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She hears the radio turn on in the kitchen. She’s not going to get any further with this now; her brain’s as muddled as it was before. She tidies her files away and follows. In the kitchen Phil has already put the vegetables they need for dinner on the side; she gets out a wooden board and knife and starts to chop. It’s an established routine—he the head chef, she there to assist—and one she likes. As they cook together, he talks about his day.
Phil tells her about a new client: a rangy yummy mummy fond of body pump and spin who’s done her shoulder in at the gym.
“I could tell the moment I laid my hands on her,” he says. “Overtraining and bad technique. Told her she needed to rest up for at least a week.”
“That wasn’t the advice she was after?” Rom asks, passing across the chopped onions.
“No. She’s trying to lose weight, although God knows why. I told her to stop swapping out carbs in favor of the bottle of red, and she stalked off.”
“A bottle of red a week isn’t so bad.”
“Not a week, Rom,” Phil says, turning to her, astonishment clear on his face. “A night.”
Rom laughs and pushes the rest of the chopped vegetables across to him. He adds them to the pan along with the spices. She appreciates Phil’s conversation. Something to distract her from the intrusive thoughts. A delicious smell of cumin and ginger fills the air, and Rom’s stomach rumbles in response.
Apart from the brief mention earlier, Phil doesn’t ask more about her day. But now, over the creamy coconut and sweet potato curry, she can’t ignore it any longer.
“Dr. Jones says I might be right,” she begins.
Phil looks up. “Mm-hmm?”
“About my feeling about that case. I just need to work out exactly what’s causing it.”
Phil nods, staring at his dinner, chewing slowly. After a moment, he says, “Is that a good idea?”
Romilly knows he’s only asking because he loves her, but she feels a sting of irritation just the same.
“Why not? Because it’s related to my past, or because it’s connected to my ex-husband?” she retorts, more sharply than she intends.
“Both, Rom,” he replies, seriously. “I haven’t met Adam, but from what you tell me, you two weren’t great together at the end.” He puts his knife and fork down. He tries to reach across to take her hand, but she pulls away. “And you’ve worked so hard to put everything that happened behind you. So digging it up again? Well …”
He leaves it unfinished, but Rom knows what he’s thinking. The nightmares, her terror of the dark.
“Even if I’m wrong,” she says softly, “I need to be sure.”
Phil looks up. He studies her face for a moment, then nods slowly.
“Whatever you think, Rom,” he says.
They finish their dinner in silence. She can sense his disapproval. But he knows that there’s no point in getting into an argument: he’s made his point, and her mind is set.
Once Phil’s finished eating, he picks up his plate, then pauses, standing behind her.
“One day, in time, you’ll be free of him,” he says, and puts a hand on her shoulder. Rom knows he’s not talking about Adam now. She covers his fingers with her own and squeezes. “One day you won’t feel that he’s etched on your brain.”
“I hope so,” she replies.
Phil starts clearing up the kitchen. As she finishes her dinner, she watches him, feeling a tug of affection. And then she stops. Her fork hovers above her plate for a moment, then she puts it down with a clatter.
She races back through the house and stands at her desk, flicking through the file. She picks up a report from the box, then the shot of the latest crime scene, printed yesterday morning. And then she sees it. A small corner of the photo. A tiny detail, lit up by an errant flashlight, probably not intended to be published.
The room blurs. Her vision narrows to those few pixels. Her muscles turn to liquid, and with a small cry she sinks to the floor.
It can’t be right. But it is.
And she needs to tell Adam.
CHAPTER
