impossibly soft when she pressed it to mine.
She pulled me into a very grand entry. A glittering crystal chandelier hung two stories above the entry, an elegant stairway sweeping to the second floor. I caught sight of my reflection in a gilt mirror. A neat and sensible woman stared back: brown wool skirt, clunky-heeled shoes, dishwater-blond hair scraped into a bun, bloodless lips. And next to me was Rose, beautiful and enigmatic, with skin creamy as morning milk, wide-spaced gray eyes, a generous mouth. We could not have been more different if we had tried.