five

I stumbled down the corridor, cheeks flushed the same red as a traffic light on stop. All I could think of was Mimi’s last words to me: She said my father killed him.

At the sound of footsteps, I glanced over my shoulder, fully expecting to see Georgia offering apologies. How wrong could I be?

“Miss Slade?”

I winced at the thought of another round of abuse, stopped walking, and slowly swivelled. My day had barely begun and already I felt weary and dog-tired.

Mrs. Vellender, inches from me, grabbed hold of my arm and almost sank to her knees. Her burgundy-coloured nails dug into me like poison-tip darts. I attempted to pull away, but she clung on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes great pools of sorrow. “I was terribly rude to you. Please forgive me. Will you accept my apologies?”

Many would be moved. Me, I swear she had a theatrical bent. “Mrs. Vellender, honestly, please, there’s no need.” I could afford to be magnanimous—just. Frankly, I was confused and embarrassed.

“It was unforgiveable to doubt your professional judgement.”

“It’s all—”

“The thing is—”

“There’s really no need to explain,” I cut in awkwardly. “I’m not a mother so I don’t pretend to know exactly what you’re going through, but I’m not a stranger to grief, Mrs. Vellender.” Nor am I immune from despair.

She bit down on her bottom lip. “Of course, silly of me, in your job you must see all kinds of misery, but the thing is,” she said, her voice tearing, “it was my fault.”

“What was?” I tried to maintain my confusion rather than express suspicion.

“Mimi’s condition.”

“It’s nobody’s fault.” I smiled to prove I meant what I said, but her eyes shone with fresh tears that splashed at an alarming rate down her cheeks. “I feel so guilty. I should have prevented it. I know I should.”

“You couldn’t.” Feelings of parental guilt were a normal reaction but, nine times out of ten, misplaced. “For a whole host of reasons, trust me, there was nothing you could do. Look, do you want to get a cup of coffee, a breath of fresh air?” I cast my eyes towards the end of the corridor and sneakily wondered if I could persuade her to talk about her elusive son.

Torn, she took a long, wistful look back to the room in which her daughter lay dying. There was no doubt in my mind that Paris Vellender’s distress was acute and genuine.

“Five minutes won’t hurt,” I said.

She put a hand to her temple, briefly closed her eyes, and smiled in a way that indicated she’d be glad of someone to talk to before abrupt hesitation in her manner told me that she’d changed her mind.

“I’d better not,” she said.

I wondered whether to push it, whether to ask, maybe even challenge Mrs. Vellender about Nicholas right there and then in the corridor. Should I? Could I?

Suddenly, eyes aflame, she released her grasp. “Here’s Troy now.” She glanced up ahead, her eyes lifting over my shoulder.

I stepped aside. In spite of the January chill, Troy wore a plain black T-shirt with God is an Astronaut proclaimed across it, jeans, and beat shoes. I thought I detected an aroma of garlic and meat cooked in red wine, as though he’d recently prepared for a dinner party and the smell of cooked food had attached itself to his clothes. His head was shaved and, unlike many men with bald heads, it complemented and accentuated his strong facial features. He was around six-two, broad-shouldered, and seriously ripped with a physique that could only be obtained through sweat and serious working out. He exuded animal heat and, although I’m not accustomed to imagining men without their clothes on, I could picture this guy. I pegged him at no more than thirty, almost twenty years younger than Mrs. Vellender, but it was obvious from the way he crooked a knuckle under her upturned chin and kissed her parted mouth that they were lovers. My heart creased with an unexpected pang of envy and loss. In the wake of Chris’s death, a universe of dreams, through which I’d longed to travel, were denied me.

Mrs. Vellender introduced me to Troy Martell, who gave me a big wide smile, his teeth so perfectly whitened they looked fake.

“How is she?” he said. He had an American accent.

Paris Vellender looked to me in anticipation of a professional answer, which I found irritatingly inconsistent. Wrong-footed, I cleared my throat and said, “Not great.”

“Do you figure you can do something?”

“Well, I’m not sure. What I’d really like to …” I stalled. If I said something, I’d betray Mimi’s confidence. I’d break her trust. Yet, if I kept silent, I’d have less chance of establishing the truth and carrying out Mimi’s dying wish.

“Yes?” Paris broke in, expectant.

“If you remember,” I said, starting again and choosing my words with care, “Mimi’s condition began when Nicholas left home.” I was careful not to say the more emotionally loaded disappeared. “I was thinking, wondering really, whether Nicholas has returned.”

Paris Vellender didn’t move a muscle and I didn’t think it was down to Botox. Martell’s features, on the other hand, sharpened into a moving picture of animation.

“Yeah, what is it, four, five years?”

She didn’t glare. She looked right through him in the way warring couples do when one half says the wrong thing in front of others. There would be trouble later and, although I regretted pressing down so hard on an exposed nerve, Paris Vellender’s deadpan reaction revealed more than if she had lied or prevaricated. Something was afoot.

“No,” she said, stony. “I haven’t heard anything since the day he vanished.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“For all I know, he’s dead.” Then she turned on her kitten-heeled boots and stalked away.

Troy Martell stiffened in apology. “Catch you later,” he said, and followed her.