And if it wasn’t him, then who?
‘Care for a nightcap?’
I jumped. I’d been so deep in thought that I hadn’t heard Mike come up behind me.
Chapter Twenty-One
None of the kids wanted to go to bed – at least, nobody wanted to sleep alone in their own bedrooms. Lucas insisted that he would have nightmares, and Betsy refused to even go to the toilet on her own. Auntie Sue agreed that it would be good for us to stick together and proposed a sleepover. She popped home to get a couple of sleeping bags for her and Mum, while we set up in the living room, pushing the furniture back to make room for us all to sleep in the middle of the floor, lined up like sardines.
I excused Mike from the slumber party and watched him climb the stairs, taking the bottle of scotch with him. He had been holding himself together remarkably well, but his expression changed whenever he thought nobody was watching. He was ready to crack, and as much as I was still furious with him, the idea that I had betrayed him was gnawing at me.
Betsy was sandwiched between Mum and Auntie Sue, where she promptly fell asleep, her jaw slackening on her wet thumb as her breathing slowed into soft snores. Lucas was reading with a small pocket light clipped onto the top of his book, casting him in a halo of yellow light. He fell asleep slack-mouthed, the book fanned open on his chest. Auntie Sue gently teased it free from his grip and pulled the sleeping bag up to his chin.
Hannah propped her head up on her arm, her face just below my shoulder.
‘Do they think Mr Pringle killed Mum?’ She was barely audible.
Instinctively, I shook my head.
‘No, darling, I’m sure—’
‘Don’t lie,’ she hissed. ‘They let Phil go – they wouldn’t do that if he was guilty. And why does Dad have to go in again? There’s obviously something going on!’
She rolled onto her back, flopping her head back against her pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
‘I wish Mum was here,’ she said, whispering to the dark.
I slept in fits and starts, lying awake for what felt like hours at a time. Eventually, the daylight beyond the window became too bright to ignore. I scanned the row of sleeping bags – everyone was still asleep, except Auntie Sue.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ she mimed drinking from a cup.
We gingerly climbed out of our sleeping bags, trying our hardest not to make any noise. In the kitchen I stretched, my back making a series of loud cracks. Auntie Sue put the kettle on. I checked my messages. There were three from Rachel:
OMG Izzy. I heard what’s happened! This is awful! They don’t really think Richard could have done it, do they? How are the kids? xxx
They’ve released Phil. He’s going to stay at his mum’s for a few days. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do!
I miss you guys, all of you. Can’t get through this without you. Coming home tomorrow xxx
And another from Adam:
IZ: CALL ME. IT IS IMPORTANT.
What was so urgent? I doubted it was more pressing than my sister’s stalker being questioned about her death. I looked at the clock – it would be just after lunch in Hong Kong. I’d give him a call after my coffee.
Breakfast was a sombre affair, the kids silently spooning mouthfuls of sugary cereal, except for Hannah, who just stirred hers. Poor girl – only thirteen and already she had bags under her eyes. Lucas was yawning too, and I realised I wasn’t the only one who’d only managed a few hours of sleep.
Mike appeared, clean-shaven for the first time in days. He joked and bantered with the kids, trying too hard, a false lightness to him that everyone saw right through. I studiously avoided eye contact, busying myself with clearing away the breakfast things. Despite my resentment over what he’d done to Amy, my disloyalty sat souring like a saucer of milk left out in the sunshine.
Clearly, nobody was going to school. I couldn’t bring the kids’ mum back, and I couldn’t hide the fact that the local headteacher was about to be arrested for her murder, but I could protect them from the stares, the whispers, and the gossip of the world outside.
I remembered what it had been like to be the hot topic of the village. In a frighteningly short space of time, Amy and I had gone from getting condolences for losing Dad to worried queries about how well Mum was coping, and then thinly disguised attempts to mine for gossip.
Mum hadn’t been seen out in weeks by that point, and everywhere we’d gone, people had turned and whispered, or spoken to one another from behind raised hands, their eyes on us. The rumour was that Mum lost her mind and retreated to the attic like Mrs Rochester – or something like that. Little did they know that she had retreated to the other side of the world. They speculated, conjectured, hypothesised and guessed, made up stories to fill the void, created a narrative to make their boring little lives more interesting. They thought that I wouldn’t see, or I wouldn’t realise that they were talking about us, or maybe they just didn’t care. Only Mrs Wheeler had shown any true kindness.
No wonder I hadn’t been able to wait to get as far away as possible from this place.
I wanted to keep the kids in a bubble, at least for now. As soon as we knew what was happening with Richard, then we could make a plan. If he was guilty, we were going – never mind Amy’s last wishes. I would not, could not let them stay here. I would pack up the
