Leaving Hannah in the kitchen, Mark went through to the bedroom to change out of his work clothes and have a shower in the en-suite bathroom. Along the way, he retrieved a handful of letters Hannah had put aside for him from that morning’s post.
His wife was putting on a brave face, but he feared she was struggling to cope with the news of her sister’s death. She was clearly conflicted, which made sense in light of her eroded relationship with Diane. Mark had seen Hannah fall to pieces before – and the idea of that happening again terrified him, not least because of Mia. If the teenager was to stand a chance of dealing with her mum’s suicide, she was going to need her aunt’s strength and support every bit as much as Mark’s.
He’d not seen Hannah looking so fragile in ages. Things had been going so well for her recently, particularly in terms of snagging her dream publishing deal. Mark couldn’t bear the thought of all that positivity being ruined before her debut novel had even been released.
He feared that should Hannah now learn the true nature of his relationship to Mia, it could be enough to tip her over the edge.
To Mark’s relief, his earlier conversation with the policeman hadn’t encroached on this treacherous territory at all. The questions put to him had been general rather than probing. He’d got the sense the officer had been going through the motions, with the phone call more of a box-ticking exercise than anything else. Mark’s best guess was that the poor train driver had likely provided enough eyewitness information to make it an open-and-shut case.
When he entered the shower, he turned the water nice and hot. He savoured the feeling of it beating down on to his head and shoulders, then gradually coating every inch of his skin in a blissfully warm, wet layer. The steam snaked up and around him and, briefly, he found peace as he focused on the pleasant physical sensations and muted the warring thoughts slugging it out in his mind.
He held on to this serenity as he transferred his focus to the act of drying himself, choosing what to wear and then slowly, mindfully, getting dressed in a comfy pair of linen shorts and a polo shirt. Finally, sitting on the edge of the bed, he turned his attention to the items of post he’d picked up on the way to the bedroom.
The first couple were from the bank: a credit card bill and a reminder of a bonus period coming to an end on a savings account. The third was a small padded envelope with his name and address plus the postage details printed on self-adhesive labels. It looked like it might contain something small he’d ordered off eBay, like a phone case or a new charging cable. This wasn’t unusual – apart from the fact he hadn’t ordered any such item recently. Had he? He racked his brains, wondering if there was something he’d forgotten about, but still nothing came to mind.
He looked on both sides of the package for any sign of where it had come from, but there was no sender’s address or postmark. The postage label was no help in this regard either. It looked like the kind you could pay for online and print off using your own equipment.
A voice inside Mark’s head suggested that perhaps he ought to open it if he wanted to discover its contents, and so he did.
Inside, to his bewilderment, he found a single item – a loose white USB stick – something he knew for sure he hadn’t ordered. When he turned it over in his hands and saw the bright yellow sticker on the back, his heart started pounding. Written in blue biro in a tiny version of a handwriting style he recognised straight away, were four words: Mia was conceived here.
What the hell? That was Diane’s writing – no question. He’d read her letter enough times to know this for sure. So what was he looking at? And when had she sent it: just before killing herself? Oh God. What had she done? What was on this bloody flash drive?
Afraid to find out, Mark dropped the stick back into the padded envelope and shoved it under the foot end of his side of the mattress. Dammit. This was a nightmare.
Then an even worse thought came to mind: something potentially disastrous.
Diane’s letter.
Mark had stuffed it into his jacket pocket at work when Sharon had approached his desk earlier today. He’d then proceeded to forget about it, having been distracted by the police phone call.
Meaning … the letter was still in there.
Inside his jacket.
Which he’d left in the kitchen.
With Hannah.
Shit.