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I wink at Eleanor, and she almost drops her coffee mug.
‘You have a WHAT? When did this happen?’
We spend the next hour chatting, before I head back to my desk feeling light, happy, and for the first time in a very long time, optimistic about the future. It’s nice to know that everything’s out in the open now, that I can come to work without being suspicious and on edge. No more confusion, no more lies.
Except for one, of course.
The real story about me and Mary Ellis can’t ever be told, not even to Pete. And even if he did, in his drugged state, overhear what Steph and I were talking about outside his bedroom door on that awful night, and one day he remembers it, he’ll still only know half the truth.
Pete’s one of my very best friends in the world. But the reason I can never, ever tell anyone, even him, the full truth about what happened fourteen years ago is because I need to protect another friend.
One of the other very best friends I ever had: Mary Ellis.
You may ask why I need to protect someone who’s dead, who died in a fire more than a decade ago. And I probably wouldn’t, if she really had.
But you see, the real truth is this: Mary Ellis isn’t actually dead at all.
