She sat back and took a sip of tea, a smirk dancing on her lips. ‘My daughter will be well taken care of when I’m gone, don’t worry about that. As for anyone who thinks I’m no longer of sound mind, I’m quite prepared to have that debate with them in person. After all, I’m not going anywhere just yet.’ She cut herself another slice of cake.
I clasped my hands together, wondering what to do. It could all end up badly, but what did I have to lose? If Sandra Wheeler had any objections, she could take them up with her mother. And it was such a beautiful house. If losing Amy had taught me anything, it was that life is short. From now on, I was determined to be happy.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘if you are absolutely sure. But I want to add one clause in the contract: if you change your mind at any point, I will sell it back to you at the same price. That seems fair to me.’
‘It’s a deal!’ she laughed.
‘And one final thing. We must get a lawyer to look at this.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know just the man.’
That evening, I microwaved some of Auntie Sue’s sausage casserole from the freezer and set the table for one, complete with a pretty tablecloth, fresh flowers, and candles. Rachel had declined my invitation, saying she needed some time on her own, which I understood. I just prayed she believed that I hadn’t known about the affair. Even though we had only known each other for a short time, we had been through so much together. I was angry that our friendship was now at risk because of what Amy had done.
I’d had an online order of wine delivered, so I opened a bottle of Tignanello and poured myself a large glass. My plan was to run a hot bath and spend the rest of the evening winding down in the bubbles with my Kindle. I had offered to do dinner with the kids tomorrow while Mike had to work late, and I wanted to make the most of my free night.
I’d been thinking about what I would do, if I was to start my own business. The break from work had helped me realise that I wanted to do something creative. Something that I could be good at, that I was passionate about. Something that I could do from home, and still be there for the kids, and Mum and Auntie Sue. Planning the redecoration of Puffin Cottage had given me an idea – I’d always loved interior design, but had never considered it seriously as a career option. An idea began to form in my mind.
The phone rang, snapping me out of my daydream. It was DCI Bell. I braced myself.
‘I’m calling to let you know that we’ve charged Philip Turner with your sister’s murder. Again, I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss.’
I held my breath.
‘Miss Morton? Are you there?’
‘Yes,’ I said, the word coming out as a high-pitched choking sound. ‘I’ll let the rest of the family know.’
‘I’ve already spoken to your brother-in-law.’ She sounded weary. ‘It might be good for the two of you to tell Mrs Sanders’ children sooner rather than later. Word spreads fast around here.’
I thought again of Mum’s words. Of the message she’d claimed Amy had given her.
‘Can I just ask… Are you sure he did it?’
‘We don’t take these matters lightly, as I’m sure you can imagine. Not only had Mrs Sanders and Mr Turner been in a relationship, but he had access to her car before the accident. And during a search of his business premises, officers recovered medication that fits with what was found in Mrs Sanders’s blood samples. I don’t often say this, Isabelle, but this is pretty watertight.’
We said our goodbyes and I slumped down to the kitchen floor.
Chapter Eighteen
This is what grief is: it’s an elephant, sitting on your chest. The weight presses down, threatening to crush you. You can’t breathe properly, it is impossible to take a full breath, and so you panic. It’s having your limbs turn to lead. Just walking is exhausting, carrying the burden of all that extra weight. It is too much to stand, so you try to lie. The sheer weight of your own body, now strange to you, pushing down, pulling down.
It is back-breakingly tiring. You ache to sleep, every bone and sinew craving rest, your eyes stinging to close. But sleep does not come. It is growing ever wearier, ever more tired, and still being unable to sleep, until finally you crash, falling in to sweet, sweet slumber. It is wanting to sleep forever and ever, until you are cruelly crashed out of it with an electric shock, a bucket of ice water over the head, the full horror returning as you sit bolt upright in the dark, gasping for air and panting to catch your breath, drenched in cold sweat.
Grief is a black shadow in every corner of every room that never goes away, even when you shine a light on it. The shadow follows you outside, even on the happiest, sunniest days. You can almost forget it for a second, give it the slip, but it is right there again, still following you, always present, and you realise that you weren’t even close to escaping it.
It is knowing you have nothing, of seeing all you have and knowing it is worthless, of being ready to give everything up anyway, disbelieving everything you thought you knew, questioning what it was all for, why are we here, what is the point? It is your loudest scream, but you don’t make a sound. It is being hungry but having no appetite, eating without tasting, never satisfied and never satiated. It is being thirsty but being unable
