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‘You didn’t have to join in. You could have just watched,’ I said, sitting back on my haunches. We were in the middle of Hannah’s lawn, in her pretty suburban garden. At least it had been pretty, until we’d upended four huge bin bags on to the grass. In hindsight, we should have put something down to collect the rubbish instead of tearing into the bags like a pair of rabid dogs. Although that description probably applied more to me than Hannah.
She had actually been remarkably sanguine when I’d turned up on her doorstep carrying a collection of decidedly pungent bags.
‘Are those for me?’ she asked sweetly, looking too clean and wholesome for dirty work in her denim shorts and sleeveless top. ‘Aww… you shouldn’t have.’
‘They’re rubbish bags,’ I explained needlessly. The heat of the day was already helping in their identification.
Hannah blinked at me from her doorstop for several moments. ‘I feel bad now for not gettingyouanything.’
‘Ha ha,’ I said, bending to pick up the bags. ‘I thought maybe we could go through them in your garden?’
‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather do on a lovely summer morning,’ she said, softening the sarcasm with a twisted grin. ‘Bring them round the side. You’re not trudging that lot through the house.’
To be fair, after I’d explained their potential importance, Hannah was much more on board with the plan. She even dashed back into the house and returned with two pairs of sturdy rubber gloves.
By the second bag, our enthusiasm had waned considerably. By bag three, I was seriously regretting my so-called brainwave. So far, the bags had yielded only the expected domestic waste. Hannah’s frown was leaving furrows on her brow as she ploughed through the rubbish. ‘Has Finn never heard of recycling?’
‘I’ll be sure to ask him, as soon as I’m done finding out why he failed to show up at our wedding.’
‘I’m sorry, hon,’ Hannah said with an apologetic smile as she turned back to the pile of garbage on her lawn.
‘Hey. What’s this?’ she exclaimed a few minutes later, plucking two screwed-up balls of paper from the pile of detritus.
I recognised the lined yellow paper instantly. They were sheets torn out of the legal pad Finn liked to use for making notes when writing.
I took the balls from her outstretched hand and with the care of a forensic scientist carefully unfurled them. Seeing his handwriting made my stomach contract as though from a blow. I scanned the sheets, my throat tightening as I read his words.
‘What is it?’ Hannah asked, getting to her knees to take back the sheets.
Forgetting for a moment where they’d come from, I clutched them tightly against me. They were a tangible link to Finn, the first I’d found in days.
It didn’t start well.
‘“Gemma, this is without doubt the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write,”’ I read out loud, my voice shaking almost as much as the hand holding Finn’s note.
Hannah scowled but nodded encouragingly for me to continue.
‘There’s quite a lot of crossing out, so it’s hard to work out what it says. Most of it seems to be just random words and phrases that he’s circled.’ I looked up and saw Hannah’s brows had risen meaningfully. ‘He’s underlined “disappointment” several times, and also “change of plans”.’
Hannah scrabbled across the grass on her knees to come and sit beside me. Her arm went around my shoulders as we sat on the sun-warmed lawn, reading the disjointed thoughts and half-formed sentences.
‘“It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed right now,”’ Hannah read, taking over the narration.
She turned to look at me. ‘I suppose thesecouldbe notes for his latest book?’
I shook my head. Finn had allowed me to read several chapters from the thriller he was writing. This didn’t sound like anything to do with it.
‘No,’ I said, feeling a little sick. ‘Besides, it starts off with my name.’
Hannah’s mouth was a grim line that looked like it had been tattooed on to her face.
‘I’m going to kill him. I will fucking kill him.’
Hannah was neither violent nor given to swearing. I had truly never seen her so incensed. She took my hand before speaking, as though physical contact would lessen the pain of her words. ‘You do know what this is, Gemma, don’t you?’
I shook my head, my eyes beginning to water as her words cut me to the bone.
‘It’s a “Dear Jane” letter.’
