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A photo of Marc’s unwelcome kiss, taken by a nosy neighbour, had ended up in the papers that weekend. Sian threw Marc out and I had the epithethome-wreckerto add tounfit motherandwhore. Donations to the Foundation dropped off sharply and, even though Marc left the board, they’ve never really recovered.
Marc couldn’t have known the butterfly effect of his choices. But, God help me, I still can’t forgive him. I’ve tried to get past it, but I can’t. Every time I look at him, I see a wedding that shouldn’t have happened, a lie that cost me my daughter.
I don’t have a single relationship that hasn’t been blighted by losing Lottie. Everyone who was at the wedding has the stain of suspicion on them, especially the so-called ‘twelve apostles’: the dozen guests who were at Lottie’s ‘last supper’ the night before the wedding. Even those who weren’t there aren’t safe; online trolls have accused Harriet of snatching my child because she couldn’t have her own.
The closeness I once shared with my parents has become claustrophobic. They worry about keeping me safe, when the sky has already fallen. And I’ve lost so many friends because they don’t know what to say to me, how to be mothers around a woman who’s lost her child. It’s not sex that’s the last taboo in society: it’s bereavement.
‘It’s been a year, Alex,’ Marc pleads. ‘I’ve stayed away from you, like you asked. I don’t know what more I can do to show you I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are,’ I say. ‘But it’s too late.’
‘Please, Alex. Whatever mistakes I’ve made, it’s only because I love—’
‘Don’t.’
‘Lottie’s gone,’ he says, standing up. ‘It breaks my heart, but she’s gone, Alex. You still have the rest of your life. She wouldn’t want you to waste it. She’d want you to be happy again.’
‘You should leave,’ I say, opening the door.
‘After all I’ve done for you,’ Marc says.
An odd chill ripples down my spine. There’s a shadow in Marc’s eyes, a darkness.After all I’ve done for you.
What does he mean?
My phone buzzes and Jack’s number comes up on my screen.
Suddenly, my throat is dry. Jack said he’d call me the moment he had news about Ian Dutton. ‘I have to answer this, Marc,’ I say. ‘You need to go now. Please, don’t come back.’
I shut the front door behind him and take a steadying breath. In the next few seconds, I will know if—
‘We haven’t found her,’ Jack says, ripping off the plaster. ‘But there’s something you need to see.’
