‘Now prove me right,’ I say to her.
Chapter 39
DAY 9
I head back home at dawn, leaving Hannah in the ICU. We’re taking it in shifts to watch over June. I don’t trust the Sheriffs to do the job properly and I also don’t trust the hospital.
Gene has left. I know it before I even look in the apartment. There’s a desolation hanging in the air like it does at ancient ruins, a heavy cloying silence that shrouds the house.
When I open the front door I notice that even more paintings have vanished – though this time I see with surprise that they’re all ones I painted. The antique candlesticks on the table are gone, and the silver cutlery my father gave me on our wedding day has been emptied from the drawers in the dining room, which all gape open. It’s as if burglars have been again.
As I make my way through the rooms I note that Gene’s done a more thorough job than an estate sale. In the bare kitchen there’s an envelope sitting on the side with my name on it.
Inside are my car keys and a check for fifteen thousand dollars from a gallery in town.
Ava,
I sold your paintings.
Gene.
I turn the note over but that’s all he’s written. Fifteen thousand dollars? Does this mean that Gene made more than he needed? He needed close to fifty thousand dollars though, how could those paintings have possibly made that much money? I have to sit down. My name is scattered all over the news, that’s probably why they paid that much. It lends cachet to have a painting by the mother of a dying girl and a murderous husband. I can’t imagine another reason. They’re not that good. Though art, like truth, is subjective, isn’t it?
But still, it’s money, and I need money right now. This might even be enough to get the bank manager off my back. Or maybe I should be using it to hire a better lawyer for Robert. Horowitz is as useless as a paper condom. But fifteen thousand won’t buy a lawyer worth their salt and what would be the point anyway when we need to keep the truth hidden? In that respect Horowitz is a blessing in disguise, I suppose.
I’m about to throw away the envelope when I notice something else inside it. I upturn the envelope over my palm and my ring tumbles out. Gene didn’t sell it. I turn it around and look at all the diamonds embedded in it – one for each year of our marriage – before I slide it back onto my finger.
Eternity. Was that another lie?
I trudge upstairs, limbs leaden, and pause in the doorway to June’s room. My gaze lands on the hamster cage. I still haven’t cleaned it, though George now lies buried beneath a rose bush in the back garden. I can’t put it off any longer, the room is starting to smell fusty and fetid and when she comes home, if there’s still this house to come home to, I don’t want the first thing she sees to be the hamster cage – reminding her that not only couldn’t I keep her safe, I couldn’t keep her pet hamster alive either.
I grab the trash can from under the desk and kneel by the cage, tugging at the catch and removing the bottom in order to dispose of the clumps of matted sawdust. As I do, something catches my eye. A flat, square plastic container, the kind I use for storing cookies and leftovers, lies hidden beneath the sawdust. I pull it out, dust off the lid and then open it. Inside are a dozen stacks of shrink-wrapped cash.
I rock back on my heels. ‘Oh, June,’ I whisper.
Chapter 40
‘Ava?’
Heart lurching, I swivel around so fast I almost overbalance. Nate stands in the doorway.
‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ I stammer.
How long has he been standing there? He takes a step towards me and adrenaline pumps into my system. I nudge the container of money behind me with my foot, so it’s out of sight. But if he comes one step closer he’ll see it.
He doesn’t though. He stops, thank God, in the middle of the room. ‘I went to the hospital but Hannah told me you were here,’ he says.
I frown. ‘Oh,’ I say.
It’s Nate’s turn to frown. ‘I called but you didn’t answer.’
Did he? I left my phone downstairs so there’s no way to tell.
‘I rang the bell too,’ he says, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘And you didn’t answer that. I was worried,’ he adds. ‘I thought something might have happened . . .’
‘Oh,’ I say, a grunt more than a word, desperately trying to figure out how to distract him and stop him inching closer. I could have sworn I locked the door but my mind is on the money. I can’t let him see it. How will I explain it? And now he’s looking at me strangely, head cocked to one side, waiting for me to stand up because it’s odd – it must seem odd – for me to be here, kneeling on the floor at his feet, smiling up at him. ‘What did you want?’ I ask him, standing up and blocking his view of the cage with my legs.
Nate narrows his eyes at me. ‘I wanted to let you know that I looked into that journalist like you asked me to, and I couldn’t find any trace of him. I’ve got a detective trying to find out who he really is.’
‘OK,’ I say, wondering why he thought it urgent enough to drive all the way out to the hospital and then here to let me know. I could tell him I already know, but I don’t want to get drawn into a conversation about Gene selling the photos.
I glance down at the cage behind me. The cash is just lying there, staring up at me.
‘Are you OK?’ Nate asks. ‘You seem very
