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“Have you identified her yet?”
“No, I’ve only just found out.”
“Do you think it’s her?”
“I don’t know. They found Leia at the top of the cliff. Maddie’s purse was tucked next to her, and it had her driving license in it. They said it looked like her from her picture.”
“Jesus.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“Do you think she killed herself?” he asked.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I spoke to her last night. She was pretty low. She had my business card in her purse, almost as if she left it there so they’d know who to call.”
“She didn’t usually carry one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah God,” he said. “Maddie…”
I listened to him cry, my chest heaving with resentment. All the years he’d spent criticizing her, not being there for her… His grief felt fake, selfish—he was crying for himself, not for poor, lonely Maddie. And then I felt awful, because all grief is selfish. He’s a hard, uncompromising, sometimes cruel man, but even he can’t remain untouched by the loss of his daughter. I said goodbye and hung up, leaving him to it. What could I possibly say to make it better?
Aroha comes back into the living room. She’s changed out of her pencil skirt and into a pair of yoga pants, and she’s carrying the baby monitor and the receiver. She plugs it into the wall and leaves the monitor by Leia, clips the receiver onto the belt of her yoga pants, then says, “Why don’t you show me around the house?”
“Okay.”
Slowly, we wander through my home. The guys come here often with Gaby and Juliette, but this is the first time I’ve shown anyone around like this. I take her through the rest of the west wing first. This has four bedrooms in total, with two bathrooms, and a separate lounge.
We walk back through the main living room into the east wing. This has a small gym and a library lined with bookshelves half-filled with my own books, complete with a couple of comfy chairs and sliding doors that lead into a conservatory. A door leads through to my office.
“I’m guessing you spend a lot of time here,” she teases.
My lips curve up. It’s pretty messy, the tables covered with papers, folders, and books. “How did you guess?”
“It’s very masculine.” She walks around, looking at the huge wooden desk in the middle of the room, the black leather sofa. “I’m guessing you decorated this when you were in your Ernest Hemingway phase.”
“I suppose it is a bit old-fashioned.”
“It smells of you,” she says, then gives me an embarrassed look. “Sorry, did I say that out loud?”
I give a short laugh and continue walking through. “This is a spare bedroom. And this is my room.”
It’s the master bedroom, at the end of the house, so two walls are mostly glass, overlooking the gardens.
“Wow,” she says, walking into the room. “I’ve never seen such a big bed!”
“It’s an emperor,” I say, amused.
“But you don’t bring girls here?”
“I sleep like a starfish. I like space.”
She looks at the minimal furniture. “I’m beginning to get that.” She walks around the room, then stops and looks at the painting on the wall. It’s of a Greek goddess, in beautiful white robes, golden hair tumbling down her back.
“Cassie?” she asks.
I know she’s teasing me. “It’s Phoebe,” I tell her. “Titan Goddess of intellect.”
