Greg’s camera has remained hidden and camouflaged among my own equipment. Until now.
It needs a new home. I remove it from its hiding place.
I hesitate outside Camilla’s front door—listening—before I slide in my key, even though Camilla’s car isn’t in the drive. She’s showing no signs of moving out.
I befriended her ex-partner on social media. He accepted my friend request within days. It amazes me that people still do that—I could be anyone. He appears to have moved on, as he is expecting a child with a new partner. After lots of painstaking digging and reading of endless inane comments, as well as figuring out that he had disagreed with Camilla moving away with Louise, I discovered that he was married when he and Camilla met. Although, I’m hardly in a great position to judge. What I can judge, though, is Louise’s welfare.
The police investigation is ongoing. The rumors don’t die down and every time an article or someone’s comment sails close to the truth, it strengthens my resolve that I will not pay for Camilla’s—or Nina’s—mistakes any longer. I hide the camera in the top of Camilla’s wardrobe, beneath some scarves I’ve never seen her wear.
As I go downstairs, removing my new gloves (paid for in cash and which I will dispose of), I nearly trip down the last two stairs in shock when Louise’s bedroom door opens.
“Louise! Why aren’t you at school?”
“I thought you were my mum! Please don’t tell her.”
She doesn’t ask what I am doing in her home. Full of tears, she is desperate to share how she hates her new school, is being bullied, how Camilla doesn’t want to hear it.
“I want to live with my grandparents, but they say that they’re too old to have me living there full time.”
I hug her and promise that I’m going to make everything all right. I’m going to fix this. I often hear Christian’s voice in my head: Control the things you can.
I’m invited to rejoin the book group, and there’s no choice but to return because everything I do or say has to be about behaving normally. I walk into Tamsin’s living room and scan the faces. Miriam, Abigail, Sharon, Camilla, they are all there. I genuinely half expect to see Greg. It’s weird how quickly I’ve adapted and managed to convince myself that he’s alive and well.
I think, not seeing him there, that’s when everything really hits me.
Afterward, we both walk home together. She has forgotten to bring a flashlight and her phone battery is low, so I light the way with mine. She collects Louise from our place and I walk them both back to the cottage. As she opens the door, I rummage inside my bag and hand her the photo album I’ve created especially for her.
“A gift,” I say.
“What for?”
I say goodbye to Louise and wait until she is well inside the cottage before I reply.
“A little reminder,” I say. “Pay particular attention to the first photo. It’s the last one ever taken of Charlie. Physical proof that you lied about leaving him at the party, along with the confession you made to me which I recorded.” (It’s very bad quality, but I don’t need to mention that.) “All the little things add up.”
She is silent.
“I’ve always had this little theory that the purest photos, the truth, if you like, are taken near the end of any event,” I say.
“This is all very unnecessary,” she eventually says.
“Maybe,” I say. “But you can’t blame me for having an insurance policy. I must think of my family. I know if it ever comes up, you’ll try to pin all the blame on Nina because she’s not here to defend herself. I also know that you’ll try to pin Greg on me, too, if it ever comes to it. Yet it seems you’re the one with a history of violence, not me. It wouldn’t look good for any potential future defense of yours if you were also being investigated for an earlier murder. You would be the common factor, the link between the two. Not Nina. Not me.”
I leave her with that thought as I walk slowly back to the main house.
Stuart has truly embraced our marriage. He has chosen to see what I did to Greg as evidence of my loyalty. Suddenly, despite everything I’ve worked for, it feels like living with a python, the life squeezed out of me in a torturous, slow fashion. When I read to the children from The Jungle Book, I am morbidly fascinated by the picture of the grinning snake coiled around the main character.
But I can’t leave Stuart, for so many reasons. He might say he wouldn’t drop me in it for the kids’ sake, but who is to say that he won’t? There are no guarantees that there wouldn’t be any drunken pillow talk with a future person or that the urge to come clean won’t strengthen over time. People change. I learned that from Christian.
Stuart insists that he wanted to protect Nina, but it’s undeniably creepy how almost gleeful he was to be able to do the same for me. As if he knew it would trap me, make me stay. Because I can never risk being separated from my son. Greg’s observation that Stuart was Nina’s penance makes more sense to me now. And now it seems he is mine. While no one has been arrested for Greg’s murder—yet—I suddenly almost feel as though I’m serving a sentence of my own; if I stay with Stuart until Jack is eighteen, that’s roughly six thousand, five hundred and seventy days.
Kevin and Suzanne are due to fly over to spend Christmas with us. Even my brother with the eternal itchy feet is apparently going to return before the new year. Life goes on.
Meanwhile, we’ll all carry on pretending. If we get up each day, get dressed, eat breakfast, check our calendars and go through the motions, we’ll all get through this. In a few more years, the children’s memory of Nina will have diminished further, and it will be me who they turn to for advice. I’ll try not to overprotect them, however hard it may be. I want their upbringing to be different than mine even though I now realize that every parent does their best. I will teach them to be strong, to not rely on other people for their own self-worth, to make friends or keep friends who want to be with them because they genuinely like them. Also, to choose a partner wisely.
I frequently dream of the knife that killed Greg: the sharpness of the blade, the serrations, the easy-grip handle enabling Camilla to hold it so tightly as she plunged it into his neck.
I start to believe that nothing will ever happen, Greg-wise. But I promised Louise that I’d help her. Sometimes, things need a push.
I invite her over to stay one evening and we watch movies, talk about her problems, make pancakes (sweet and savory), which are a big hit with everyone. I pretend not to notice when she feeds Goldie a small piece of one.
We laugh. There is a genuine, happy family atmosphere, full of camaraderie and love. Perhaps I’m not so bad after all.
Camilla is arrested at dawn.
An anonymous tip-off. Apparently.