Page 152 of The Killer’s Mark

‘I don’t want a single red cent of that money, Océane.’

‘Well aren’t you just Mr Holier-Than-Fucking-Thou!’ she snapped.

She seemed nervous. Scared even. She kept glancing at Esmerée then quickly looking away. She seemed both embarrassed by and terrified of her daughter.

Poe said, ‘I guess we have some decisions to make.’

‘I guess we do,’ Estelle said.

Esmerée faced Estelle. ‘What decisions?’

‘Poe and Tilly did what you asked, Esmerée. They found your mum. You need to decide what you want to do next. Whatever you decide, we’ll support—’

‘I’m not going with her.’

‘Glad to see you took your time there, Esmerée,’ Poe said. ‘That nanosecond really made the difference between a rushed decision and a considered one.’

‘You’re an asshole, Poe.’

‘And I don’t want her,’ Océane said. No hesitation, no doubt. It wasn’t shock and it wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction. She genuinely didn’t want her daughter in her life.

‘Colour me surprised,’ Esmerée said. She didn’t look upset. Well, she did, but not about that.

‘It’s been a crazy couple of days, Esmerée,’ Poe said. ‘For all of us. Decisions made on adrenaline are never good decisions. I need you to think about it.’

‘The bitch doesn’t want me, and I don’t want her.’

‘Then why hire us to find her?’

Esmerée looked away. Seemed guilty.

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Estelle said. ‘Poe, go into the back kitchen and make us some sandwiches. Brunton has a ham hanging in the larder. There’ll be something in there for Tilly as well. I think we need to eat, let cooler heads prevail.’

Esmerée said nothing.

Océane said nothing.

Poe plucked out the cloves that studded Brunton’s ham. He threw them in the bin. He hated cloves. Always had. They looked like popped blackheads and they smelled like Christmas. He hated Christmas too. He carved off thick slices, ate the first two before they even saw the loaf. He threw a piece of rich, creamy fat to the drooling Edgar. It didn’t touch the spaniel’s sides. He cut some bread – Estelle’s favourite kind: pebble-dashed – and smeared the slices with freshly churned salted butter. Added some strong English mustard. Fiery as hell, the kind that hit you in the sinuses and kept hitting until your earwax had melted. He found a weird vegetable paste and made a butter-free, meat-free sandwich for Bradshaw. He was putting it all together on a plate when Estelle shouted his name.

‘Can you come here, please, Poe?’

‘I’m almost done,’ he shouted back. ‘I’m just looking for lashings of ginger beer. Thought we could take the boat to Kirrin Island and join the Famous Five for tea.’

He waited for her to laugh. She didn’t. Other than Edgar panting, the house had gone silent.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Just come back here, please.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Washington Poe, get your arse in here right now!’ Estelle yelled, frantic now.

Poe dropped the butter-free butter knife and ran.

Chapter 129

Poe had expected to find a kitchen full of triads. In the twenty-second dash from the back-kitchen pantry to the front kitchen, his mind had gone to a dark place. He thought the Red Chamber had jumped the gun and hadn’t waited to take decisive action. He expected to see Chinese men with guns. Lots of guns. They would want the deepfakes. They would want Océane and they would want Esmerée.