Page 1 of Not a Word

Prologue

“You can’t ever tell anyone about this. They wouldn’t understand. It’s very complicated.”

“Okay.”

“And if you ever did tell anyone . . . and this might be the worst thing of all . . . you know what would happen?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t love you anymore. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. Now give us a kiss.”

One

Reece

“Tell me how you came to find them.”

“I went into the room,” I said, “and saw them on—”

“Let’s go back a bit. What were you doing before you came over here?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m kind of rattled.”

“I get that. It’s okay. Just start at the beginning.”

Here was this detective, giving me advice on how to impart information. I was the one who was supposed to know how to do this. Spin a tale, let a narrative unfold. Present the facts in a logical order. But I was jumping straight to the conclusion, the denouement, as it were.

“Right, right,” I said. “I’d decided to drop by.”

“What time would this have been?”

She was patient, this detective. She’d told me her name, but I’d already forgotten it. McCain? McCabe? Something like that. Again, not like me, who was supposed to be good at this. Remembering names, getting the spelling right. But right now, I could barely remember my own. Chartwell, I’d said when she’d asked. That a first or last name? Last, I’d told her. When I realized she was waiting for my first name, I’d had to think about it for a second. Shock does strange things to your brain.

“Reece,” I’d said, and spelled it, lest she think I shared a name with a famous actress. And then the detective had asked what my father’s name was. “Brent,” I’d said. “Brent Chartwell.” And, knowing what her next question would be, I’d said, “My mother’s name is—was—Catherine.”

We’d been inside the house when we’d traded introductions, but now we were sitting outside on a decorative white wrought-iron bench. One of those pieces of garden furniture you admire but don’t often sit on, too uncomfortable. But Mom liked those kinds of touches, things that looked nice but had no real practical use. Like fancy flower-shaped soaps you leave in a bathroom but never actually use.

Now, outside, I said, “Around half past one. I’d had lunch at my place, was trying to come up with a strategy, having lost my job recently, but really wasn’t feeling it, and—”

“Feeling it?” Detective McCain or McCabe said.

“Needed to clear my head. Go out of the house, grab a coffee or something, and I found myself driving over here.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I had an excuse. Couple of books I’d borrowed from Dad, thought I might as well return them.”

“You do that regularly? Drop in, unannounced?”

“They’re my parents.”

The detective waited for me to say more.

“Dad’s the one I’ve always talked to when I’m looking for a sounding board. I’ve been wondering about what to do next.”